{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_71404/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_71404","id":"gutenberg_71404","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71404","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Christmas stories, American","Dutch Americans -- New York (State) -- Fiction","Nicholas, Saint, Bishop of Myra -- Fiction"],"text":"Transcriber's Notes\n\nObvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE  BOOK\n                                  OF\n                            SAINT NICHOLAS.\n\n\n                  TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL DUTCH\n                                  OF\n                  DOMINIE NICHOLAS \u00c6GIDIUS OUDENARDE.\n\n\n                               NEW-YORK:\n                    HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-ST.\n                                 1836.\n\n\n     [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by\n                          JAMES K. PAULDING,\n     in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.]\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\n  Dedication                                                           5\n\n  Author's Advertisement                                               7\n\n  The Legend of Saint Nicholas                                        13\n\n  The Little Dutch Sentinel of the Manhadoes                          33\n\n  Cobus Yerks                                                         73\n\n  A Strange Bird in Nieuw-Amsterdam                                   89\n\n  Claas Schlaschenschlinger                                          105\n\n  The Revenge of Saint Nicholas                                      128\n\n  The Origin of the Bakers' Dozen                                    148\n\n  The Ghost                                                          167\n\n  The Nymph of the Mountain                                          192\n\n  The Ride of Saint Nicholas on Newyear's Eve                        206\n\n\n\n\n                                  TO\n\n                    THE SOCIETIES OF SAINT NICHOLAS\n\n                                IN THE\n\n                           NEW NETHERLANDS,\n\n                            COMMONLY CALLED\n\n                               NEW-YORK.\n\n\n                   MOST DEAR AND WORTHY ASSOCIATES,\n\nIn obedience to the command of the good saint who is equally an object\nof affectionate reverence to us all, as well as in due deference to the\nfeelings of brotherhood which attach us irrevocably to those who honour\nhis name, his virtues, and his country, I dedicate this work to you\nall without discrimination or exception. As descendants, in whole or\nin part, from that illustrious people who, after conquering nature by\ntheir industry and perseverance, achieved liberty by their determined\nvalour, and learning and science by their intellectual vigour, I\nrejoice to see you instituting bonds of union, for the purpose of\npreserving the remembrance of such an honourable lineage, and the ties\nof a common origin. While we recollect with honest pride the industry,\nthe integrity, the enterprise, the love of liberty, and the heroism\nof old \u201c_faderland_,\u201d let us not forget that the truest way to honour\nworthy ancestors is to emulate their example.\n\nThat you may long live to cherish the memory of so excellent a saint,\nand such venerable forefathers is the earnest wish of\n\n                      Your associate and friend,\n                                  NICHOLAS \u00c6GIDIUS OUDENARDE.\n\n Nieuw-Amsterdam, July, 1827.\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n\n                        AUTHOR'S ADVERTISEMENT,\n\n    WHICH IS EARNESTLY RECOMMENDED TO THE ATTENTIVE PERUSAL OF THE\n                           JUDICIOUS READER.\n\n\nYou will please to understand, gentle reader, that being a true\ndescendant of the adventurous Hollanders who first discovered the\nrenowned island of Manhattan\u2014which is every day becoming more and more\nworth its weight in paper money\u2014I have all my life been a sincere and\nfervent follower of the right reverend and jolly St. Nicholas, the only\ntutelary of this mighty state. I have never, on any proper occasion,\nomitted doing honour to his memory by keeping his birthday with all\ndue observances, and paying him my respectful devoirs on Christmas and\nNewyear's eve.\n\nFrom my youth upward I have been always careful to hang up my stocking\nin the chimney corner, on both these memorable anniversaries; and this\nI hope I may say without any unbecoming ebullition of vanity, that on\nno occasion did I ever fail to receive glorious remembrances of his\nfavour and countenance, always saving two exceptions. Once when the\ngood saint signified his displeasure at my tearing up a Dutch almanac,\nand again on occasion of my going to a Presbyterian meeting house with\na certain little Dutch damsel, by filling my stockings with snow balls,\ninstead savoury oily cookies.\n\nSaving these manifestations of his displeasure, I can safely boast\nof having been always a special favourite of the good St. Nicholas,\nwho hath ever shown a singular kindness and suavity towards me in all\nseasons of my life, wherein he hath at divers times and seasons of\nsore perplexity, more than once vouchsafed to appear to me in dreams\nand visions, always giving me sage advice and goodly admonition. The\nwhich never failed of being of great service to me in my progress\nthrough life, seeing I was not only his namesake, but always reverently\nhonoured his name to the best of my poor abilities.\n\nFrom my youth upward I have, moreover, been accustomed to call upon\nhim in time of need; and this I will say for him, that he always\ncame promptly whenever he was within hearing. I will not detain the\nexpectant reader with the relation of these special instances, touching\nthe years of my juvenility, but straightway proceed to that which is\nmaterial to my present purpose.\n\nThe reader will please to comprehend that after I had, with the labour\nand research of many years, completed the tales which I now, with an\nhumble deference, offer to his acceptance, I was all at once struck\ndumb, with the unparalleled difficulty of finding a name for my work,\nseeing that every title appertinent to such divertisements hath been\napplied over and over again, long and merry agone. Now, as before\nintimated to the judicious reader, whenever I am in sore perplexity\nof mind, as not unfrequently happens to such as (as it were) cudgel\ntheir brains for the benefit of their fellow-creatures\u2014I say, when thus\nbeleaguered, I always shut my eyes, lean back in my chair, which is\nfurnished with a goodly stuffed back and arms, and grope for that which\nI require in the profound depths of abstraction.\n\nIt was thus I comported myself on this trying occasion, when, lo! and\nbehold! I incontinently fell asleep, as it were, in the midst of my\ncogitations, and while I was fervently praying to the good-hearted St.\nNicholas to inspire me with a proper and significant name for this my\nmental offspring. I cannot with certainty say how long I had remained\nin the bonds of abstraction, before I was favoured with the appearance\nof a vision, which, at first sight, I knew to be that of the excellent\nSt. Nicholas, who scorns to follow the pestilent fashions of modern\ntimes, but ever appears in the ancient dress of the old patriarchs of\nHolland. And here I will describe the good saint, that peradventure all\nthose to whom he may, in time to come, vouchsafe his presence, may know\nhim at first sight, even as they know the father that begot them.\n\nHe is a right fat, jolly, roistering little fellow\u2014 if I may make\nbold to call him so familiarly\u2014and had I not known him of old for a\nveritable saint, I might, of a truth, have taken him, on this occasion,\nfor little better than a sinner. He was dressed in a snuff-coloured\ncoat of goodly conceited dimensions, having broad skirts, cuffs mighty\nto behold, and buttons about the size of a moderate Newyear cooky.\nHis waistcoat and breeches, of which he had a proper number, were\nof the same cloth and colour; his hose of gray worsted; his shoes\nhigh-quartered, even up to the instep, ornamented with a pair of silver\nbuckles, exceedingly bright; his hat was of a low crown and right broad\nbrim, cocked up on one side; and in the buttonholes of his coat was\nensconced a long delft pipe, almost as black as ebony. His visage was\nthe picture of good-humoured benevolence; and by these marks I knew him\nas well as I know the nose on my own face.\n\nThe good saint, being always in a hurry on errands of good fellowship,\nand especially about the time of the holydays of Paas and Pinxster;\nand being withal a person of little ceremony, addressed me without\ndelay, and with much frankness, which was all exceedingly proper, as we\nwere such old friends. He spoke to me in Dutch, which is now a learned\nlanguage, understood only by erudite scholars.\n\n\u201cWhat aileth thee, my Godson Nicholas?\u201d quoth he.\n\nI was about to say I was in sore perplexity concerning the matter\naforesaid, when he courteously interrupted me, saying,\n\n\u201cBe quiet, I know it, and therefore there is no special occasion for\nthee to tell me. Thou shalt call thy work \u2018THE BOOK OF ST. NICHOLAS,\u2019\nin honour of thy _patroon_; and here are the materials of my biography,\nwhich I charge thee, on pain of empty pockets from this time forward,\nto dilate and adorn in such a manner, as that, foreseeing, as I do,\nthy work will go down to the latest posterity, it may do honour to my\nname, and rescue it from that obscurity in which it hath been enveloped\nthrough the crying ignorance of past generations, who have been seduced\ninto a veneration for St. George, St. Dennis, St. David, and other\ndoughty dragon-slaying saints, who were little better than roistering\nbullies. Moreover, I charge thee, as thou valuest my blessing and\nprotection, to dedicate thy work unto the worthy and respectable\nsocieties of St. Nicholas in this my stronghold in the New World. Thou\nmightst, perhaps, as well have left out that prank of mine at the\ncarousing of old Baltus, but verily it matters not. Let the truth be\ntold.\u201d\n\nSaying this, he handed me a roll of ancient vellum, containing, as\nI afterwards found, the particulars which, in conformity with his\nsolemn command, I have dilated into the only veritable biography of my\npatron saint which hath ever been given to the world. The one hitherto\nreceived as orthodox is, according to the declaration of the saint\nhimself, little better than a collection of legends, written under the\nexpress inspection of the old lady of Babylon.\n\nI reverently received the precious deposite, and faithfully promised\nobedience to his commands; whereupon the good St. Nicholas, puffing\nin my face a whiff of tobacco smoke more fragrant than all the spices\nof the East, blessed me, and departed in haste, to be present at a\nwedding in Communipaw. Hereupon I awoke, and should have thought all\nthat had passed but a dream, arising out of the distempered state\nof my mind, had I not held in my hand the identical roll of vellum,\npresented in the manner just related. On examination, it proved to\ncontain the matter which is incorporated in the first story of this\ncollection, under the title of \u201cThe Legend of St. Nicholas,\u201d not only\nin due obedience to his command, but in order that henceforward no one\nmay pretend ignorance concerning this illustrious and benevolent saint,\nseeing they have now a biography under his own hand.\n\nThus much have I deemed it proper to preface to the reader, as some\nexcuse for the freedom of having honoured my poor fictions with the\ntitle of The Book of St. Nicholas, which might otherwise have been\ndeemed a piece of unchristian presumption.\n\n\n\n\n                            THE STORY BOOK\n\n                                  OF\n\n                            SAINT NICHOLAS.\n\n\n\n\n                      THE LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS.\n\n\nEverybody has heard of St. Nicholas, that honest Dutch saint, whom I\nlook upon as having been one of the most liberal, good-natured little\nfat fellows in the world. But, strange as it may seem, though everybody\nhas heard, nobody seems to know anything about him. The place of his\nbirth, the history of his life, and the manner in which he came to\nbe the dispenser of Newyear cakes, and the patron of good boys, are\nmatters that have hitherto not been investigated, as they ought to have\nbeen long and long ago. I am about to supply this deficiency, and pay\na debt of honour which is due to this illustrious and obscure tutelary\ngenius of the jolly Newyear.\n\nIt hath often been justly remarked that the birth, parentage, and\neducation of the most illustrious personages of antiquity, are usually\nenveloped in the depths of obscurity. And this obscurity, so far\nfrom being injurious to their dignity and fame, has proved highly\nbeneficial; for as no one could tell who were their fathers and mothers\non earth, they could the more easily claim kindred with the skies, and\ntrace their descent from the immortals. Such was the case with Saturn,\nHercules, Bacchus, and others among the heathens; and of St. George,\nSt. Dennis, St. Andrew, St. Patrick, and the rest of the tutelaries,\nof whom\u2014I speak it with great respect and reverence\u2014it may justly be\nsaid, that nobody would ever have heard of their progenitors but for\nthe renown of their descendants. It is, therefore, no reflection on\nthe respectable St. Nicholas, that his history has hitherto remained a\nsecret, and his origin unknown.\n\nIn prosecuting this biography, and thus striving to repay my\nobligations for divers, and I must say unmerited favours received from\nthis good saint, after whom I was christened, I shall refrain from all\ninvention or hyperbole, seeking the truth industriously, and telling it\nsimply and without reserve or embellishment. I scorn to impose on my\nreaders with cock and bull stories of his killing dragons, slaughtering\ngiants, or defeating whole armies of pagans with his single arm. St.\nNicholas was a peaceful, quiet, orderly saint, who, so far as I have\nbeen able to learn, never shed a drop of blood in his whole life,\nexcept, peradventure, it may be possible he sometimes cut his finger,\nof which I profess to know nothing, and, therefore, contrary to the\ncustom of biographers, shall say nothing.\n\nSt. Nicholas was born\u2014and that is all I can tell of the matter\u2014on the\nfirst of January; but in what year or at what place, are facts which I\nhave not been able to ascertain, although I have investigated them with\nthe most scrupulous accuracy. His obscurity would enable me to give him\na king and queen for his parents, whereby he might be able to hold up\nhis head with the best of them all; but, as I before observed, I scorn\nto impose such doubtful, to say no worse, legends upon my readers.\n\nNothing is known of his early youth, except that it hath come down\nto us that his mother dreamed, the night before his birth, that the\nsun was changed into a vast Newyear cake and the stars into _oily\ncooks_\u2014which she concluded was the reason they burned so bright. It\nhath been shrewdly intimated by certain would-be antiquaries, who\ndoubtless wanted to appear wiser than they really were, that because\nour worthy saint was called Nicholas, that must of course have been\nthe name of his father. But I set such conjectures at naught, seeing\nthat if all the sons were called after their fathers, the distinction\nof senior and junior would no longer be sufficient, and they would be\nobliged to number them as they do in the famous island of Nantucket,\nwhere I hear there are thirty-six Isaac Coffins and sixteen Pelegs.\n\nNow, of the first years of the life of good St. Nicholas, in like\nmanner, we have been able to learn nothing until he was apprenticed to\na baker in the famous city of Amsterdam, after which this metropolis\nwas once called, but which my readers doubtless know was christened\nover again when the English usurped possession, in the teeth of the\ngreat right of discovery derived from the illustrious navigator,\nHenricus Hudson, who was no more an Englishman than I am.\n\n\u201cWhether the youth Nicholas was thus apprenticed to a baker on account\nof his mother's dream, or from his great devotion to Newyear cakes,\nwhich may be inferred from the bias of his after life, it is impossible\nto tell at this distant period. It is certain, however, that he was so\napprenticed, and that is sufficient to satisfy all reasonable readers.\nAs for those pestilent, curious, prying people, who want to know the\nwhy and wherefore of everything we refer them to the lives of certain\nfamous persons, which are so intermingled and confounded with the\nlives of their contemporaries, and the events, great and small, which\nhappened in all parts of the world during their sojourn on the earth,\nthat it is utterly impossible to say whose life it is we are reading.\nMany people of little experience take the title page for a guide, not\nknowing, peradventure, they might almost as safely rely upon history\nfor a knowledge of the events of past ages.\n\nLittle Nicholas, our hero, was a merry, sweet-tempered caitiff,\nwhich was, doubtless, somewhat owing to his living almost altogether\nupon sweet things. He was marvellously devoted to cakes, and ate up\nnumberless gingerbread alphabets before he knew a single letter.\n\nPassing over the intermediate years, of which, indeed, I know no more\nthan the man in the moon, I come to the period when, being twenty-four,\nand the term of his apprenticeship almost out, he fell desperately in\nlove with the daughter of his worthy master, who was a burgomaster of\nforty years standing. In those unprecocious times, the boys did not\ngrow to be men and the girls women, so soon as they do now. It would\nhave been considered highly indecent for the former to think of falling\nin love before they were out of their time, or the latter to set up\nfor young women before they knew how to be anything else. But as soon\nas the worthy Nicholas arrived at the age of twenty-four, being, as\nI said, within a year of the expiration of his time, he thought to\nhimself that Katrinchee, or Catharine, as the English call it, was a\nclever, notable little soul, and eminently calculated to make him a\ngood wife. This was the main point in the times of which I am speaking,\nwhen people actually married without first running mad either for love\nor money.\n\nKatrinchee was the toast of all the young bakers of Amsterdam, and\nhonest Nicholas had as many rivals as there were loaves of bread in\nthat renowned city. But he was as gallant a little Dutchman as ever\nsmoked his way through the world pipe foremost, and did not despair\nof getting the better of his rivals, especially as he was a great\nfavourite with the burgomaster, as, indeed, his conduct merited.\nInstead of going the vulgar way to work, and sighing and whining\nout romance in her ear, he cunningly, being doubtless inspired by\nCupid himself, proceeded to insinuate his passion, and make it known\nby degrees, to the pretty little Katrinchee, who was as plump as a\npartridge, and had eyes of the colour of a clear sky.\n\nFirst did he bake a cake in the shape of a heart pierced half through\nby a toasting fork, the which he presented her smoking hot, which\nshe received with a blush and did eat, to the great encouragement of\nthe worthy Nicholas. A month after, for he did not wish to alarm the\ndelicacy of the pretty Katrinchee, he did bake another cake in the\nshape of two hearts, entwined prettily with a true lover's knot. This,\ntoo, she received with a blush, and did eat with marvellous content.\nAfter the expiration of a like period, he did contrive another cake\nin the shape of a letter, on which he had ingeniously engraven the\nfollowing couplet:\u2014\n\n    \u201cWer diesen glauben w\u00f6hlt hat die vernanft verschworen,\n    Dem denken abgesaght sein eigentham verlohren.\u201d\n\nThe meaning of which, if the reader doth not comprehend, I do hereby\nearnestly advise him to set about studying the Dutch language\nforthwith, that he may properly appreciate its hidden beauties.\n\nLittle Katrinchee read this poesy with a sigh, and rewarded the good\nNicholas with a look which, as he afterward affirmed, would have heated\nan oven.\n\nThus did the sly youth gradually advance himself in the good graces of\nthe little damsel, until at length he ventured a downright declaration,\nin the shape of a cake made in the exact likeness of a little Dutch\nCupid. The acceptance of this was conclusive, and was followed by\npermission to address the matter to the decision of the worthy\nburgomaster, whose name I regret hath not come down to the present time.\n\nThe good man consulted his pipe, and after six months' hard smoking,\ncame to the conclusion that the thing was feasible. Nicholas was a\nwell-behaved, industrious lad, and the burgomaster justly concluded\nthat the possession of virtuous and industrious habits without houses\nand lands, was better than houses and lands without them. So he gave\nhis consent like an honest and ever to be respected magistrate.\n\nThe news of the intended marriage spoiled all the bread baked in\nAmsterdam that day. The young bakers were so put out that they\nforgot to put yeast in their bread, and it was all heavy. But the\nhearts of the good Nicholas and his bride were as light as a feather\nnotwithstanding, and when they were married it was truly said there was\nnot a handsomer couple in all Amsterdam.\n\nThey lived together happily many years, and nothing was wanting to\ntheir felicity but a family of little chubby boys and girls. But it was\nordained that he never should be blessed with any offspring, seeing\nthat he was predestined to be the patron and benefactor of the children\nof others, not of his own. In good time, and in the fullness of years,\nthe burgomaster died, leaving his fortune and his business to Nicholas,\nwho had ever been a kind husband to his daughter, and a dutiful son to\nhimself. Rich and liberal, it was one of the chief pleasures of the\ngood Nicholas to distribute his cakes, of which he baked the best in\nall Amsterdam, to the children of the neighbourhood, who came every\nmorning, and sometimes in the evening; and Nicholas felt his heart warm\nwithin his bosom when he saw how they ate and laughed, and were as\nhappy, ay, and happier, too, than so many little kings. The children\nall loved him, and so did their fathers and mothers, so that in process\nof time he was made a burgomaster, like his father-in-law before him.\n\nNot only did he entertain the jolly little folk of the city in the\nmanner heretofore described, but his home was open to all travellers\nand sojourners who had no other home, as well as those who came\nrecommended from afar off. In particular the good pilgrims of the\nchurch, who went about preaching and propagating the true faith, by the\nwhich I mean the doctrines of the illustrious reformers in all time\npast.\n\nThe good Nicholas had, in the latter part of his life, embraced these\ndoctrines with great peril to himself, for sore were the persecutions\nthey underwent in those days who departed from the crying abominations\nof the ancient church; and had it not been for the good name he had\nestablished in the city of Amsterdam, among all classes, high and low,\nrich and poor, he might, peradventure, have suffered at the stake.\nBut he escaped, as it were, by a miracle, and lived to see the truth\ntriumph at last even throughout all the land.\n\nBut before this came to pass his faithful and affectionate helpmate\nhad been taken from him by death, sorely to his grief; and he would\nhave stood alone in the world had it not been for the little children,\nnow grown up to be men and women, who remembered his former kindness,\nand did all they could to console him\u2014for such is ever the reward of\nkindness to our fellow-creatures.\n\nOne night as he was sitting disconsolate at home, thinking of poor\nKatrinchee, and wishing that either she was with him or he with her, he\nheard a distant uproar in the street, which seemed approaching nearer\nand nearer. He was about to rise and go to the door to see what was\nthe occasion, when suddenly it was pushed open with some violence, and\na man rushed past him with very little ceremony. He seemed in a great\nhurry, for he panted for breath, and it was some time before he could\nsay,\n\n\u201cI beseech thee to shut the door and hide me, for my life is in danger.\u201d\n\nNicholas, who never refused to do a good-natured act, did as he was\ndesired, so far as shutting and barring the door. He then asked,\n\n\u201cWhat hath endangered thy life, and who art thou, friend, that thou art\nthus afraid?\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk me not now, I beseech thee, Nicholas\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cThou knowest my name then?\u201d said the other, interrupting him.\n\n\u201cI do\u2014everybody knows thee, and thy kindness of heart. But ask me\nnothing now\u2014only hide me for the present, and when the danger is past I\nwill tell thee all.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou art no murderer or fugitive from justice?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, on my faith. I am sinned against, but I never injured but one man,\nand I was sorry for that. But hark, I hear them coming\u2014wilt thou or\nwilt thou not protect me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will,\u201d said the good Nicholas, who saw in the dignified air and open\ncountenance of the stranger something that inspired both confidence and\nawe. Accordingly he hastily led him into a remote apartment, where he\nsecreted him in a closet, the door of which could not be distinguished,\nand in which he kept his money and valuables, for he said to himself,\nI will trust this man, he does not look as if he would abuse my\nconfidence.\n\n\u201cTake this key and lock thyself in, that thou mayst be able to get out\nin case they take me away.\u201d\n\nPresently there was heard a great hallooing and banging at the outward\ndoor, with a cry of \u201cOpen! open!\u201d and Nicholas went to the door and\nopened it. A flood of people rushed in helter-skelter, demanding the\nbody of an arch heretic, who, they said, had been seen to take refuge\nin the house. But with all their rage and eagerness, they begged his\nexcuse for this unceremonious proceeding, for Nicholas was beloved and\nrespected by all, though he was a heretic himself.\n\n\u201cHe's here\u2014we saw him enter!\u201d they cried.\n\n\u201cIf he is here, find him,\u201d quoth Nicholas, quietly. \u201cI will not say he\nis not here, neither would I betray him if he were.\u201d\n\nThe interlopers then proceeded to search all parts of the house, except\nthe secret closet, which escaped their attention. When they had done\nthis, one of them said.\n\n\u201cWe have heard of thy having a secret place in thy house where thy\nmoney and papers are secured. Open it to us\u2014we swear not to molest or\ntake away aught that is thine.\u201d\n\nThe good Nicholas was confounded at this demand, and stood for a moment\nnot knowing what to say or what to do. The stranger in the closet heard\nit too; but he was a stout-hearted man, and trusted in the Lord.\n\n\u201cWhere is thy strong closet?\u201d cried one of the fiercest and most\nforward of the intruders. \u201cWe must and will find it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, find it,\u201d quoth Nicholas, quietly.\n\nThey inspected the room narrowly, and knocked against the walls in\nhopes the hollow sound would betray the secret of the place. But they\nwere disappointed, for the door was so thick that it returned no hollow\nsound.\n\nThey now began to be impatient, and savage withal, and the ferocious\nleader exclaimed,\n\n\u201cLet us take this fellow then. One heretic is as good as another\u2014as bad\nI mean.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeize him!\u201d cried one.\n\n\u201cAway with him!\u201d cried another.\n\n\u201cTo the stake!\u201d cried a third.\n\nThey forgot the ancient kindness of the good man; for bigotry and\nover-heated zeal remember not benefits, and pay no respect to the\nobligations of gratitude. The good Nicholas was violently seized, his\nhands tied behind him, and he was about to be carried away a sacrifice\nto the demon of religious discord, when the door of the closet flew\nopen, and the stranger came forth with a step so firm, a look so lofty\nand inspired, that the rabble quailed, and were silent before him.\n\n\u201cUnbind this man,\u201d said he, in a voice of authority, \u201cand bind me in\nhis stead.\u201d\n\nNot a man stirred. They seemed spell bound, and stood looking at each\nother in silent embarrassment.\n\n\u201cUnbind this man, I say!\u201d\n\nStill they remained, as it were, petrified with awe and astonishment.\n\n\u201cWell, then, I shall do it myself,\u201d and he proceeded to release the\ngood Nicholas from his bonds, while the interlopers remained silent and\nmotionless.\n\n\u201cMistaken men!\u201d then said he, looking at them with pity, mingled with\nindignation, \u201cyou believe yourselves fulfilling the duties of your\nfaith when you chase those who differ from you about the world, as if\nthey were wild beasts, and drag them to the stake, like malefactors who\nhave committed the worst crimes against society. You think that the\nblood of human victims is the most acceptable offering to your Maker,\nand worse than the ignorant pagans, who made martyrs of the blessed\nsaints, sacrifice them on the altar of a religion which is all charity,\nmeekness, and forgiveness. But I see you are ashamed of yourselves. Go,\nand do so no more.\u201d\n\nThe spirit of intolerance quailed before the majesty of truth and\ngenius. The poor deluded men, whose passions had been stimulated by\nmistaken notions of religious duty, bowed their heads and departed,\nrebuked and ashamed.\n\n\u201cWho art thou?\u201d asked Nicholas, when they were gone.\n\n\u201cThou shalt soon know,\u201d replied the stranger. \u201cIn the mean time listen\nto me. I must be gone before the fiend, which I have, perhaps, only\nlaid for a few moments, again awakens in the bosoms of these deluded\nmen, or some others like them get on the scent of their prey, and\ntrack their victim hither. Listen to me, Nicholas, kind and good\nNicholas. Thou wouldst have endangered thy own life for the safety of\na stranger\u2014one who had no claim on thee save that of hospitality\u2014nay,\nnot even that, for I was not thy guest by invitation, but intrusion.\nBlessed be thee and thine, thy house, thy memory when thou art dead,\nand thy lot hereafter. Thou art worthy to know who I am.\u201d\n\nHe then disclosed to him a name with which the world hath since rung,\nfrom clime to clime, from country to country. A name incorporated\ninseparably with the interests of truth and the progress of learning.\n\n\u201cTell it not in Gath\u2014proclaim it not in the streets of Askalon,\u201d\ncontinued he, \u201cfor it is a name which carries with it the sentence\nof death in this yet benighted city. Interests of the deepest\nnature\u2014interests vitally connected with the progress of truth\u2014the\ntemporal and eternal happiness of millions living, of millions yet\nunborn, brought me hither. The business I came upon is in part\nperformed; but it is now known to some that I am, or have been in the\ncity, who will never rest till they run me down and tear me in pieces.\nFarewell, and look for thy reward, if not here, hereafter\u2014for, sure as\nthou livest and breathest, a good action, done with a pure and honest\nmotive, is twice blessed\u2014once to the doer and once to him to whom it is\ndone.\n\nThe good Nicholas would have knelt to the mighty genius that stood\nbefore him, but he prevented him.\n\n\u201cI am no graven image, nor art thou an idolater that thou shouldst\nkneel to me. Farewell! Let me have thy prayers, for the prayers of a\ngood man are indeed blessings.\u201d\n\nSaying this, the illustrious stranger departed in haste, and Nicholas\nnever saw him more for a long time. But he said to himself,\n\n\u201cBlessed is my house, for it hath sheltered the bright light of the\nuniverse.\u201d\n\nFrom that time forward, he devoted himself to the good cause of the\nreformation with heart and soul. His house was ever the refuge of the\npersecuted; his purse the never-failing resource of the distressed; and\nmany were the victims of bigotry and intolerance whom his influence and\nentreaties saved from the stake and the torture. He lived a blessing to\nall within the sphere of his influence, and was blessed in living to\nsee the faith which he loved and cherished at length triumph over the\nefforts of power, the arts of intrigue, and the fire of bigotry.\n\nNeither did he forget or neglect the customary offices of kindness\nand good will to the little children of the city, who continued still\nto come and share his goodly cakes, which he gave with the smile and\nthe open hand of kind and unaffected benignity. It must have been\ndelightful to see the aged patriarch sitting at his door, while the\nlittle boys and girls gathered together from all parts to share his\nsmiles, to be patted on the head, and kissed, and laden with his\nbounties.\n\nEvery Newyear's day especially, being his birthday, as it came round,\nwas a festival, not only to all the children, but to all that chose to\ncome and see him. It seemed that he grew younger instead of older on\neach return of the season; for he received every one with smiles, and\neven his enemies were welcome to his good cheer. He had not the heart\nto hate anybody on the day which he had consecrated to innocent gayety,\nliberal hospitality, and universal benevolence. In process of time,\nhis example spread among the whole city, and from thence through the\ncountry, until every village and town, nay, every house, adopted the\ngood custom of setting apart the first day of the year to be gay and\nhappy, to exchange visits, and shake hands with friends and to forgive\nenemies.\n\nThus the good Nicholas lived, blessing all and blessed by all, until\nhe arrived at a happy old age. When he had reached fourscore years, he\nwas sitting by himself late in the evening of the first of January, old\nstyle, which is the only true and genuine era after all\u2014the new style\nbeing a pestilent popish innovation\u2014he was sitting, I say, alone, the\nvisiters having all departed, laden with gifts and good wishes. A knock\nwas heard at the door, which always opened of itself, like the heart of\nits owner, not only on Newyear's day, but every day in the year.\n\nA stately figure entered and sat down by him, after shaking his hand\nright heartily. The good Nicholas was now old, and his eyesight had\nsomewhat failed him, particularly at night.\n\n\u201cThou art welcome,\u201d quoth the old man.\n\n\u201cI know it,\u201d replied the other, \u201cevery one is welcome to the house of\nthe good Nicholas, not only on this, but every other day. I have heard\nof thee in my travels.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou knowest my name\u2014may I not know thine?\u201d\n\nThe stranger whispered a name in his ear, which made the heart of the\ngood Nicholas leap in his bosom.\n\n\u201cDost thou remember the adventure of the closet?\u201d said the stranger.\n\n\u201cYea\u2014blessed be the day and the hour,\u201d said the old man.\n\nAnd now they had a long conversation, which pertained to high matters,\nnot according with the nature of my story, and therefore I pass them\nby, more especially as I do not exactly know what they were.\n\n\u201cI almost fear to ask thee,\u201d at length said Nicholas; \u201cbut thou wilt\npartake of my cheer, on this the day of my birth. I shall not live to\nsee another.\u201d\n\nOld people are often prophetic on the duration of their lives.\n\n\u201cAssuredly,\u201d replied the other, \u201cfor it is neither beneath my character\nnor calling to share the good man's feast, and to be happy when I can.\u201d\n\nSo they sat down together and talked of old times, and how much better\nthe new times were than the old, inasmuch as the truth had triumphed,\nand they could now enjoy their consciences in peace.\n\nThe illustrious visiter staid all night; and the next morning, as he\nwas about to depart, the aged Nicholas said to him,\n\n\u201cFarewell\u2014I shall never see thee again. Thou art going a long journey,\nthou sayst, but I am about venturing on one yet longer.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, be it so,\u201d said the other. \u201cBut those who remain behind will\nbless thy name and thy memory. The little children will love thee, and\nso long as thy countrymen cherish their ancient customs, thou wilt not\nbe forgotten.\u201d\n\nThey parted, and the prediction of the good Nicholas was fulfilled.\nHe fell asleep in the arms of death, who called him so softly, and\nreceived him so gently in his embrace, that though his family knew he\nslept, they little thought it was for ever.\n\nWhen this news went abroad into the city, you might see the worthy\nburgomasters and citizens knocking the ashes out of their pipes, and\nputting them quietly by in their buttonholes; and the good housewives,\never and anon lifting their clean white aprons to their eyes, that they\nmight see to thread their needles or find the stitches, as they sat\nknitting their stockings. The shops and schools were all shut the day\nhe was buried; and it was remarked that the men neglected their usual\namusements, and the little children had no heart to play.\n\nWhen the whole city had gathered together at the side of his grave,\nthere suddenly appeared among them a remarkable and goodly-looking\nman, of most reverent demeanour. Every one bowed their bodies, in\nrespectful devotion, for they knew the man, and what they owed him. All\nwas silent as the grave, just about to receive the body of Nicholas,\nwhen he I have just spoken of lifted his head, and said as follows:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe good man just about to enter the narrow house never defrauded his\nneighbour, never shut his door on the stranger, never did an unkind\naction, nor ever refused a kind one either to friend or foe. His heart\nwas all goodness, his faith all purity, his morals all blameless, yea,\nall praiseworthy. Such a man deserves the highest title that can be\nbestowed on man. Join me then, my friends, old and young\u2014men, women,\nand children, in blessing his memory as _the good Saint Nicholas_;\nfor I know no better title to such a distinction than pure faith,\ninflexible integrity, and active benevolence.\u201d Thus spake the great\nreformer, John Calvin.\n\nThe whole assembled multitude, with one voice and one heart, cried\nout, \u201cLong live the blessed memory of the good St. Nicholas!\u201d as they\npiously consigned him to the bosom of his mother earth.\n\nThus did he come to be called St. Nicholas; and the people, not content\nwith this, as it were by a mutual sympathy, and without coming to any\nunderstanding on the subject, have ever since set apart the birthday\nof the good man, for the exercise of hospitality to men, and gifts to\nlittle children. From the Old World they carried the custom to the\nNew, where their posterity still hold it in reverence, and where I\nhope it will long continue to flourish, in spite of the cold heartless\nforms, unmeaning ceremonies, and upstart pretensions of certain vulgar\npeople, who don't know any better, and therefore ought to be pitied for\ntheir ignorance, rather than contemned for their presumption.\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n\n                         LITTLE DUTCH SENTINEL\n\n                                OF THE\n\n                              MANHADOES.\n\n\n\u201cHow times change in this world, and especially in this New World!\u201d\nexclaimed old Aurie Doremus, as he sat at the door of his domicil\u2014the\nlast of the little Dutch houses, built of little Dutch bricks, with\ngable end turned to the street\u2014on a sultry summer evening, in the year\nso many honest people found out that paper money was not silver or\ngold. Half a dozen of his grown-up grandchildren were gathered about\nhim, on the seats of the little porch, the top of which was shaped\nsomething like an old revolutionary cocked hat, as the good patriarch\nmade this sage observation. He was in fine talking humour, and after a\nlittle while, went on amid frequent pauses, as if taxing his memory to\nmake up his chronicle.\n\n\u201cIt was the twenty-fourth\u2014no, the twenty-fifth of March, 1609, that\nHendrick Hudson sailed from Amsterdam. On the fourth of September,\nafter coasting along Newfoundland to Cape Cod, from Cape Cod to\nChesapeake Bay, and thence back again along the Jersey coast, he came\nin sight of the Highlands of Neversink, and anchored in the evening\ninside of Sandy Hook. This was in 1609\u2014how long ago is that, Egbert?\u201d\nsaid the good man, turning to me.\n\n\u201cTwo hundred and sixteen years,\u201d replied I, after sore tribulation, for\nI never was good at ciphering.\n\n\u201cTwo hundred and sixteen years\u2014well, at that time there was not a\nsingle white man, or white man's habitation, in sight of where we are\nnow sitting, in the midst of thousands, ten of thousands\u2014I might almost\nsay hundreds of thousands. Ah! boys, 'tis a rapid growth, and Heaven\ngrant it may not afford another proof, that the quick of growth are\nquick of decay.\u201d After musing a little he proceeded, as if speaking to\nhimself rather than to us.\n\n\u201cIf it were possible that an Indian, who had lived on this spot at\nthe time of Hudson's first visit, could rise from the dead, with\nall his recollections of the past about him, what would he think at\nbeholding the changes that have taken place. Nothing that he had\never seen, nothing that he had ever known, would he recognise; for\neven the face of the earth has passed away, and the course of the\nmighty rivers intruded upon by the labours of the white strangers. No\nvestiges, not even the roots of the woods where he hunted his game\u2014no\nlandmarks familiar to his early recollections\u2014no ruins of his ancient\nhabitations\u2014no traces to guide him to the spot where once reposed the\nremains of his fathers\u2014nothing to tell him that his eyes had opened on\nthe very spot where they closed two hundred years ago.\u201d Again he paused\na few moments, and then resumed his cogitations.\n\n\u201cAnd this is not all, its name and destinies, as well as its nature,\nare changed. From the Manhadoes of the ancient proprietors, it passed\ninto the New-Amsterdam of the Dutch, and the New-York of the English;\nand now,\u201d continued he, his eyes sparkling with exultation\u2014\u201d now it is\nthe possession of a free and sovereign people. The sandy barren which\nformed the projecting point of our isle, and where a few Indian canoes\nwere hauled up, is now the resort of thousands of stately ships, coming\nfrom the farthest parts of the earth, and bearing the rich products\nof the New World into every corner of the Old. Their masts bristle\naround the city, like the leafless trees of a wintry forest. The rugged\nisland, to which nature had granted nothing but its noble situation,\nand which seemed condemned to perpetual sterility, is now become a\nregion of rich gardens and white groups of houses\u2014the very rocks are\nturned to beds of flowers, and the tangled swamps of ivy clinging about\nthe stinted shrubbery, into smooth lawns, embellishing and embellished\nby the sprightly forms of playful lads and lasses, escaped from the\ncity to enjoy a summer afternoon of rural happiness. All, all is\nchanged\u2014and man the most of all. Simplicity has given place to the\nostentatious, vulgar pride of purse-proud ignorance\u2014the wild Indian\nto the idle and effeminate beau\u2014politeness to ceremony\u2014comfort to\nsplendour\u2014honest mechanics to knavish brokers\u2014morals to manners\u2014wampum\nto paper money\u2014and the fear of ghosts to the horror of poverty.\u201d Here\nagain the old man paused, and seemed to retire within himself for a\nminute or two; after which I observed him begin to chuckle and rub his\nhands, while his mischievous old eye assumed a new vivacity.\n\n\u201cI wonder what figure our Dutch belles or beaux of 1700, or thereabout,\nwould make at a rout, or the Italian opera? I'faith I believe they\nwould be more out of their element than the Indian I spoke of just now.\nThey would certainly make rare sport in a cotillon, and I doubt would\nnever arrive at that acme of modern refinement, which enables people\nto prefer sounds without sense, to sense without sound\u2014and to expire\nwith ecstasy at sentiments expressed in a language of which they don't\ncomprehend a word.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut did they believe in ghosts, grandfather?\u201d asked the youngest\nlittle granddaughter, who was just beginning to dip in the modern\nwonders of romance, and had been caught by the word ghost in the old\ngentleman's harangue.\n\n\u201cAy, that they did, and in everything else. Now people believe in\nnothing except what they see in the newspapers\u2014and the only exercise\nof their faith appears, not indeed in believing a crust of bread is a\nshoulder of mutton, but that a greasy rag of paper is a guinea. I have\nheard my grandfather tell fifty stories of ghosts and witches; but\nthey have all passed from my memory, except one about a little Dutch\nsentinel, which he used to repeat so often, that I have never forgotten\nit to this day.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, tell us the story,\u201d cried the little romance reader, who was\nthe old gentleman's prime favourite, and to whom he never thought of\ndenying anything, either in or out of reason. \u201cI'll give you two kisses\nif you will.\u201d\n\n\u201cA bargain,\u201d cried the good Aurie; \u201ccome hither, baggage.\u201d The little\ngirl presented first one rosy cheek and then the other, which he kissed\naffectionately, and began as follows, while we all gathered about him,\nand listened like so many Schahriars.\n\n       \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n\u201cOnce upon a time, then, to use the words of a pleasant and instructive\nhistorian, the governors of New-Amsterdam were little kings, and the\nburgomasters such great men, that whoever spoke ill of one of them,\nhad a bridle put into his mouth, rods under his arms, and a label on\nhis breast recording his crime. In this trim he was led by the sheriff\nand tied to a post, where he remained a spectacle to the public, and\nan example to all evil doers\u2014or rather evil sayers. I wonder how such\na custom would go down nowadays, with the great champions of the\nliberty of the press? Then, too, instead of street inspectors, whose\nduty it is to take care of one side of a street and let the other take\ncare of itself, there were roy meesters to look to the fences, and\nkeep the cows from trespassing on their neighbour's pastures\u2014then the\nhouses were covered with reeds and straw, and the chimneys were made\nof wood\u2014then all matrimonial disputes were settled by \u2018a commissary\nof marriage affairs,\u2019 and no man could eat a loaf of bread, except\nthe flour had been inspected by the \u2018comptroller general of the\ncompany's windmill,\u2019 who could be no other than the sage Don Quixote\nhimself\u2014then, the distinction of ranks, instead of being designated by\ngreat and little barons, was signified by great and little burghers,\nwho danced hipsey-saw and reels\u2014plucked the goose\u2014rambled on the\ncommons, now the park, for nuts and strawberries\u2014made parties of\npleasure to enjoy the retired shades of the Ladies' Valley, since\nmetamorphosed into Maiden Lane\u2014shot bears in the impenetrable forests\nof Harlem Heights\u2014hunted the deer along the Bloomingdale road\u2014and\nerected Maypoles on the first of May, in the great meadow where the\ncollege now stands.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn what year of our Lord was that?\u201d asked the little pet lady.\n\n\u201cWhy, in the year 1670, or thereabout, you baggage.\u201d\n\n\u201cI declare I thought it must have been somewhere about the year one,\u201d\nsaid she, laughing. The old man patted her cheek, and went on.\n\n\u201cAbout this time the good citizens of New-Amsterdam were most\nespecially afraid of three things\u2014Indians, ghosts, and witches. For the\nfirst, they had good reason, for the Indians inhabited the country\naround them in all directions, and though the honest Amsterdamers could\nbeat them at a bargain, there was another game at which they had rather\nthe advantage. In regard to ghosts and witches, I cannot say as much\nin justification of their fears. But that is neither here nor there.\nSome people that will run like a deer from real danger, defy ghosts\nand witches, and all their works; while the fearless soldier who faces\ndeath without shrinking in a hundred battles, trembles and flees from\na white cow in a churchyard, or a white sheet on a clothes line, of\na moonlight night. It was thus with honest JAN SOL, the little Dutch\nsentinel of the Manhadoes.\n\n\u201cJan was a short, square-built, bandy-legged, broad-faced, snub-nosed\nlittle fellow, who valued himself upon being an old soldier; a species\nof men that, with the exception of travellers, are the most given to\ntelling what are called tough stories, of any people in the world.\nAccording to his own account, he had been in more pitched battles than\nHenry the Lion, or Julius C\u00e6sar; and made more lucky escapes than any\nknight-errant on record. The most miraculous one of all, was at some\nbattle\u2014I forget the name\u2014where he would certainly have been killed, if\nhe had not very opportunely arrived just after it was over. But though\none of the most communicative persons in the world, he never gave any\ntolerable reason for visiting New-Amsterdam. He hinted, indeed, that\nhe had been invited over to discipline the raw provincials; but there\nwas a counter story abroad, that he was drummed out of the regiment\nfor walking in his sleep, and emptying the canteens of the whole mess.\nIndeed, he did not positively deny that he was apt to be a rogue in his\nsleep; but then he made it up by being as honest as the day when he was\nawake.\n\n\u201cHowever this may be, at the time I speak of, Jan Sol figured as\ncorporal in the trusty city guard, whose business it was to watch\nduring the night, to guard against the inroads of the savages, and\nto enforce, in the daytime, the military code established for the\ngood order and well being of the metropolis. This code consisted of\nnineteen articles, every one of which was a perfect blue law. Bread\nand water, boring tongues with a red-hot iron, hanging, and such like\ntrifles, were the least a man had to expect in those days. The mildest\ninfliction of the whole code, was that of riding a wooden horse, for\nnot appearing on parade at the ringing of a bell. This town was always\nfamous for bellringing. Jan had many a ride in this way for nothing.\nAmong the most rigid of these regulations, was one which denounced\ndeath for going in and out of the fort, except through the gate; and\nanother, ordaining a similar punishment for entering or leaving the\ncity by any other way but the land poort, after the mayor had gone his\nrounds in the evening, and received the keys from the guard.\n\n\u201cThe state of society, and the neighbourhood of the Indians, I suppose,\nmade these severe restrictions necessary; and we are not, while\nsitting quietly at our firesides, out of their reach, to set ourselves\nin judgment upon our ancestors, who planted the seeds of this empire in\nthe midst of dangers. In the little sketch of New-Amsterdam to which\nI have before referred, and which is well worth your reading, it is\nstated that the gate was shut in the evening before dark, and opened at\ndaylight. At nine o'clock the tattoo was beat, as the signal for the\nhonest folks to go to sleep as quick as possible, and it is recorded\nthey all obeyed the summons in the most exemplary manner. The sentinels\nwere placed at different points considered the most accessible, and\nchanged every half hour, that being the limit of a quiet, orderly\nDutchman's capacity for keeping awake after nine o'clock.\n\n\u201cOne bright moonlight night, in the month of August, it fell to the lot\nof Jan Sol to mount guard, not a hundred yards from the great gate, or\nland poort, which was situated in Broadway, near where Trinity Church\nnow stands. Beyond this, between Liberty and Courtlandt streets, stood\nthe company's windmill, where nearly all the flour was made for the\nconsumption of the little metropolis. The place where he took his\nrounds was a sand bank, elevated above the surrounding objects, and\nwhence he could see the river, the opposite shore of New-Jersey, then\ncalled Pavonia, the capacious bay, and the distant hills of Staten\nIsland. The night was calm, and the cloudless sky showed thousands of\nwandering glories overhead, whose bright twinklings danced on the slow\nundulating surface of the glassy mirror. All round there was perfect\nsilence and repose, nothing moved upon the land or the waters, neither\nlights were burning nor dogs barking; these sagacious animals having\nbeen taught, by a most infallible way of appealing to their instincts,\nthat it was unlawful to disturb the somniferous indulgences of their\nmasters. It was a scene for poetic inspiration, but Jan Sol was no\npoet, although he often availed himself of the poetic license in his\nstories. He was thinking of something else, besides the beauty of the\nnight and the scene. The truth is, his nerves were very much out of\norder at that moment.\n\n\u201cIt was about the time that witches made their first appearance in\nthe New World, whither they came, I suppose, to escape the pleasant\nalternative of being either drowned or hanged, proffered to them in\nthose days by the good people of England. But they got out of the\nfrying pan into the fire, as history records, particularly to the\neastward of the Manhadoes, where some of them underwent the ordeal of\nShadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Others fled to New-Amsterdam, greatly\nto the discomfort of the good citizens, who took such umbrage at\nbroomsticks, that the industrious and cleanly housewife's vocation of\nsweeping the parlour twelve times a day was considered as naught. It is\naffirmed, that instead of a broom, they used the broad-brimmed Sunday\nhats of their husbands in blowing away the dust, for fear of being\ntaken for witches. There was a universal panic, and a universal dust\nthroughout all the city.\n\n\u201cBut this was not the worst of it either. Just about this time Dominie\nEgidius Luyck prophesied the world was coming speedily to an end, as\nplainly appeared from the great quantity of toad stools, which made\ntheir appearance in the Ladies' Valley and Windmill Meadow after a\nheavy rain. This prophecy was followed up by the appearance of the\nnorthern lights, falling stars, and mysterious rattlings of invisible\ncarriages through the streets at midnight. To crown all, an inspired\nfanatic had passed through the Broadway, crying out 'Wo, wo to the\ncrown of pride, and the drunkards of Ephraim. Two woes past, and the\nthird coming, except ye repent\u2014repent\u2014repent.' All these horrors now\nencompassed the imagination of Jan Sol, as he paced the little sand\nhillock with slow steps, and from time to time started at his shadow.\nThe half hour seemed an age, and never did anybody long so much for the\nappearance of a corporal's guard to relieve him.\n\n\u201cHe had not been on his watch more than ten minutes, or so, when,\nhappening to look towards the opposite shore of Pavonia, he saw\nsomething moving on the waters like a canoe shooting across the river.\nFive hundred Indians with tomahawks and scalping knives all at once\nstood before the little sentinel, whose imagination was ready cocked\nand primed for the reception of all sorts of horrors. He had a great\nmind to fire his gun, and alarm the garrison, but a little of the fear\nof his companions' jokes restrained him for that time. However, he\ndrew a pistol, and refreshed his courage with a little of the genuine\nSchiedam, after which he ventured to look that way again. But the canoe\nhad disappeared in a most miraculous manner, and Jan was satisfied in\nhis own mind, that it was neither more nor less than the ghost of a\ncanoe. There was not much consolation in this; but it was better than\nthe five hundred Indians, with their tomahawks and scalping knives.\n\n\u201cThe night breeze now sprung up with its chilling dews, and cooled\nJan's courage till it nearly fell down to the freezing point. The wind,\nor some other cause, produced a sort of creaking and moaning in the\nold crazy windmill, which drew the eyes of the little sentinel in that\ndirection. At that moment, Jan saw a head slowly rising and peeping\nover the wall, directly in a line with the windmill. His eyes became\nriveted to the spot, with the irresistible fascination of overwhelming\nterror. Gradually the head was followed by shoulders, body and legs,\nwhich Jan swore belonged to a giant at least sixteen ells high. After\nsitting a moment upon the wall, the figure, according to Jan's relation\nbefore the governor next morning, put forth a pair of enormous wings,\nand whirling itself round and round in a circle\u2014while its eyes flashed\nfire, and its teeth appeared like live coals\u2014actually flew down from\nthe wall towards the governor's garden, where it disappeared, or rather\nsank into the ground, close by the garden gate. Jan fired his gun,\nand one might have supposed he killed himself, for he fell flat on his\nface, apparently as dead as a door nail.\n\n\u201cHere he was found by the relief guard, about five minutes afterwards,\nwith his face buried in the sand hill. The moment they touched him,\nhe began to roar out with awful vociferation, \u2018Wo, wo to the crown of\npride, and the drunkards of Ephraim.\u2019 They could make nothing of Jan\nor his story, and forthwith carried him to the \u2018big house,\u2019 as it was\ncalled, where the governor resided, and who, together with the whole\ncorporation and city, had been waked by the discharge of the gun. Such\na thing had not happened within the memory of man. Jan told his story,\nand swore to it afterwards; but all he got by it, was a ride on the\nwooden horse the next morning. The story, however, took wind, and there\nwas more liquor sold that day at the Stadt Herberg, or city tavern,\nthan for a whole week before. Coming upon the back of the dominie's\ntoad stools, the northern lights, the rumbling of the invisible wheels,\nand the mysterious denunciation of the drunkards of Ephraim, it made\na great impression; and many, not to say all, believed there must be\nsomething in it. Several people went to church the next day, who had\nnot been there since they were christened.\n\n\u201cMeasures were taken the following night, and for several nights\nafterwards, to detect this gigantic spectre, but in vain. Nothing\nappeared to disturb the quiet repose of the guard and the city, till\nthe next Saturday night, when it came to Jan Sol's turn to take his\nwatch upon the sand hill, about the same hour as before. They say Jan\nfortified himself with a double allowance of Schiedam, and put a little\nDutch Bible in the pocket of one of his breeches. But all would not do,\nfor many people were ready to swear afterwards, that his hair stood on\nend so sturdily that he could hardly keep his tin cap upon it. Ghosts,\nhobgoblins, and all that sort of thing, have not only a propensity to\nvisit some one particular person, but are likewise extremely regular in\ntheir habits, as well as in their hours of appearing. Exactly at the\nsame hour the little canoe shot from Pavonia\u2014the night breeze sprang up\nas before\u2014the old windmill began to creak and moan\u2014the gigantic spectre\npeered over the wall at the same spot as before, and cautiously glaring\nround with his fiery eyes, unfurled his mighty wings, and after turning\na few somersets, flew towards the gate of the governor's garden, where\nhe disappeared as before. This time Jan was too far gone to fire his\nmatchlock, but a few minutes after he was found almost insensible with\nfright, by the relief guard, who carried him before the governor next\nmorning, where he swore to the same story, and was complimented with\nanother ride on the wooden horse.\n\n\u201cBut the repetition of a miracle is sure to make it less miraculous;\nand a wonder twice told is almost half proved. People began to believe,\nand from believing, to be sure there was something out of the way, at\nleast, in this affair. Miracles, like misfortunes, never come single;\nand almost every one had a wonder of his own to reinforce that of the\nlittle Dutch sentinel. At least fifty of them happened within less than\na week, each more alarming than the other. Doors opened at midnight, by\ninvisible hands\u2014strange black cats with green eyes, and sparks of fire\nflying out of their backs, appeared at different times\u2014the old mahogany\nchests of drawers made divers strange noises, and sometimes went off\nwith a report almost as loud as a pistol\u2014and an old woman coming into\nmarket with cabbages before daylight in the morning, met a black\nfigure, she could almost swear had a tail and a cloven foot. A horseman\nwas heard in the middle of the night galloping furiously towards the\nland poort, crying \u2018Whoa! whoa!\u2019 with a hollow voice; and what was very\nsingular, though several persons got up to look out of the windows,\nnot one could see the least sign of horse or horseman. In short, the\nwhole city of New-Amsterdam was in a panic, and he was a bold man that\ndid not run away from his own shadow. Even the \u2018big house\u2019 where the\ngovernor dwelt, was infected, insomuch that his excellency doubled his\nguards, and slept with loaded pistols at his bedside. One of these made\na voluntary discharge one night, and the bullet passed right through\nthe picture of Admiral Van Tromp, which hung up in the chamber. If it\nhad been the admiral himself he would have been killed as sure as a\ngun. This accident was considered as very remarkable, as there were no\nhair triggers in those days, to go off of themselves.\n\n\u201cThere was at that time a public-spirited little magistrate in office,\nby the name of DIRCK SMET, a pipemaker by trade, who was the father\nof more laws than all the lawyers before or after him, from Moses\ndown to the present time. He had the itch of legislation to a most\nalarming degree, and like Titus, considered he had lost a day when he\nhad not begotten at least one law. A single circumstance or event, no\nmatter how insignificant, was enough for him. If a little boy happened\nto frighten a sober Dutch horse, which, by-the-way, was no such easy\nmatter, by flying his kite, the worshipful Dirck Smet would forthwith\ncall a meeting of the common council, and, after declaiming a full hour\nupon the dangers of kiteflying, get a law passed, denouncing a penalty\nupon all wicked parents who allowed their children to indulge in that\npestilent amusement. If there happened a rumour of a man, a horse, a\ncow, or any other animal being bitten by a mad dog, in some remote part\nof New-England, or elsewhere, Dirck Smet would spout a speech enough\nto make one's hair stand on end, about the horrors of hydrophobia, and\nget a law passed against all the honest mastiffs of New-Amsterdam, who\nhad no more idea of running mad than I have at this moment. Owing to\nthe number of little creeks intersecting the city, and the quantity of\ngrass growing in the streets at that time, there was never a finer city\nfor raising flocks of geese than New-Amsterdam\u2014in fact, there were as\nmany geese as inhabitants. Dirck declared war against these in a speech\nof three hours, which so overpowered the council, that they all fell\nasleep, and passed a law banishing the geese from the city; although\none of the members, who had the finest goose pond in the place, talked\nvery learnedly about the famous goose that saved the capitol. It is\nsaid that Dirck's antipathy to these honest birds arose from having\nbeen attacked and sorely buffeted by a valiant old gander, whose\npremises he had chanced to invade on some occasion. He was, indeed, the\nmost arrant meddler and busybody of his day, always poking his nose\ninto holes and corners, ferreting out nuisances, and seeking pretexts\nfor new laws; so that if the people had paid any attention to them they\nwould have been under a worse tyranny than that of the Turk or the\nSpaniard. But they were saved from this by a lucky circumstance\u2014the\ncouncil thinking they did enough by making the laws, let them take care\nof themselves afterwards; and honest Dirck Smet was too busy begetting\nnew laws, to mind what became of the old ones. Nevertheless, he got\nthe reputation of a most vigilant magistrate, which means a pestilent\nintermeddler with people's domestic sports and occupations, and a most\nindustrious busybody in attempting impossibilities.\n\n\u201cAs soon as Dirck Smet heard the story of the inroads of the winged\nmonster, he fell into a fever of anxiety to do something for the good\nof the community. He was on the point of proposing a severe law against\nwinged monsters, but from this he was dissuaded by a judicious friend,\nwho represented the difficulty of catching this sort of delinquents,\nand that this was absolutely necessary, before he could punish them.\nBaffled in this point, he fumed about from one place to another,\ninsisting that something must be done for the quiet and security of the\ncity, and that a law of some kind or other was absolutely necessary\non the occasion, if it were only to show their zeal for the public\ngood. It was his opinion that a bad law was better than no law at all,\nand that it would be an inexcusable piece of negligence to let these\ninterloping monsters fly over the wall with impunity.\n\n\u201cAll this while his excellency the governor of New-Amsterdam said\nnothing, but thought a great deal. He was a little jealous of the\npopularity of Dirck Smet, who had got the title of Father of the City,\non account of having saved it from the horrors of flying kites, mad\ndogs, and hissing ganders. In fact, they were two such great men, that\nthe city was not half large enough for them both, and the consequence\nwas, that instead of assisting, they only stood in each other's way,\nlike two carts in a narrow lane. We can have too much of a good\nthing, even as regards laws and rulers. The governor was determined\nto do nothing, for no other reason that could ever be discovered\nthan because his rival was so busy. The fears of the good citizens,\nhowever, and their increasing clamours against the negligence of their\nrulers, at length roused the activity of the governor, who forthwith\nconvened his council, to deliberate upon the best means of saving the\ncity of New-Amsterdam.\n\n\u201cDirck Smet, who was ex-officio a member, was in his glory on this\noccasion, and talked so much that there was no time for acting. At\nlength, however, the inward man gave out, and he had not breath to say\nanything more. It was then, tradition says, that a silent old member,\nwho never made a set speech in his life, proposed, in as few words as\npossible, and in a quiet colloquial manner, that measures should be\nfirst taken to ascertain the truth of the story, after which means\nmight be found to detect the miracle or the impostor, whatever it might\nbe. It is affirmed the whole council was astonished that a man should\nbe able to say so much in so few words, and that henceforth the silent\nmember was considered the wisest of them all. Even Dirck Smet held his\ntongue for the rest of the sitting, thus furnishing another striking\nproof, my children, that good sense is an overmatch for the most\nconfirmed garrulity. The same old gentleman suggested, that as Saturday\nnight seemed to be the period chosen for his two visits by the winged\nmonster, it would be advisable to place some of the most trusty of the\ncity guard in ambush in the vicinity of the spot where, according to\nthe testimony of Jan Sol, he had flown over the wall, to intercept\nhim there, or at least overtake him in his progress to the governor's\ngarden. Everybody wondered at the wisdom of this proposal, which\nwas adopted with only one dissenting voice. Dirck Smet moved, as an\namendment, that the word \u2018progress\u2019 should be changed to \u2018flight,\u2019 but\nit was negatived, greatly to his mortification, and therefore he voted\nagainst the whole proposition, declaring it went against his conscience.\n\n\u201cAccordingly, the next Saturday night a party was got in readiness,\nof six picked men of the city guard, under the command of Captain\nBalthaser Knyff, of immortal memory, who had faced more ghosts in his\ngeneration than any man living. The whole band was equipped with an\nextraordinary number of nether garments for defence, and fortified\nwith double allowance of Schiedam, to keep up their courage in this\narduous service. The captain was considered a person of the greatest\nweight in all the city; and in addition to this, he added to his\nspecific gravity, by stuffing into his pocket all the leaden weights\nhe could borrow of a neighbouring grocer, for he did not know but\nthe monster might fly away with him. His comrades remonstrated that\nthis additional weight would impede his pursuit of the foe; but the\ncaptain nobly replied, \u2018it was beneath a soldier to run, either from or\nafter an enemy.\u2019 The most perfect secrecy was preserved in all these\narrangements.\n\n\u201cThus equipped, they took their station, about eleven o'clock on the\nSaturday night following the last appearance of the winged monster,\nunder cover of one of the neighbouring houses, and there waited the\ncoming of the mysterious visiter. Twelve o'clock, the favourite hour\nof spectres of all sorts, came and passed, yet no spectre appeared\npeeping over the wall. By this time they began to be wearied with\nlong watching, and it was proposed that they should take turns, one\nat a time, while the others slept off the fatigue of such unheard-of\nservice. The lot fell upon Jan Sol, who being, as it were, a sort\nof old acquaintance of the spectre, was supposed to be particularly\nqualified for this honour. Jan forthwith posted himself at the corner\nof the house, upon one leg, to make sure of keeping awake, as he\nhad whilome seen the New-Amsterdam geese do, ere they were banished\nfrom the city, by the inflexible patriotism of Dirck Smet, the great\nlawgiver.\n\n\u201cThe little Dutch sentinel stood for about half an hour, sometimes on\none leg, sometimes on the other, with his head full of hobgoblins and\nhis heart full of fears. All was silent as the grave, save the sonorous\nmusic of the captain's vocal nose, or, as it might be poetically\nexpressed, \u2018living lyre,\u2019 which ever and anon snorted a low requiem to\nthe waning night. The moon was on the swift decrease, and now exhibited\nan arch not unlike a bright Indian bow, suspended in the west, a\nlittle above the distant horizon. Gradually it sank behind the hills,\nleaving the world to the guardianship of the watchmen of the night, the\ntwinkling stars. Scarcely a minute after, the heart of honest Jan was\nsent bumping against his trusty ribs, by the appearance of something\nslowly rising above the indistinct line of the city wall, which I ought\nto observe was made of wood. The spectre gradually mounted higher\nand higher, and rested on the very spot where he had seen it twice\nbefore. The teeth of Jan Sol chattered, and his knees knocked against\neach other\u2014but he stood his ground manfully, and either would not or\ncould not run away. This time the spectre, though he appeared with two\nenormous wings projecting from his shoulders, did not whirl them round,\nor expand them in the manner he had done before. After sitting perched\nfor a few moments on the wall, he flew down to the ground, and crept\ncautiously along, under cover of the wall, in a direction towards the\nbig house. At this moment, the trusty Jan with some difficulty roused\nhis companions, and silently pointed to the spectre gliding along as\nbefore related. Whether it was that it saw or heard something to alarm\nit, I cannot say; but scarcely had the redoubtable Captain Knyff risen,\nand shaken from his valiant spirit the fumes of sleep and Schiedam,\nwhen the spirit took as it were to itself wings, and sped rapidly\ntowards the gate of the governor's garden. The party pursued, with\nthe exception of the captain, who carried too much weight for a race,\nand arrived within sight of the gate just in time to see the spectre\nvanish, either under, over, or inside of it, they could not tell\nwhich. When they got to the gate, they found it fast locked, a proof,\nif any had been wanting, that it must have been something supernatural.\n\n\u201cIn pursuance of their instructions, the guard roused the governor,\nhis household, and his troops, with the intention of searching the\ngarden, and, if necessary, every part of his house, for the purpose\nof detecting this mysterious intruder. The garden was surrounded by a\nhigh brick wall, the top of which bristled with iron spikes and pieces\nof bottles set in mortar. It was worth a man's life to get over it.\nThere was no getting in or out except by the gate, on the outside of\nwhich the governor stationed two trusty fellows, with orders to stand\na little apart, and perfectly quiet. Now all the governor's household\nwas wide awake, and in a rustle of anxiety and trepidation, except\none alone, who did not make her appearance. This was the governor's\nonly daughter, as pretty a little Dutch damsel as ever crossed Kissing\nBridge, or rambled over the green fields of the Manhadoes. Compared\nto the queer little bodies that figure nowadays in the Broadway,\nseemingly composed of nothing but hats, feathers, and flounces, she was\na composition of real flesh and blood, which is better than all the\ngauze, silk, tulle, and gros de Naples in the world. \u201cA man marries a\nmilliner's shop instead of a woman nowadays,\u201d said the old gentleman,\nglancing a little archly at the fashionable paraphernalia of his pretty\npet granddaughter. \u201cHer face and form was all unsophisticated native\nbeauty, and her dress all simplicity and grace.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that her picture hanging in the back parlour?\u201d asked the little\ngirl, in a sly way.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; but the picture does not do justice either to the beauty or the\ndress of the original.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope not,\u201d said the other; \u201cfor if it does, I am sure I would not be\nlike her for the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw, you baggage,\u201d replied the old gentleman, \u201cyou'll never be fit\nto hold a candle to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe search now commenced with great vigour in the garden, although Jan\nSol openly declared it as his opinion, that they might look themselves\nblind before they found the spectre, who could fly over a wall as easy\nas a grasshopper. He accordingly kept aloof from the retired part of\nthe garden, and stuck close to his noble commander, Captain Knyff, who\nby this time had come up with the pursuers. All search, however, proved\nvain; for after a close investigation of more than an hour, it was\nunanimously agreed that the intruder, whether man, monster, or ghost,\ncould not possibly be hid in the garden. The governor then determined\nto have the house searched, and accordingly the whole party entered for\nthat purpose, with the exception of the two sentinels without the gate.\nHere, while rummaging in closets, peering under beds, and looking up\nchimneys in vain, they were alarmed by a sudden shout from the garden,\nwhich made their hearts quake with exceeding apprehension. The shout\nwas succeeded by loud talking and apparent tugging and struggling,\nas if between persons engaged in hot contention. At the same moment\nthe governor's daughter rushed into her chamber, and throwing herself\non the bed with a loud shriek, remained insensible for some time.\nEverybody was sure she had seen the spectre.\n\n\u201cIt appears that while the search was going on in the big house, and\nthe attention of everybody employed in that direction, the sentinels\noutside the gate heard the key cautiously turned inside, then, after\na little pause, slowly open. A face then peeped out as if to take an\nobservation, and the owner, apparently satisfied that the coast was\nclear, darted forward. The first step, he unluckily tripped over a\nrope which these trusty fellows had drawn across the gate, and fell\nfull length on the ground. Before he could recover his feet the two\nsentinels were upon him, and in spite of his exertions kept him down,\nuntil their shouts drew the rest of the guard to their assistance. The\nspectre was then secured with ropes, and safely lodged in the cellar\nunder a strong escort, to await his examination the next morning. Jan\nSol was one of the band, though he insisted it was all nonsense to\nmount guard over a spectre.\n\n\u201cThe council met betimes at the sound of a bell, rung by a worthy\ncitizen, who, in addition to his vocation of bellringer, was crier of\nthe court, messenger to the governor, sexton, clerk, and gravedigger\nto the whole city of New-Amsterdam. It was something to be a man in\nthose days, before the invention of steam engines, spinning jennies,\nand chessplaying automatons caused such a superfluity of human beings,\nthat it is much if they can now earn salt to their porridge. At that\ntime, men were so scarce, that there were at least half a dozen offices\nto one man; now there are half a dozen men to one office; all which is\nowing to machinery. This accumulation of honours in the person of the\nbellringer, made him a man of considerable consequence, insomuch, that\nthe little boys about Flattenbarrack Hill chalked his name upon their\nsleighs, and it is even asserted that he had an Albany sloop called\nafter him. I could, therefore, do no less than make honourable mention\nof a person of his dignity.\n\n\u201cAfter the council met, and everything was ready, the door of the\ncellar was cautiously opened, and Jan Sol, at the head, that is to\nsay, in the rear of a file of soldiers, descended for the purpose of\nbringing forth this daring interloper, who had thus, from time to\ntime, disturbed the sleep of the sober citizens of New-Amsterdam. Jan\noffered to bet a canteen of Schiedam, that they would find nobody in\nthe cellar; but, contrary to all expectation, they presently came\nforth with the body of a comely youth, apparently about the age of\nfive-and-twenty, which was considered very young in those days. Nothing\nwas more customary there, than for a sturdy mother to bastinado her\nboys, as she called them, after they had grown to be six feet high.\nThey were all the better for it, and made excellent husbands.\n\n\u201cWhen the young man came into the presence of the puissant governor\nof the New Netherlands, he appeared a comely person, tall, fair\ncomplexioned, and pleasant of feature. He was asked whence he came,\nand not having a lawyer at his elbow to teach him the noble art of\nprevarication, replied without hesitation,\n\n\u201c\u2018From Pavonia.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018How did you get into the city?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I climbed the wall, near the company's windmill.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And how did you get into the governor's garden?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The same way I got out.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018How was that?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Through the gate.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018How did you get through the gate?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018By unlocking it.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018With what?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018With a key.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Whence came that key?\u2019\n\n\u201cNo answer.\n\n\u201c\u2018Whence came that key?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall not tell.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What induced you to scale the wall and intrude into the garden?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall not tell.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Not if you are hanged for not telling?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Not if I am hanged for not telling.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What have you done with the wings with which, according to the\ntestimony of Jan Sol, you flew from the wall, and through the street to\nthe governor's garden?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I never had any wings, and never flew in the whole course of my life.\u2019\n\n\u201cHere Jan Sol was called up, and testified positively to the wings and\nthe flying. There was now great perplexity in the council, when the\nkeeper of the windmill demanded to be heard. He stated he remembered\nperfectly well, that on the two nights referred to, he had set his\nwindmill going about the hour in which Jan Sol saw the spectre whirl\nround and fly from the wall. There had been a calm for several days\nprevious, and the citizens began to be in want of flour. He had\ntherefore taken advantage of the rising of the wind at the time, to\nset his mill going. A little further inquiry led to the fact, that the\nplace where the spectre scaled the wall was exactly in a line with the\nwindmill and the spot where Jan held his watch. It was thus that the\nspectre became identified with the wings of the mill. This exposition\nmarvellously quieted the fears of the good people; but there were\na number of stern believers who stuck by the little sentinel, and\ncontinued to believe in the winged monster. As for poor Jan, he looked\nten times more foolish than when he used to be caught emptying the\ncanteens of his comrades in his sleep. This elucidation being over, the\nexamination proceeded.\n\n\u201c\u2018Did you know of the law making it death for any one to enter or\ndepart from the city between sunset and sunrise, except through the\ngate?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I did.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What induced you to violate it?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall not tell.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Was it plunder?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am no thief.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Was it treason against the state?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am no traitor.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Was it mischief?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am not a child.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Was it to frighten people?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am no fool.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What is your name?\u2019\n\n\u201c'My name is of no consequence\u2014a man can be hanged without a name.'\n\n\u201cAnd this was all they could get out of him. Various cross-questions\nwere put to entrap him. He replied to them all with perfect freedom\nand promptitude, until they came to his name, and his motives for\nintruding into the city in violation of a law so severe, that none as\nyet had ever been known to transgress it. Then, as before, he declined\nanswering.\n\n\u201cIn those early days, under the Dutch dynasty, trial by jury was not\nin fashion. People were too busy to serve as jurymen, if they had\nbeen wanted; and the decision of most cases was left either to the\nburgomasters, or if of great consequence, to the governor and council.\nJustice was severe and prompt, in proportion to the dangers which\nsurrounded the early colonists, and the spirit of the times in which\nthey flourished. They lived in perpetual apprehension; and fear is\nthe father of cruelty. The law denouncing death to any person who\nshould enter the city between sunset and sunrise, except by the gate,\nwas considered as too essential to the security of the citizens to\nbe relaxed in favour of any one, especially of a person who refused\nto tell either his name or the motive for his intrusion. By his own\nadmission, he was guilty of the offence, and but one course remained\nfor the council. The young man was sentenced to be hanged that day\nweek, and sent to the fort for safe keeping till the period arrived.\n\n\u201cThat day the daughter of the governor did not appear to grace the\ntable of his excellency, nor in the management of those little\nhousehold affairs, that are not beneath the dignity of the daughters of\nkings. She was ill with a headache, and kept her bed. The governor had\nno child but her, and though without any great portion of sensibility,\nwas capable of all the warmth of parental affection. Indeed, all his\naffections were centred in this little blooming offspring, who was\nthe only being in all the New World that carried a drop of his blood\ncoursing in her blue veins. He was also proud of her\u2014so proud, that his\npride often got the better of his affection. She had many admirers\u2014for\nshe was fair, wealthy, and the daughter of the greatest governor in\nthe New World, not excepting him of Virginia. It followed, as a matter\nof course, that she was admired, but it was at an awful distance. The\nhonest Dutch swains, who had not pursued the female sprite through\nall the mazes of romance, and learned how ofttimes highborn ladies\nstooped to lads of low degree, gaped at her at church, as if she had\nbeen a sea serpent. They would as soon have thought of aspiring to the\ngovernor's dignity, as to the governor's daughter. Besides, he was one\nof those absurd old blockheads, who consider nobody good enough for\ntheir daughters at home, and hawk them about Europe, in search of some\nneedy sprig of nobility, who will exchange his mighty honours for bags\nof gold, and a fair, blooming, virtuous virgin into the bargain. He had\nsworn a thousand times, that his Blandina should never marry anything\nbelow a Dutch baron.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas her name Blandina\u2014was she my namesake?\u201d interrupted the little\ngranddaughter.\n\n\u201cYes, girl, she was your great great grandmother, and you were\nchristened after her,\u201d said the old man, and proceeded.\n\n\u201cThis fear on the part of the young fellows of New-Amsterdam, and this\nwell-known determination of the governor, kept all admirers at an awful\ndistance from the young lady, who grew up to the age of eighteen,\nloving no one save her father, now that her mother was no more; and an\nold black woman, who had taken care of her ever since she was a child.\nThe throne of her innocent bosom had remained till then quite vacant,\nnor did she know for certain what it was that made her sometimes so\nweary of the world, and so tired of the length of the livelong sultry\nsummer hours. She walked into the garden to pluck the flowers, until\nshe became tired of that. She strolled with her old nurse into the\nrural retirement of Ladies' Valley, and the shady paths which coursed\nthe wood where the Park is now, until she became tired of these. In\nshort, she became tired of everything, and so spiritless, that her\nfather was not a little alarmed for her health.\n\n\u201cAbout this time the governor was called by important political\nbusiness to the eastern frontier, and the journey was expected to\ntake up several days. During his absence, a party was formed to cross\nthe river, and spend the day in rambling about the romantic solitudes\nof Weehawk, then a sort of frontier between the white man and the\nIndian. Blandina was pressed to accompany them, and at last consented,\nalthough against the will, not only of the governor's deputy, but of\nthe governor himself, who would certainly have forbidden it, had he\nbeen present; but he was a hundred miles off, and in the absence of\nthe governor there was nobody equal to the governor's daughter. The\nmorning was fine, and the party set out as happy as youthful spirits\nand youthful anticipations could make them. Here they rambled at will\nand at random, in groups, in pairs, and alone, just as it suited them;\ngathering together to take their refreshments, and again separating, as\nchance or will directed them.\n\n\u201cBlandina had separated from the others, and wandered, almost\nunconsciously, half a mile from the landing place by herself. Perhaps\nwhen she set out, she expected some of the beaux to follow, but they\nstood in such awe of her, that not one had the temerity to offer his\nattendance. Each being occupied with his own pursuits and reflections,\nno one missed the young madam for some time, until their attention was\nroused by a shriek at a distance in the wood. After a momentary pause,\nthe shrieks were repeated in quick succession, and almost immediately\nsucceeded by the report of a gun. The little group of young people was\nstruck with dismay, and the first impulse was to run to the boats,\nand escape into the stream. But to do them justice, this was but an\ninvoluntary selfishness, for the moment they missed Blandina, the young\nmen prepared to pursue in the direction of the shrieks and the gun. At\nthis crisis, a figure darted swiftly from the wood, bearing the young\nlady insensible in his arms, and approaching the group, placed her with\nher head in the lap of one of the girls, while he ran to the river, and\nreturned with some water in his hat.\n\n\u201cBlandina soon came to herself, and related that she had been seized\nby an Indian, and rescued by the young man, who, all the young damsels\npresently discovered, was very handsome. He wore the dress of a\ngentleman of that day, which, sooth to say, would not cut much of a\nfigure just now. He was accoutred as a sportsman, and had in his bag\nsufficient evidence of his skill. It was decided on all hands that the\nstranger, having saved the life of Blandina, or at least rescued her\nfrom captivity, was destined to be her future husband, and that her\ntime was now come. Such prophecies are very apt to be fulfilled. The\nstranger announced himself as the son of the ancient and honourable\nLord of Pavonia, and was blushingly invited by Blandina to come and\nreceive the thanks of her father, when he should return from the\neastern frontier. But he only shook his head, and replied with a\ndubious smile, \u2018Are you sure I shall be welcome?\u2019\n\n\u201cFrom this time Blandina became more languid and thoughtful than\never. When the father returned, and heard the story of her straying\ninto the woods, and of her deliverance, he swore he would reward the\ngallant young man, like a most liberal and puissant governor. But when\nafterwards, on inquiring his name, he found that he was the son of\nthe Lord of Pavonia, he retracted his promise, and swore that the son\nwas no better than the father, who was an arrant splutterkin. They\nhad quarrelled about boundaries; his excellency claiming the whole\nof the river on the west side, up to the high-water mark, while the\nLord of Pavonia, whose territories lay exactly opposite the city of\nNew-Amsterdam, had the temerity to set nets, and catch shad in the very\nmiddle of the stream. The feud was bitter in proportion to the dignity\nof the parties and the importance of the point at issue. The governor\ncommanded his daughter never to mention the name of the splutterkin, on\npain of his displeasure.\n\n\u201cRumour, however, says that the young man found means to renew his\nacquaintance with Blandina, and that though she might never mention\nhis name to her father, she thought of him all day, and dreamed about\nhim all night. After a while the rumour died away, and the people\nbegan to think and talk of something else. Some of the young men,\nhowever, who happened to see the culprit that had dared to leap over\nthe wall against the statute, thought he had a strong resemblance to\nthe youth who had rescued Blandina from the Indian. The young lady,\nas I said before, continued ill all day, and for several days after\nthe condemnation of the spectre youth, who persevered in obstinately\nrefusing any disclosure of his name, or his motives for scaling the\nwalls of New-Amsterdam. In the mean time the period of his execution\napproached; only two days of life now remained to him, when Blandina,\nwith an effort, determined to bring her fate to a crisis at once. She\nrose from her bed, pale and drooping like a lily, and tottering to her\nfather's study, sank at his feet.\n\n\u201c\u2018Father,\u2019 said she, \u2018will you forgive him and me?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Forgive thee, my daughter; I have nothing to forgive, so that is\nsettled. But who is the other?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018My husband.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Thy husband!\u2019 exclaimed the puissant governor, starting up in dismay;\n\u2018and who is he?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The youth who is sentenced to die the day after the morrow.\u2019\n\n\u201c'And who is he\u2014in the d\u2014l's name, I had almost said,' exclaimed his\nexcellency, in wrathful amazement.\n\n\u201c\u2018He is the son of the Lord of Pavonia,\u2019 replied she, hiding her face\nwith her hands.\n\n\u201c\u2018And thou art married to that splutterkin?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes, father.\u2019\n\n\u201c'Then I shall take care to unmarry thee\u2014the knot the parson tied the\nhangman shall untie the day after the morrow, or I'm no governor. But\nwho dared to marry thee against my will?'\n\n\u201c\u2018Dominie Curtenius.\u2019\n\n\u201c'He did\u2014then the dominie shall hang by the side of the splutterkin. Go\nto thy chamber, to thy bed, to thy grave, thou art no daughter of mine.'\n\n\u201cPoor Blandina crawled to her bed, and wept herself into a temporary\nforgetfulness. The next day she was so much worse, that the old nurse\ndeclared she would die before her husband. The governor kept up a good\ncountenance, but his heart was sorely beset by pity and forgiveness,\nwhich both clung weeping about him. He went so far as to sound some of\nthe council about pardoning the young man; but one of them, who was\nsuspected of looking up to the fair Blandina, talked so eloquently\nabout the safety of the city and the public good, that he was fain to\nhold his tongue, and shut himself up, for he could not bear to see his\ndaughter.\n\n\u201cAt length the day arrived, big with the fate of poor Blandina and\nher unhappy husband. She sent to her father for permission to see him\nbefore he died, but the governor, after a sore struggle, denied her\nrequest.\n\n\u201c\u2018Then, indeed, he is no longer my father,\u2019 cried Blandina, and sinking\nupon her bed, covered her head, as if to shut out the world. Presently\nthe bell tolled the hour of the sacrifice, and its hollow vibrations\npenetrated the ears of the mourning wife. In spite of her weakness, and\nthe endeavours of the old nurse, she started up, and rushing towards\nthe door of her chamber, exclaimed, wildly, 'I will see him\u2014I will go\nand see him die.' But her strength failed her, and she sank on the\nfloor. In the mean time a scene, peculiarly interesting to the fortunes\nof Blandina, was passing below. The proud, obdurate, rich old Lord of\nPavonia, had heard of the capture, the condemnation of his only son.\nFor a while his pride and hatred of the Governor of New-Amsterdam\nalmost choked the thought of entreaty or concession to his ancient\nenemy. But as the time approached, and he heard of the situation of his\nson, and of his unfortunate wife, who had never offended him, his heart\ngradually relented. When the morning arrived, and he looked across the\nsmooth river, from the long porch fronting his stately mansion, towards\nthe spot where his son was about suffering an ignominious death, he\ncould restrain his feelings no longer.\n\n\u201cCalling for his boatmen and his barge, and hastily putting on his\ncocked hat and sword, he embarked, crossed swiftly over the river, and\nlanding, proceeded directly to the big house. He demanded an audience\nof the governor.\n\n\u201c'The splutterkin is here too\u2014but let him come in, that I may be\nsatisfied the old dog is as miserable as myself,' said the governor,\nwith tears in his eyes.\n\n\u201cThe Lord of Pavonia entered with a stately bow, which was returned in\nas stately a manner by the governor.\n\n\u201c\u2018I come,\u2019 said Pavonia, \u2018I come,\u2019 and his voice became choked, \u2018to ask\nthe life of my son at your hands.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Thy son has broken the laws, and the laws have condemned him to\ndeath, justly.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I know it,\u2019 said the other; \u2018but what if I pay the price of his\nransom?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am no money higgler.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018But if I surrender the right of the river to high-water mark?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What!\u2019 said his excellency, pricking up his ears, \u2018wilt thou? And the\nshad fishery, and the diabolical gill nets?\u2019\n\n\u201c'Yea\u2014all\u2014all,\u2018 said the other, 'to save the life of my only son.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Wilt thou sign, seal, and deliver?\u2019\n\n\u201c'This instant\u2014so I receive back my boy alive.'\n\n\u201c\u2018Stay, then, a moment.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe governor then hastily directed his bellringer to call the council\ntogether, and laid the proposition before them. The concession was\nirresistible, and the council decided to pardon the son, on condition\nthat the father executed the deed of relinquishment. He did so, and the\nyoung man was forthwith set at liberty. It is time for me to retire,\u201d\nsaid our good grandfather, \u201cso I must cut short my story. The meeting\nof the husband and his faithful wife took place without witnesses, and\nnone was ever able to describe it. Blandina speedily recovered, and\nlived to see her children's children play about the room by dozens.\nThe Lord of Pavonia and the Governor of New-Amsterdam continued a sort\nof grumbling acquaintance, and dined together once a year, when they\nalways quarrelled about the fishery and high-water mark. In process\nof time, their respective fortunes became united in the person of the\nwinged monster, and formed a noble patrimony, some of which I inherited\nwith your grandmother.\n\n\u201cJan Sol underwent many a joke, good, bad, and indifferent, about\nthe winged monster. But he continued to his dying day to assert his\nsolemn belief, that the young Lord of Pavonia and the spectre were\ntwo different persons. Many a time and oft did he frighten his wife\nand children with the story, which he improved every time he told\nit, till he was at length gathered to his fathers, as his fathers\nhad been gathered before him. He had enough people to keep him in\ncountenance, for there were hundreds of discreet citizens, who treated\nall doubts concerning the appearance of the winged monster with as\nlittle toleration as do the good folks of the town of Salem the wicked\nunbelievers in the existence of the great sea serpent.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             COBUS YERKS.\n\n\nLittle Cobus Yerks\u2014his name was Jacob, but being a Dutchman, if not a\ndouble Dutchman, it was rendered in English Cobus\u2014little Cobus, I say,\nlived on the banks of Sawmill River, where it winds close under the\nbrow of the Raven Rock, an enormous precipice jutting out of the side\nof the famous Buttermilk Hill, of which the reader has doubtless often\nheard. It was a rude, romantic spot, distant from the high road, which,\nhowever, could be seen winding up the hill about three miles off. His\nnearest neighbours were at the same distance, and he seldom saw company\nexcept at night, when the fox and the weasel sometimes beat up his\nquarters, and caused a horrible cackling among the poultry.\n\nOne Tuesday, in the month of November, 1793, Cobus had gone in his\nwagon to the little market town on the river, from whence the boats\nplied weekly to New-York, with the produce of the neighbouring farmers.\nIt was then a pestilent little place for running races, pitching\nquoits, and wrestling for gin slings; but I must do it the credit to\nsay, that it is now a very orderly town, sober and quiet, save when\nParson Mathias, who calls himself a son of thunder, is praying in\nsecret, so as to be heard across the river. It so happened, that of\nall the days in the year, this was the very day a rumour had got into\ntown, that I myself\u2014the veritable writer of this true story\u2014had been\npoisoned by a dish of Souchong tea, which was bought a great bargain\nof a pedler. There was not a stroke of work done in the village that\nday. The shoemaker abandoned his awl; the tailor his goose; the hatter\nhis bowstring; and the forge of the blacksmith was cool from dawn till\nnightfall. Silent was the sonorous harmony of the big spinning wheel;\nsilent the village song, and silent the fiddle of Master Timothy Canty,\nwho passed his livelong time in playing tuneful measures, and catching\nbugs and butterflies. I must say something of Tim before I go on with\nmy tale.\n\nMaster Timothy was first seen in the village, one foggy morning, after\na drizzling, warm, showery night, when he was detected in a garret, at\nthe extremity of the suburbs; and it was the general supposition that\nhe had rained down in company with a store of little toads that were\nseen hopping about, as is usual after a shower. Around his garret were\ndisposed a number of unframed pictures, painted on glass, as in the\nolden time, representing the Four Seasons, the old King of Prussia, and\nPrince Ferdinand of Brunswick, in their sharp-pointed cocked hats; the\nfat, bald-pated Marquis of Granby, the beautiful Constantia Phillips,\nand divers others, not forgetting the renowned Kitty Fisher, who, I\nhonestly confess, was my favourite among them all. The whole village\npoured into the garret to gaze at these chef d'\u0153uvres; and it is my\nconfirmed opinion, which I shall carry to the grave, that neither the\ngallery of Florence, Dresden, nor the Louvre, was ever visited by so\nmany real amateurs. Besides the pictures, there were a great many other\ncuriosities, at least curiosities to the simple villagers, who were\nalways sure of being welcomed by Master Tim with a jest and a tune.\n\nMaster Tim, as they came to call him when they got to be a little\nacquainted, was a rare fellow, such as seldom rains down anywhere, much\nless on a country village. He was of \u201cmerry England,\u201d as they call\nit\u2014lucus a non lucendo\u2014at least so he said and I believe, although he\nbelied his nativity, by being the merriest rogue in the world, even\nwhen the fog was at the thickest. In truth, he was ever in a good\nhumour, unless it might be when a rare bug or gorgeous butterfly,\nthat he had followed through thick and thin, escaped his net at last.\nThen, to be sure, he was apt to call the recreant all the \u201cvagabonds\u201d\nhe could think of. He was a middle-sized man, whose person decreased\nregularly, from the crown of his head to the\u2014I was going to say, sole\nof his foot\u2014but it was only to the commencement of the foot, to speak\nby the card. The top of his head was broad and flat, and so was his\nforehead, which took up at least two thirds of his face, that tapered\noff suddenly to a chin, as sharp as the point of a triangle. His\nforehead was indeed a large field, diversified like the country into\nwhich he had rained down, with singular varieties of hill and dale,\nmeadow and plough land, hedge and ditch, ravine and watercourse. It had\nas many points as a periwinkle. The brow projected exuberantly, though\nnot heavily, over a pair of rascally little cross-firing, twinkling\neyes, that, as the country people said, looked at least nine ways from\nSunday. His teeth were white enough, but no two of them were fellows.\nBut his head would have turned the brains of a phrenologist, in\nexploring the mysteries of its development; it was shaped somewhat like\nStony Point\u2014which everybody knows as the scene of a gallant exploit of\nPennsylvanian Wayne\u2014and had quite as many abruptnesses and quizzical\nprotuberances to brag about. At the upper extremity of his forehead, as\nhe assured us, he carried his money, in the shape of a piece of silver,\nthree inches long and two wide, inserted there in consequence of a\nfracture he got by falling down a precipice in hot chase of a \u201cvagabond\nof a beetle,\u201d as he was pleased to call him. Descending towards terra\nfirma, to wit, his feet, we find his body gradually diminishing to his\nlegs, which were so thin, everybody wondered how they could carry the\ngreat head. But, like Captain Wattle, each had a foot at the end of\nit, full as large as the Black Dwarf. It is so long ago that I almost\nforget his costume. All I recollect is, that he never wore boots or\npantaloons, but exhibited his spindles in all weathers in worsted\nstockings, and his feet in shoes, gorgeously caparisoned in a pair of\nsquare silver buckles, the only pieces of finery he ever displayed.\n\nIn the merry months of spring and summer, and early in autumn, Master\nTimothy was most of his time chasing bugs and butterflies about the\nfields, to the utter confusion of the people, who wondered what\nhe could want with such trumpery. Being a genius and an idler by\nprofession, I used to accompany him frequently in these excursions, for\nhe was fond of me, and called me vagabond oftener than he did anybody\nelse. He had a little net of green gauze, so constructed as to open and\nshut as occasion required, to entrap the small fry, and a box with a\ncork bottom, upon which he impaled his prisoners with true scientific\nbarbarity, by sticking a pin in them. Thus equipped, this Don Quixote\nof butterfly catchers, with myself his faithful esquire, would sally\nout of a morning into the clovered meadows and flower-dotted fields,\nover brook, through tangled copse and briery dell, in chase of these\ngentlemen commoners of nature. Ever and anon, as he came upon some\nlittle retired nook, where nature, like a modest virgin, shrouded her\nbeauties from the common view\u2014a rocky glen, romantic cottage, rustic\nbridge, or brawling stream, he would take out his little portfolio,\nand pointing me to some conspicuous station to animate his little\nlandscape, sketch it and me together, with a mingled taste and skill\nI have never since seen surpassed. I figure in all his landscapes,\nalthough he often called me a vagabond, because he could not drill me\ninto picturesque attitudes. But the finest sport for me, was to watch\nhim creeping slily after a humming bird, the object of his most intense\ndesires, half buried in the bliss of the dewy honeysuckle, and just\nas he was on the point of covering it with his net, to see the little\nvagrant flit away with a swiftness that made it invisible. It was an\ninvaluable sight to behold Master Timothy stand wiping his continent of\na forehead, and blessing the bird for a \u201clittle vagabond.\u201d These were\nhappy times, and at this moment I recall them, I hardly know why, with\na melancholy yet pleasing delight.\n\nDuring the winter season, Master Timothy was usually employed in the\ndaytime painting pleasure sleighs, which, at that period, it was the\nfashion among the farmers to have as fine as fiddles. Timothy was\na desperate hand at a true lover's knot, a cipher, or a wreath of\nflowers; and as for a blazing sun! he painted one for the squire,\nthat was seriously suspected of melting all the snow in ten leagues\nround. He would go ten or a dozen miles to paint a sleigh, and always\ncarried his materials on a board upon the top of his head\u2014it was before\nthe invention of high-crowned hats. Destiny had decreed he should\nfollow this trade, and nature had provided him a head on purpose.\nIt was as flat as a pancake. In the long winter evenings it was his\npleasure to sit by the fireside, and tell enormous stories to groups\nof horrorstruck listeners. I never knew a man that had been so often\nrobbed on Hounslow Heath, or had seen so many ghosts in his day, as\nMaster Tim Canty. Peace to his ashes! he is dead, and, if report is to\nbe credited, is sometimes seen on moonlight nights in the churchyard,\nwith his little green gauze net, chasing the ghosts of moths and\nbeetles, as he was wont in past times.\n\nBut it is high time to return to my story; for I candidly confess I\nnever think of honest Tim that I don't grow as garrulous as an old\nlady, talking about the revolution and the Yagers. In all country\nvillages I ever saw or heard of, whenever anything strange, new,\nhorrible, or delightful happens, or is supposed to have happened, all\nthe male inhabitants, not to say female, make for the tavern as fast\nas possible, to hear the news, or tell the news, and get at the bottom\nof the affair. I don't deny that truth is sometimes to be found at the\nbottom of a well; but in these cases she is generally found at the\nbottom of the glass. Be this as it may\u2014when Cobus Yerks looked into\nthe village inn, just to say How d'ye do to the landlady, he beheld a\nparty of some ten or a dozen people, discussing the affair of my being\npoisoned with Souchong tea, which by this time had been extended to the\nwhole family, not one of whom had been left alive by the bloody-minded\ndamsel, Rumour.\n\nCobus could not resist the fascination of these horrors. He edged\nhimself in among them, and after a little while they were joined\nby Master Timothy, who, on hearing of the catastrophe of his old\nfellow-labourer in butterfly catching, had strode over a distance of\ntwo miles to our house to ascertain the truth of the story. He of\ncourse found it was a mistake, and had now returned with a nefarious\ndesign of frightening them all out of their wits by a story of more\nthan modern horrors. By this time it was the dusk of the evening, and\nCobus had a long way to travel before he could reach home. He had been\nso fascinated with the story, and the additions every moment furnished\nby various new comers, that he forgot the time till it began to grow\nquite dark; and then he was so horrorstruck at what he had heard,\nthat he grew fast to his chair in the chimney corner, where he had\nintrenched himself. It was at this moment Master Timothy came in with\nthe design aforesaid.\n\nThe whole party gathered round him to know if the story of the\npoisoning was true. Tim shook his head, and the shaking of such a head\nwas awful. \u201cWhat! all the family?\u201d cried they, with one voice. \u201cEvery\nsoul of them,\u201d cried Tim, in a hollow tone\u2014\u201cevery soul of them, poor\ncreatures; and not only they, but all the cattle, horses, pigs, ducks,\nchickens, cats, dogs, and guinea hens, are poisoned.\u201d \u201cWhat! with\nSouchong tea?\u201d \u201cNo\u2014with coloquintida.\u201d Coloquintida! the very name was\nenough to poison a whole generation of Christian people. \u201cBut the black\nbulldog!\u201d cried Timothy, in a sepulchral voice, that curdled the very\nmarrow of their innermost bones. \u201cWhat of the black bulldog?\u201d quoth\nlittle Cobus. \u201cWhy, they do say that he came to life again after laying\nsix hours stone dead, and ran away howling like a d\u2014l incarnate.\u201d \u201cA\nd\u2014l incarnate!\u201d quoth Cobus, who knew no more about the meaning of that\nfell word than if it had been Greek. He only knew it was something\nvery terrible. \u201cYes,\u201d replied Timothy; \u201cand what's more, I saw where\nhe jumped over the barnyard gate, and there was the print of a cloven\nfoot, as plain as the daylight this blessed minute.\u201d It was as dark\nas pitch, but the comparison was considered proof positive. \u201cA cloven\nfoot!\u201d quoth Cobus, who squeezed himself almost into the oven, while\nthe thought of going home all alone in the dark, past the churchyard,\nthe old grave at the cross roads, and, above all, the spot where John\nRyer was hanged for shooting the sheriff, smote upon his heart, and\nbeat it into a jelly\u2014at least it shook like one. What if he should\nmeet the big black dog, with his cloven foot, who howled like a d\u2014l\nincarnate! The thought was enough to wither the heart of a stone.\n\nCobus was a little, knock-kneed, broad-faced, and broad-shouldered\nDutchman, who believed all things, past, present, and to come,\nconcerning spooks, goblins, and fiends of all sorts and sizes, from a\nfairy to a giant. Tim Canty knew him of old, for he had once painted a\nsleigh for him, and frightened Cobus out of six nights' sleep, by the\nstory of a man that he once saw murdered by a highwayman on Hounslow\nHeath. Tim followed up the story of the black dog with several others,\neach more appalling than the first, till he fairly lifted Cobus's\nwits off the hinges, aided as he was by certain huge draughts upon a\npewter mug, with which the little man reinforced his courage at short\nintervals. He was a true disciple of the doctrine that spirit and\ncourage, that is to say, whiskey and valour were synonymous.\n\nIt now began to wax late in the evening, and the company departed, not\none by one, but in pairs, to their respective homes. The landlady, a\nbitter root of a woman, and more than a match for half the men in the\nvillage, began to grow sleepy, as it was now no longer worth her while\nto keep awake. Gradually all became quiet within and without the house,\nexcept now and then the howling of a wandering cur, and the still more\ndoleful moaning of the winds, accompanied by the hollow thumpings of\nthe waves, as they dashed on the rocky shores of the river that ran\nhard by. Once, and once only, the cat mewed in the garret, and almost\ncaused Cobus to jump out of his skin. The landlady began to complain\nthat it grew late, and she was very sleepy; but Cobus would take no\nhints, manfully keeping his post in the chimney corner, till at last\nthe good woman threatened to call up her two negroes, and have him\nturned neck and heels out of doors. For a moment the fear of the big\nblack dog with the cloven foot was mastered by the fear of the two\nstout black men, and the spirit moved Cobus towards the door, lovingly\nhugging the stone jug, which he had taken care to have plentifully\nreplenished with the creature. He sallied forth in those graceful\ncurves, which are affirmed to constitute the true lines of beauty; and\nreport says that he made a copious libation of the contents of the\nstone jug outside the door, ere the landlady, after assisting to untie\nhis patient team, had tumbled him into his wagon. This was the last\nthat was seen of Cobus Yerks.\n\nThat night his faithful, though not very obedient little wife, whom\nhe had wedded at Tappan, on the famous sea of that name, and who wore\na cap trimmed with pink ribands when she went to church on Sundays,\nfell asleep in her chair, as she sat anxiously watching his return.\nAbout midnight she waked, but she saw not her beloved Cobus, nor heard\nhis voice calling her to open the door. But she heard the raven, or\nsomething very like it, screaming from the Raven Rock, the foxes\nbarking about the house, the wind whistling and moaning among the\nrocks and trees of the mountain side, and a terrible commotion among\nthe poultry, Cobus having taken the great house-dog with him that\nday. Again she fell asleep, and waked not until the day was dawning.\nShe opened the window, and looked forth upon as beautiful an autumnal\nmorning as ever blessed this blessed country. The yellow sun threw a\ngolden lustre over the many-tinted woods, painted by the cunning hand\nof Nature with a thousand varied dies; the smoke of the neighbouring\nfarmhouses rose straight upward to heaven in the pure atmosphere, and\nthe breath of the cattle mingled its warm vapour with the invisible\nclearness of the morning air. But what were all these beauties of\ndelicious nature to the eye and the heart of the anxious wife, who saw\nthat Cobus was not there?\n\nShe went forth to the neighbours to know if they had seen him, and\nthey good-naturedly sallied out to seek him on the road that led from\nthe village to his home. But no traces of him could be found, and they\nwere returning with bad news for his anxious wife, when they bethought\nthemselves of turning into a byroad that led to a tavern, that used\nwhilome to attract the affections of honest Cobus, and where he was\nsometimes wont to stop and wet his whistle.\n\nThey had not gone far, when they began to perceive traces of the\nlost traveller. First his broad-brimmed hat, which he had inherited\nthrough divers generations, and which he always wore when he went to\nthe village, lay grovelling in the dirt, crushed out of all goodly\nshape by the wheel of his wagon, which had passed over it. Next, they\nencountered the backboard of the wagon, ornamented with C. Y. in a true\nlover's knot, painted by Tim Canty, in his best style\u2014and anon a little\nfarther, a shoe, that was identified as having belonged to our hero,\nby having upward of three hundred hobnails in the sole, for he was a\nsaving little fellow, though he would wet his whistle sometimes, in\nspite of all his wife and the minister could say. Proceeding about a\nhundred rods farther, to a sudden turn of the road, they encountered\nthe wagon, or rather the fragments of it, scattered about and along\nin the highway, and the horses standing quietly against a fence, into\nwhich they had run the pole of the wagon.\n\nBut what was become of the unfortunate driver, no one could discover.\nAt length, after searching some time, they found him lying in a tuft\nof blackberry briars, amid the fragments of the stone jug, lifeless\nand motionless. His face was turned upward, and streaked with seams\nof blood; his clothes torn, bloody, and disfigured with dirt; and his\npipe, that he carried in the buttonholes of his waistcoat, shivered all\nto naught. They made their way to the body, full of sad forebodings,\nand shook it, to see if any life remained. But it was all in vain\u2014there\nseemed neither sense nor motion there. \u201cMaybe, after all,\u201d said one,\n\u201che is only in a swound\u2014here is a little drop of the spirits left in\nthe bottom of the jug\u2014let us hold it to his nose, it may bring him to\nlife.\u201d\n\nThe experiment was tried, and wonderful to tell, in a moment or\ntwo, Cobus, opening his eyes, and smacking his lips with peculiar\nsatisfaction, exclaimed, \u201cSome o' that, boys!\u201d A little shaking brought\nhim to himself, when being asked to give an account of the disaster of\nhis wagon and his stone jug, he at first shook his head mysteriously,\nand demurred. Being, however taken to the neighbouring tavern, and\ncomforted a little with divers refreshments, he was again pressed for\nhis story, when, assuming a face of awful mystification, he began as\nfollows:\u2014\n\n\u201cYou must know,\u201d said Cobus, \u201cI started rather late from town, for I\nhad been kept there by\u2014by business; and because, you see, I was waiting\nfor the moon to rise, that I might find my way home in the dark night.\nBut it grew darker and darker, until you could not see your hand\nbefore your face, and at last I concluded to set out, considering I\nwas as sober as a deacon, and my horses could see their way blindfold.\nI had not gone quite round the corner, where John Ryer was hung for\nshooting Sheriff Smith, when I heard somebody coming, pat, pat, pat,\nclose behind my wagon. I looked back, but I could see nothing, it was\nso dark. By-and-by, I heard it again, louder and louder, and then\nI confess I began to be a little afeard. So I whipped up my horses\na quarter of a mile or so, and then let them walk on. I listened,\nand pat, pat, pat, went the noise again. I began to be a good deal\nfrightened, but considering it could be nothing at all, I thought I\nmight as well take a small dram, as the night was rather chilly, and I\nbegan to tremble a little with the cold. I took but a drop, as I am a\nliving sinner, and then went on quite gayly; but pat, pat, pat, went\nthe footsteps ten times louder and faster than ever. And then! then\nI looked back, and saw a pair of saucer eyes just at the tail of my\nwagon, as big and as bright as the mouths of a fiery furnace, dancing\nup and down in the air like two stage lamps in a rough road.\n\n\u201cBy gosh, boys, but you may depend I was scared now! I took another\nlittle dram, and then made the whip fly about the ears of old Pepper\nand Billy, who cantered away at a wonderful rate, considering.\nPresently, bang! something heavy jumped into the wagon, as if heaven\nand earth were coming together. I looked over my shoulder, and the\ngreat burning eyes were within half a yard of my back. The creature\nwas so close that I felt its breath blowing upon me, and it smelled\nfor all one exactly like brimstone. I should have jumped out of the\nwagon, but, somehow or other, I could not stir, for I was bewitched\nas sure as you live. All I could do was to bang away upon Pepper and\nBilly, who rattled along at a great rate up hill and down, over the\nrough roads, so that if I had not been bewitched, I must have tumbled\nout to a certainty. When I came to the bridge, at old Mangham's, the\nblack dog, for I could see something black and shaggy under the goggle\neyes, all at once jumped up, and seated himself close by me on the\nbench, snatched the whip and reins out of my hands like lightning. Then\nlooking me in the face, and nodding, he whispered something in my ear,\nand lashed away upon Pepper and Billy, till they seemed to fly through\nthe air. From that time I began to lose my wits by degrees, till at\nlast the smell of brimstone overpowered me, and I remember nothing\ntill you found me this morning in the briars.\u201d\n\nHere little Cobus concluded his story, which he repeated with several\nvariations and additions to his wife, when he got home. That good\nwoman, who, on most occasions, took the liberty of lecturing her\ngood man, whenever he used to be belated in his excursions to the\nvillage, was so struck with this adventure, that she omitted her\nusual exhortation, and ever afterwards viewed him as one ennobled by\nsupernatural communication, submitting to him as her veritable lord\nand master. Some people, who pretend to be so wise that they won't\nbelieve the evidence of their senses when it contradicts their reason,\naffected to be incredulous, and hinted that the goggle eyes, and the\nbrimstone breath, appertained to Cobus Yerks's great house-dog, which\nhad certainly followed him that day to the village, and was found\nquietly reposing by his master, in the tuft of briars. But Cobus was\never exceedingly wroth at this suggestion, and being a sturdy little\nbrusier, had knocked down one or two of these unbelieving sinners, for\nventuring to assert that the contents of the stone jug were at the\nbottom of the whole business. After that, everybody believed it, and\nit is now for ever incorporated with the marvellous legends of the\nrenowned Buttermilk Hill.\n\n\n\n\nA STRANGE BIRD\n\nIN\n\nNIEUW-AMSTERDAM.\n\n\nIn the year of the building of the city (which in Latin is called\n_Anno Urba Conditur_) fifty-five, to wit, the year of our Lord 1678,\nthere appeared a phenomenon in the street of Nieuw-Amsterdam called\nGarden-street. This was a youthful stranger, dressed in the outlandish\ngarb of the English beyond the Varsche river, towards the east, where\nthose interlopers have grievously trespassed on the territories of\ntheir high mightinesses, the states general. Now, be it known that this\nwas the first stranger from foreign parts that ever showed himself in\nthe streets of Nieuw-Amsterdam, which had never been before invaded\nin like manner. Whereat the good people were strangely perplexed and\nconfounded, seeing they could by no means divine his business. The good\nyffrouws did gaze at him as he passed along by their stoops, and the\nidle boys followed him wheresoever he went, shouting and hallooing, to\nthe great disturbance of the peaceable and orderly citizens, of whom it\nwas once said that the barking of a cur disturbed the whole city.\n\nBut the stranger took not the least heed of the boys or their\nhallooings, but passed straight onward, looking neither to the right\nnor to the left, which circumstance seemed exceedingly perplexing to\nthe good yffrouws, seeing it savoured of having no curiosity to see or\nbe seen, which to them appeared altogether out of nature. The stranger\nproceeded in a sort of rigmarole way, seeming little to care whither he\nwent, all along by the Stadt Huys, the East and West Docks, the Bendeel\nor Battery, the Rondeels, and I can't tell where else. All the while he\nseemed to take no notice of anything, which everybody thought strange,\nsince he appeared as if he had no other business than to see the city.\n\nIn the course of his marvellous peregrinations, he at length came to\nthe great building, which, being the only house of public resort, was\ncalled, by way of eminence, the City Tavern. Here he stopped all of\na sudden, so abruptly, that little Brom, son of Alderman Botherwick,\nwho was close at his heels, did run right upon his hinder parts, and\nalmost knocked him down, before he could stop himself. Whereupon the\nstranger turned round and gave him a look, whether of menace or good\nwill, was long after disputed by divers people that saw him. Be this\nas it may, the stranger, on seeing the tavern, nodded his head, and\nwent straight up the steps into the bar-room, where he courteously\nsaluted the landlord, good Mynheer Swighauser, by pulling off his hat,\nsaying, at the same time, nothing; which mynheer thought rather mighty\nparticular. He asked the interloping stranger what he would please\nto have; for he was a polite man enough, except to losel beggars,\nand that sort of vermin. The stranger hereupon said nothing, but\naddressed Mynheer Swighauser in a figurative style, which all landlords\ncomprehend. He pulled out a purse, and showed him the money, at the\nsight of which mynheer made him a reverend bow, and ushered him into\nthe Half Moon, so called from being ornamented with a gallant picture\nof the vessel of that name, in which good Master Hendrick Hudson did\nfirst adventure to the discovery of the Manhadoes. It was the best room\nin the house, and always reserved by Mynheer Swighauser for guests that\ncarried full purses.\n\nHaving so done, mynheer courteously asked the stranger what he would\nplease to have for dinner, it being now past eleven o'clock, and the\ndinner hour nigh. Whereat the stranger looked hard at him, and said not\na word. Mynheer thereupon raised his voice so loud, that he frightened\ndivers tame pigeons, sitting on their coop in the yard, who rose into\nthe air out of sight, and, it is affirmed, never returned again. The\nstranger answered not a word, as before.\n\n\u201c_Wat donder is dat?_\u201d exclaimed mynheer; \u201ca man with such a full purse\nmight venture to call for his dinner, I think.\u201d\n\nHowever, when Mynheer Swighauser and his family sat down to their\ndinner at twelve o'clock, the stranger, without any ceremony, sat\ndown with them, taking the chair from time immemorial appropriated\nto mynheer's youngest child, who was thereat so mortally offended,\nthat she set up a great cry, and refused to eat any dinner. Yffrouw\nSwighauser looked hard and angry at the stranger, who continued to eat\nas if it were his last, saying nothing all the while, and paying no\nmore heed to the little child than he did to the hallooing of the boys\nor mynheer's courteous interrogatories.\n\nWhen he had finished, he took up his hat, and went forth on a\nperegrination, from which he did not return until it was nigh dusk.\nMynheer was in tribulation lest he should lose the price of his\ndinner, but the Yffrouw said she did not care if she never saw such a\ndumb noddy again. The stranger ate a huge supper in silence, smoked\nhis pipe, and went to bed at eight o'clock, at which hour mynheer\nalways shut up the front of his house, leaving the back door open\nto the roistering younkers, who came there to carouse every night,\nand play at all-fours. Soon after the stranger retired, there was\nheard a great noise in his room, which so excited the curiosity of\nYffrouw Swighauser, that she took a landlady's liberty, and went and\nlistened at the door. It proved only the stranger playing a concert\nwith Morpheus, on the nasal trumpet, whereupon the yffrouw went away,\nexclaiming,\n\n\u201cThe splutterkin! he makes noise enough in his sleep, if he can't when\nhe is awake.\u201d\n\nThat night the good city of Nieuw-Amsterdam was impestered with divers\nstrange noises, grievous mishaps, and unaccountable appearances. The\nnoises were such as those who heard them could not describe, and, for\nthat reason, I hope the courteous reader will excuse me, if I say\nnothing more about them; the mishaps were of certain mysterious broken\nheads, black eyes, and sore bruises received, as was affirmed, from\nunknown assailants; and the mysterious appearances consisted in lights\nmoving about, at midnight, in the Ladies' Valley, since called Maiden\nLane, which might have passed for lightning bugs, only people that saw\nthem said they were as big as jack-a-lanterns. Besides these, there\nwere seen divers stars shooting about in the sky, and an old yffrouw,\nbeing called out after midnight on a special occasion, did certify that\nshe saw two stars fighting with each other, and making the sparks fly\nat every blow. Other strange things happened on that memorable night,\nwhich alarmed the good citizens, and excited the vigilance of the\nmagistrates.\n\nThe next night, matters were still worse. The lights in the Ladies'\nValley were larger and more numerous; the noises waxed more alarming\nand unaccountable; and the stranger, while he continued to act and\nsay nothing all day, snored louder than ever. At length, Yffrouw\nSwighauser, being thereunto, as I suspect, instigated by a stomachful\nfeeling, on account of the stranger's having got possession of her\nfavourite's seat, and set her a crying, did prevail, by divers means,\nof which, thank Heaven, I have little experience, being a bachelor,\nto have her husband go and make a complaint against the stranger, as\nhaving some diabolical agency in these matters.\n\n\u201c_Wat donner meen je_, wife?\u201d quoth mynheer; \u201cwhat have I to say\nagainst the man? He is a very civil, good sort of a body, and never\nmakes any disturbance except in his sleep.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, there it is,\u201d replied the yffrouw. \u201cI never heard such a snore in\nall my life. Why, it's no more like yours than the grunt of a pig is to\nthe roar of a lion. It's unnatural.\u201d\n\nMynheer did not like this comparison, and answered and said, \u201cBy St.\nJohannes de Dooper, whoever says I snore like a pig is no better than a\ngoose.\u201d\n\nThe yffrouw had a point to gain, or mynheer Swighauser would have\nrepented this rejoinder.\n\n\u201cMy duck-a-deary,\u201d said she, \u201cwhoever says you don't snore like a\nfiddle has no more ear for music than a mole\u2014I mean a squeaking\nfiddle,\u201d quoth she, aside.\n\nWithout further prosecuting this dialogue, let it suffice to say that\nthe yffrouw at length wrought upon mynheer to present the stranger unto\nAlderman Schlepevalcker as a mysterious person, who came from\u2014nobody\nknew where, for\u2014nobody knew what; and for aught he knew to the\ncontrary, was at the bottom of all the disturbances that had beset the\ngood people of Nieuw-Amsterdam for the last two nights. Accordingly,\nthe honest man went on his way to the Stadt Huys, where the excellent\nmagistrate was taking his turn in presiding over the peace of the city\nof Nieuw-Amsterdam, and told all he knew, together with much more\nbesides.\n\nDuring this communication, the worthy alderman exclaimed, from time to\ntime, \u201cIndeedaad!\u201d \u201cOnbegrypelyk!\u201d \u201cGoeden Hemel!\u201d \u201cIs het mogelyk!\u201d\n\u201cVuur envlammen!\u201d and finally dismissed Mynheer Swighauser, desiring\nhim to watch the stranger, and come next day with the result of his\nobservations. After which he went home to consult his pillow, which he\nconsidered worth all the law books in the world.\n\nThe honest publican returned to the City Tavern, where he found supper\nall ready; and the stranger, sitting down as usual in the old place,\nate a hearty meal without uttering one word. The yffrouw was out of all\npatience with him, seeing she never before had a guest in the house\nfour-and-twenty hours, without knowing all about him. The upshot of the\ninterview with the worthy magistrate being disclosed to the yffrouw, it\nwas agreed in secret to set old Quashee, the black hostler, to watch\nthe stranger; though the yffrouw told her husband he might as well set\na wooden image to do it, for Quashee was the most notorious sleepyhead\nin all Nieuw-Amsterdam, not excepting himself.\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d quoth mynheer, \u201c_men weet niet hoe een koe een haas\nvangan kan_;\u201d which means, \u201cThere is no saying that a cow won't catch\na hare,\u201d and so the matter was settled.\n\nWhen the stranger retired to his room after supper, the old negro was\naccordingly stationed outside the door, with strict injunctions to keep\nhimself awake, on pain of losing his Newyear present, and being shut up\nin the stable all Newyear's day. But it is recorded of Quashee, that\nthe flesh was too strong for the spirit, though he had a noggin of\ngenuine Holland to comfort him, and that he fell into a profound nap,\nwhich lasted till after sunrise next day, when he was found sitting\nbolt upright on a three-legged stool, with his little black stump of\na pipe declining from the dexter corner of his mouth. Mynheer was\nexceeding wroth, and did accommodate old Quashee with such a hearty\ncuff on the side of his head, that he fell from the stool, and did\nincontinently roll down the stairs and so into the kitchen, where he\nwas arrested by the great Dutch andirons. \u201c_Een vervlockte jonge_,\u201d\nexclaimed Mynheer Swighauser, \u201c_men weet niet, hoe een dubbeltje rollen\nkan_\u201d\u2014in English, \u201cThere is no saying which way a sixpence will roll.\u201d\n\nAt breakfast, the stranger was for the first time missing from his\nmeals, and this excited no small wonder in the family, which was\nmarvellously aggravated, when, after knocking some time and receiving\nno answer, the door was opened, and the stranger found wanting.\n\n\u201c_Is het mogelyk!_\u201d exclaimed the yffrouw, and \u201c_Wat blixen!_\u201d cried\nmynheer. But their exclamations were speedily arrested by the arrival\nof the reverend schout, Master Roelif, as he was commonly called, who\nsummoned them both forthwith to the Stadt Huys, at the command of his\nworship Alderman Schlepevalker.\n\n\u201c_Ben je bedonnered?_\u201d cried mynheer; \u201cwhat can his worship want of my\nwife now?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind,\u201d replied the good yffrouw, \u201c_het is goed visschen in\ntroebel water_,\u201d and so they followed Master Roelif to the Stadt House,\naccording to the behest of Alderman Schlepevalker, as aforesaid.\nWhen they arrived there, whom should they see, in the middle of a\ngreat crowd in the hall of justice, but that \u201c_vervlocte hond_,\u201d the\nstranger, as the yffrouw was wont to call him, when he would not answer\nher questions.\n\nThe stranger was standing with his hands tied behind, and apparently\nunconscious, or indifferent to what was going forward around him. It\nappears he had been detected very early in the morning in a remote\npart of the King's Farm, as it was afterwards called, but which was\nthen a great forest full of rabbits and other game, standing over the\ndead body of a man, whose name and person were equally unknown, no one\nrecollecting ever to have seen him before. On being interrogated on\nthe subject, he had not only declined answering, but affected to take\nnot the least heed of what they said to him. Under these suspicious\ncircumstances he was brought before the magistrate, charged with the\nmurder of the unknown person, whose body was also produced in proof of\nthe fact. No marks of violence were found on the body, but all agreed\nthat the man was dead, and that there must have been some cause for his\ndeath. The vulgar are ever prone to suspicions, and albeit, are so fond\nof seeing a man hanged, that they care little to inquire whether he is\nguilty or not.\n\nThe worthy alderman, after ordering Master Roelif to call the people to\norder, proceeded to interrogate the prisoner as followeth:\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat is thy name?\u201d\n\nThe stranger took not the least notice of him.\n\n\u201cWhat is thy name, _ben je bedonnered_?\u201d repeated the worthy\nmagistrate, in a loud voice, and somewhat of a violent gesture of\nimpatience.\n\nThe stranger looked him in the face and nodded his head.\n\n\u201c_Wat donner is dat?_\u201d cried the magistrate.\n\nThe stranger nodded as before.\n\n\u201c_Wat donner meen je?_\u201d\n\nAnother nod. The worthy magistrate began, as it were, to wax wroth,\nand demanded of the prisoner whence he came; but he had relapsed into\nhis usual indifference, and paid not the least attention, as before.\nWhereupon the angry alderman committed him for trial, on the day but\none following, as the witnesses were all on the spot, and the prisoner\ncontumacious. In the interim, the body of the dead man had been\nexamined by the only two doctors of Nieuw-Amsterdam, Mynheer Van Dosum\nand Mynheer Vander Cureum, who being rival practitioners, of course\ndiffered entirely on the matter. Mynheer Van Dosum decided that the\nunknown died by the hand of man, and Mynheer Vander Cureum, by the hand\nof his Maker.\n\nWhen the cause came to be tried, the stranger, as before, replied to\nall questions, either by taking not the least notice, or nodding his\nhead. The worthy magistrate hereupon was sorely puzzled, whether this\nought to be construed into pleading guilty or not pleading at all. In\nthe former case his course was quite clear; in the latter, he did not\nexactly know which way to steer his doubts. But fortunately having\nno lawyers to confound him, he finally decided, after consulting\nthe ceiling of the courtroom, that as it was so easy for a man to\nsay not guilty, the omission or refusal to say it was tantamount to\na confession of guilt. Accordingly he condemned the prisoner to be\nhanged, in spite of the declaration of Doctor Vander Cureum, that the\nmurdered man died of apoplexy.\n\nThe prisoner received the sentence, and was conducted to prison without\nsaying a word in his defence, and without discovering the least\nemotion on the occasion. He merely looked wistfully, first on the\nworthy magistrate, then on his bonds, and then at Master Roelif, who,\naccording to the custom of such losel varlets in office, rudely pushed\nhim out of the court and dragged him to prison.\n\nOn the fourteenth day after his condemnation, it being considered that\nsufficient time had been allowed him to repent of his sins, the poor\nstranger was brought forth to execution. He was accompanied by the\ngood dominie, who had prepared his last dying speech and confession,\nand certified that he died a repentant sinner. His face was pale and\nsad, and his whole appearance bespoke weakness and suffering. He still\npersisted in his obstinate silence, and seemed unconscious of what was\ngoing forward; whether from indifference or despair, it was impossible\nto decide. When placed on a coffin in the cart, and driven under the\ngallows, he seemed for a moment to be aware of his situation, and the\nbitter tears coursed one by one down his pallid cheeks. But he remained\nsilent as before; and when the rope was tied round his neck, only\nlooked wistfully with a sort of innocent wonder in the face of the\nexecutioner.\n\nAll being now ready, and the gaping crowd on the tiptoe of expectation,\nthe dominie sang a devout hymn, and shaking hands for the last time\nwith the poor stranger, descended from the cart. The bell tolled the\nsignal for launching him into the illimitable ocean of eternity, when,\nall at once, its dismal moanings were, as it were, hushed into silence\nby the piercing shrieks of a female which seemed approaching from a\ndistance. Anon a voice was heard crying out, \u201cStop, stop, for the love\nof Heaven stop; he is innocent!\u201d\n\nThe crowd opened, and a woman of good appearance, seemingly about\nforty-five years old, rushed forward, and throwing herself at the feet\nof the worthy alderman, whose duty it was to preside at the execution\nand maintain due order among the crowd, cried out aloud,\n\n\u201cSpare him, he is my son\u2014he is innocent!\u201c\n\n\u201c_Ben je bedonnered?_\u201d cried the magistrate, \u201c_he is een verdoemde\nschurk_, and has confessed his crime by not denying it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe cannot confess or deny it\u2014he was born deaf and dumb!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Goeden Hemel!_\u201d exclaimed Alderman Schlepevalcker; \u201cthat accounts for\nhis not pleading guilty or not guilty. But art thou sure of it, good\nwoman?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure of it! Did not I give him birth, and did I not watch like one\nhanging over the deathbed of an only child, year after year, to catch\nsome token that he could hear what I said? Did I not try and try, day\nafter day, month after month, year after year, to teach him only to\nname the name of mother? and when at last I lost all hope that I should\never hear the sound of his voice, did I not still bless Heaven that I\nwas not childless, though my son could not call me mother?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Het is jammer!_\u201d exclaimed the worthy magistrate, wiping his eyes.\n\u201cBut still a dumb man may kill another, for all this. What have you to\nsay against that?\u201d\n\nAt this moment the poor speechless youth recognised his mother,\nand uttering a strange inarticulate scream, burst away from the\nexecutioner, leaped from the cart, and throwing himself on her bosom,\nsobbed as if his heart was breaking. The mother pressed him to her\nheart in silent agony, and the absence of words only added to the deep\npathos of the meeting.\n\nAlderman Schlepevalcker was sorely puzzled as well as affected on this\noccasion, and after wiping his eyes, addressed the weeping mother.\n\n\u201cHow came thy son hither?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is accustomed to ramble about the country, sometimes all day,\nalone; and one day having strayed farther than usual, lost his way,\nand being unable to ask any information, wandered we knew not whither,\nuntil a neighbour told us a rumour of a poor youth, who was about to be\nexecuted at Nieuw-Amsterdam for refusing to answer questions. I thought\nit might be my son, and came in time, I hope, to save him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did not thy husband come with thee?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd thy father?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe died when I was a child.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd thy other relatives?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have none but him,\u201d pointing to the dumb youth.\n\n\u201c_Het is jammer!_ but how will he get rid of the charge of this foul\nmurder?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will question him,\u201d said the mother, who now made various signs,\nwhich were replied to by the youth in the same way.\n\n\u201cWhat does he say?\u201d asked the worthy magistrate.\n\n\u201cHe says that he went forth early in the morning of the day; he was\nfound standing over the dead body, as soon as the gate was opened to\nadmit the country people, where he saw the dead man lying under a tree,\nand was seized while thus occupied. He knows nothing more.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Onbegrypelik!_ how can you understand all this?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sir, I have been used to study every look and action of his life\nsince he was a child, and can comprehend his inmost thoughts.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Goeden Hemel!_ is all this true? but he must go back to prison, while\nI wait on the governor to solicit his pardon. Wilt thou accompany him?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh yes!\u2014but no. I will go with thee to the governor. He will not deny\nthe petition of a mother for the life of her only child.\u201d\n\nAccordingly, the worthy magistrate calling on Doctor Vander Cureum on\nhis way, proceeded to the governor's house, accompanied by the mother\nof the youth, who repeated what he had told her by signs. The doctor\nalso again certified, in the most positive manner, that the supposed\nmurdered man had died of apoplexy, brought on, as he supposed, by\nexcessive drinking; and the good governor, moved by the benevolence of\nhis heart, did thereupon grant the poor youth an unconditional pardon.\nHe was rewarded by the tears, the thanks, and the blessings of the now\nhappy mother.\n\n\u201cWhere dost thou abide?\u201d asked the governor. \u201cIf it is at a distance,\nI will send some one to protect thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy home is beyond the fresh water river.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Wat blikslager!_ thou belongest to the Splutterkins, who\u2014but no\nmatter, thou shalt have protection in thy journey home.\u201c The governor,\nbeing somewhat of a conscientious man, instead of swearing by the\nlightning, did piously asseverate by the tinman.\n\nThe young man was forthwith released, to the unutterable joy of the\nmother, and the infinite content of the Yffrouw Swighauser, who, now\nthat she knew the cause of his silence, forgave him with all her heart.\nThe next day the mother and son departed towards home, accompanied by\nan escort provided by the good governor, the commander of which carried\na stout defiance to the Yankees; and the last words of that upright and\nexcellent magistrate, Alderman Schlepevalcker, as he looked kindly at\nthe youth, were,\n\n\u201d_Het is jammer_\u2014it is a pity.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                      CLAAS SCHLASCHENSCHLINGER.\n\n\nThrice blessed St. Nicholas! may thy memory and thine honours endure\nfor ever and a day! It is true that certain arch calumniators, such as\nRomish priests, and the like, have claimed thee as a Catholic saint,\naffirming, with unparalleled insolence, that ever since the pestilent\nheresy of the illustrious John Calvin, there hath not been so much as\na single saint in the Reformed Dutch Church. But beshrew these keepers\nof fasts, and other abominations, the truth is not, never was, nor ever\nwill be in their mouths, or their hearts! Doth not everybody know that\nthe blessed St. Nicholas was of the Reformed Dutch Church, and that the\ncunning Romanists did incontinently filch him from us to keep their\nown calendar in countenance? The splutterkins! But I will restrain the\noutpourings of my wrath, and contenting myself with having proved that\nthe good saint was of the true faith, proceed with my story, which\nis of undoubted authority, since I had it from a descendant of Claas\nSchlaschenschlinger himself, who lives in great honour and glory at the\nWaalboght on Long Island, and is moreover a justice of the peace and\ndeacon of the church.\n\nNicholas, or, according to the true orthography, Claas\nSchlaschenschlinger, was of a respectable parentage, being born\nat Saardam, in our good faderland, where his ancestors had been\nproprietors of the greatest windmill in all the country round, ever\nsince the period when that bloody tyrant, Philip of Spain, was driven\nfrom the Low Countries the invincible valour of the Dutch, under the\ngood Prince of Orange. It is said in a certain credible tradition, that\none of the family had done a good turn to the worshipful St. Nicholas,\nin secreting him from the persecutions of the Romanists, who now,\nforsooth, claim him to themselves! and that ever afterwards the saint\ntook special interest and cognizance in their affairs.\n\nWhile at Saardam, little Claas, who was the youngest of a goodly family\nof seventeen children, was observed to be a great favourite of St.\nNicholas, whose namesake he was, who always brought him a cake or two\nextra at his Christmas visits, and otherwise distinguished him above\nhis brothers and sisters; whereat they were not a little jealous, and\ndid sometimes slyly abstract some of the little rogue's benefactions,\nconverting them to their own comfort and recreation.\n\nIn the process of time, Claas grew to be a stout lad, and withal a\nlittle wild, as he did sometimes neglect the great windmill, the which\nhe had charge of in turn with the rest of his brothers, whereby it\nmore than once came to serious damage. Upon these occasions, the worthy\nfather, who had a reverend care of the morals of his children, was\naccustomed to give him the bastinado; but as Claas wore a competent\noutfit of breeches, he did not much mind it, not he; only it made him a\nlittle angry, for he was a boy of great spirit. About the time, I say,\nthat Claas had arrived at the years of two or three and twenty, and was\nconsidered a stout boy for his age, there was great talk of settling\na colony at the Manhadoes, which the famous Heinrick Hudson had\ndiscovered long years before. Many people of good name and substance\nwere preparing to emigrate there, seeing it was described as a land\nflowing with milk and honey\u2014that is to say, abounding in shad and\nherrings\u2014and affording mighty bargains of beaver and other skins.\n\nNow Claas began to cherish an earnest longing to visit these parts, for\nhe was tired of tending the windmill, and besides he had a natural love\nfor marshes and creeks, and being a shrewd lad, concluded that there\nmust be plenty of these where beavers and such like abounded. But his\nfather and the Vrouw Schlaschenschlinger did eschew and anathematize\nthis notion of Claas's, and placed him apprentice to an eminent\nshoemaker, to learn that useful art and mystery. Claas considered it\nderogatory to the son of the proprietor of the greatest windmill in all\nSaardam to carry the lapstone, and wanted to be a doctor, a lawyer, or\nsome such thing. But his father told him in so many words, that there\nwere more lawyers than clients in the town already, and that a good\ncobbler saved more people from being sick, than all the doctors cured.\nSo Claas became apprentice to the shoemaking business, and served out\nhis time, after which he got to be his own master, and determined to\nput in practice his design of visiting the Manhadoes, of which he had\nnever lost sight.\n\nAfter much ado, Mynheer Schlaschenschlinger, and the good vrouw,\nconsented unwillingly to let him follow the bent of his inclinations,\nand accordingly all things were got ready for his departure for the\nNew World, in company with a party which was going out under that\nrenowned Lord Michael Paauw, who was proceeding to settle his domain\nof Pavonia, which lieth directly opposite to New-Amsterdam. Mynheer\nSchlaschenschlinger fitted out his son nobly, and becoming the owner\nof the largest windmill in all Saardam, equipping him with awls, and\nknives, and wax, and thread, together with a bench, and a goodly\nlapstone, considering in his own mind that the great scarcity of stones\nin Holland might, peradventure, extend to the Manhadoes. Now all being\nprepared, it was settled that Claas should depart on the next day but\none, the next being St. Nicholas his day, and a great festival among\nthe people of Holland.\n\nAccording to custom, ever since the days of the blessed saint, they had\na plentiful supper of waffles and chocolate\u2014that pestilent beverage\ntea not having yet come into fashion\u2014and sat up talking of Claas, his\nadventures, and what he would see and hear in the Manhadoes, till it\nwas almost nine o'clock. Upon this, mynheer ordered them all to bed,\nbeing scandalized at such unseasonable hours. In the morning when Claas\ngot up, and went to put on his stocking, he felt something hard at the\ntoe, and turning it inside out, there fell on the floor the bowl of a\npipe of the genuine _Meershaum_, which seemed to have been used beyond\nmemory since its polish was a thousand times more soft and delightsome\nthan ivory or tortoise shell, and its lustre past all price. Would that\nthe blessed saint would bestow such a one on me!\n\nClaas was delighted; he kissed it as if he had been an idolatrous\nRomanist\u2014which, by the blessing of Saint Nicholas, he was not\u2014and\nbestowing it in the bottom of his strong oaken chest, resolved like\nunto a prudent Dutchman, never to use it for fear of accidents. In a\nfew hours afterwards, he parted from his parents, his family, and his\nhome; his father gave him a history of the bloody wars and persecutions\nof Philip of Spain; a small purse of guilders, and abundance of advice\nfor the government of his future life; but his mother gave him what\nwas more precious than all these\u2014her tears, her blessing, and a little\nDutch Bible with silver clasps. Bibles were not so plenty then as\nthey are now, and were considered as the greatest treasures of the\nhousehold. His brothers and sisters took an affectionate farewell of\nhim, and asked his pardon for stealing his Newyear cookies. So Claas\nkissed his mother, promising, if it pleased Heaven, to send her stores\nof herrings and beaver skins, whereat she was marvellously comforted;\nand he went on his way, as it were sorrowfully rejoicing.\n\nI shall pass over the journey, and the voyage to the Manhadoes, saving\nthe relation of a curious matter that occurred after the ship had\nbeen about ninety days at sea, and they were supposed to be well on\ntheir way to the port of New-Amsterdam. It came into the heads of\nthe passengers to while away the time as they were lying to one day\nwith the sails all furled, except one or two, which I name not, for\na special reason, contrary to the practice of most writers\u2014namely,\nbecause I am ignorant thereof\u2014having the sails thus furled, I say, on\naccount of certain suspicious-looking clouds, the which the captain,\nwho kept a bright lookout day and night, had seen hovering overhead,\nwith no good intentions, it came into the noddles of divers of the\npassengers to pass the time by opening their chests, and comparing\ntheir respective outfits, for they were an honest set of people, and\nnot afraid of being robbed.\n\nWhen Claas showed his lapstone, most of the company, on being told the\nreasons for bringing it such a long distance, held up their hands,\nand admired the foresight of his father, considering him an exceeding\nprudent and wise man to think of such matters. Some of them wanted to\nbuy it on speculation, but Claas was too well acquainted with its\nvalue to set a price on it. While they were thus chaffering, an old\nsailor, who had accompanied the renowned Heinrick Hudson as cabin boy,\nin his first voyage to the Manhadoes, happening to come by and hear\nthem, swore a great Dutch oath, and called Claas a splutterkin for\nbringing stones all the way from Holland, saying that there were enough\nat the Manhadoes to furnish lapstones for the whole universe. Whereupon\nClaas thought to himself, \u201cWhat a fine country it must be, where stones\nare so plenty.\u201d\n\nIn process of time, as all things, and especially voyagings by\nsea, have an end, the vessel came in sight of the highlands of\nNeversink\u2014vulgarly called by would-be learned writers, Navesink\u2014and\nClaas and the rest, who had never seen such vast mountains before, did\nthink that it was a wall, built up from the earth to the sky, and that\nthere was no world beyond.\n\nFavoured by a fine south wind, whose balmy freshness had awakened the\nyoung spring into early life and beauty, they shot like an arrow from\na bow through the Narrows, and sailing along the heights of Staaten\nIsland, came in sight of the illustrious city of New-Amsterdam, which,\nthough at that period containing but a few hundred people, I shall\nventure to predict, in some future time, may actually number its tens\nof thousands.\n\nTruly it was a beautiful city, and a beautiful sight as might be\nseen of a spring morning. As they came through Buttermilk Channel,\nthey beheld with delighted astonishment the fort, the church, the\ngovernor's house, the great dock jutting out into the salt river, the\nStadt Huys, the rondeel, and a goodly assemblage of houses, with the\ngable ends to the street, as before the villanous introduction of new\nfashions, and at the extremity of the city, the gate and wall, from\nwhence Wall-street deriveth its name. But what above all gloriously\ndelighted Claas, was a great windmill, towering in the air, and\nspreading its vast wings on the rising ground along the Broadway,\nbetween Liberty and Courtlandt streets, the which reminded him of home\nand his parents. The prospect rejoiced them all mightily, for they\nthought to themselves, \u201cWe have come to a little Holland far over the\nsea.\u201d\n\nSo far as I know, it was somewhere about the year of our Lord one\nthousand six hundred and sixty, or thereabout, and in the month of\nMay, that Claas landed in the New World; but of the precise day of\nthe month I cannot be certain, seeing what confusion of dates hath\nbeen caused by that idolatrous device of Pope Gregory, called the New\nStyle, whereby events that really happened in one year are falsely\nput down to another, by which means history becomes naught. The first\nthing he thought of, was to provide himself a home, for be it known\nit was not then the fashion to live in taverns and boarding houses,\nand the man who thus demeaned himself was considered no better than\nhe should be; nobody would trust or employ him, and he might consider\nit a special bounty of the good St. Nicholas, if he escaped a ride\non the wooden horse provided for the punishment of delinquents. So\nClaas looked out for a pleasant place whereon to pitch his tent. As he\nwalked forth for this end, his bowels yearned exceedingly for a lot on\nthe Broad-street, through which ran a delightful creek, crooked like\nunto a ram's horn, the sides of which were low, and, as it were, juicy\nwith the salt water which did sometimes overflow them at spring tides,\nand the full of the moon. More especially the ferry house, with its\nnever to be forgotten weathercock, did incite him sorely to come and\nset himself down thereabout. But he was deterred by the high price of\nlots in that favoured region, seeing they asked him as much as five\nguilders for the one at the corner of the Broad and Wall streets, a\nmost unheard-of price, and not to be thought of by a prudent man like\nClaas Schlaschenschlinger.\n\nSo he sought about elsewhere, though he often looked wistfully at the\nfair meads of the Broad-street, and nothing deterred him from ruining\nhimself by gratifying his longings, but the truly excellent expedient\nof counting his money, which I recommend to all honest people, before\nthey make a bargain. But though he could not settle in Broad-street,\nhe resolved in his mind to get as nigh as possible, and finding a\nlot with a little puddle of brackish water in it large enough for a\ngoose pond, nigh unto the wall and gate of the city, and just at the\nhead of what hath lately been called Newstreet\u2014then the region of\nunsettled lands\u2014he procured a grant thereof from the schout, scheepens,\nand burgomasters, who then ruled the city, for five stivers, being\nthe amount of fees for writing and recording the deed by the Geheim\nSchryver.\n\nHaving built himself a comfortable house, with a little stoop to it,\nhe purchased a pair of geese, or, to be correct and particular, as\nbecometh a conscientious historian, a goose and gander, that he might\nrecreate himself with their gambols in the salt puddle, and quietly sat\nhimself down to the making and mending of shoes. In this he prospered\nat first indifferently well, and thereafter mightily, when the people\nfound that he made shoes, some of which were reported never to wear\nout; but this was, as it were, but a sort of figure of speech to\nexpress their excellent qualities.\n\nEvery Sunday, after church, in pleasant weather, Claas, instead of\nputting off his Sunday suit, as was the wont of the times, used to\ngo and take a walk in the Ladies' Valley, since called Maiden Lane,\nfor everything has changed under those arch intruders, the English,\nwho, I believe, in their hearts, are half Papists. This valley was\nan exceeding cool, retired, and pleasant place, being bordered by a\nwood, in the which was plenty of pinkster blossoms in the season.\nBeing a likely young fellow, and dressed in a goodly array of breeches\nand what not, he was much noticed, and many a little damsel cast a\nsheep's eye upon him as he sat smoking his pipe of a summer afternoon\nunder the shade of the trees which grew plentifully in that quarter.\nI don't know how it was, but so it happened, that in process of time\nhe made acquaintance with one of these, a buxom creature of rare and\nunmatchable lineaments and dimensions, insomuch that she was considered\nthe beauty of New-Amsterdam, and had refused even the burgomaster,\nBarendt Roeloffsen, who was taxed three guilders, being the richest\nman of the city. But Aintjie was not to be bought with gold; she loved\nClaas because he was a solid young fellow, who plucked for her the most\nbeautiful pinkster blossoms, and was the most pleasant companion in the\nworld, for a ramble in the Ladies' Valley.\n\nReport says, but I believe there was no great truth in the story,\nthat they sometimes QUEESTED[1] together, but of that I profess\nmyself doubtful. Certain it is, however, that in good time they were\nmarried, to the great content of both, and the great discontent of the\nburgomaster, Barendt Roeloffsen.\n\n  [1] This word is untranslatable.\n\nIn those days young people did not marry to set up a coach, live in\nfine houses filled with rich furniture, for which they had no use,\nand become bankrupt in a few years. They began in a small way, and\nincreased their comforts with their means. It was thus with Claas and\nhis wife, who were always employed in some useful business, and never\nran into extravagance, except it may be on holydays. In particular\nClaas always feasted lustily on St. Nicholas his day, because, he was\nhis patron saint, and he remembered his kindness in faderland.\n\nThus they went on prospering as folks always do that are industrious\nand prudent, every year laying up money, and every year increasing\ntheir family; for be it known, those who are of the true Dutch blood,\nalways apportion the number of children to the means of providing for\nthem. They never are caught having children for other people to take\ncare of. But be this as it may, about this time began the mischievous\nand oppressive practice of improving the city, draining the marshes,\ncutting down hills, and straightening streets, which hath since grown\nto great enormity in this city, insomuch that a man may be said to be\nactually impoverished by his property.\n\nBarendt Roeloffsen, who was at the head of the reformers, having a\ngreat estate in vacant lands, which he wanted to make productive at the\nexpense of his neighbours\u2014Barendt Roeloffsen, I say, bestirred himself\nlustily to bring about what he called, in outlandish English, the era\nof improvement, and forthwith looked around to see where he should\nbegin. I have always believed, and so did the people at that time, that\nBarendt singled out Claas his goose pond for the first experiment,\nbeing thereunto impelled by an old grudge against Claas, on account of\nhis having cut him out with the damsel he wished to marry, as before\nrelated.\n\nBut, however, Barendt Roeloffsen, who bore a great sway among the\nburgomasters, on account of his riches, got a law passed, by hook or by\ncrook, for draining Claas his pond, at his own expense, making him pay\nat the same time for the rise in the value of his property, of which\nthey did not permit him to be the judge, but took upon themselves to\nsay what it was. The ancestors of Claas had fought valiantly against\nPhilip of Spain, in defence of their religion and liberty, and he had\nkept up his detestation of oppression by frequently reading the account\nof the cruelties committed in the Low Countries by the Spaniard, in\nthe book which his father had given him on his departure from home.\nBesides, he had a great admiration, I might almost say affection, for\nhis goose pond, as is becoming in every true Dutchman. In it he was\naccustomed to see, with singular delight, his geese, now increased to a\ngoodly flock, sailing about majestically, flapping their wings, dipping\ntheir necks into the water, and making a noise exceedingly tuneful and\nmelodious. Here, too, his little children were wont to paddle in the\nsummer days, up to their knees in the water, to their great contentment\nas well as recreation, thereby strengthening themselves exceedingly.\nSuch being the case, Claas resisted the behest of the burgomasters,\ndeclaring that he would appeal to the laws for redress if they\npersisted in trespassing on his premises. But what can a man get by the\nlaw at any time, much less when the defendant, as in this case, was\njudge as well as a party in the business? After losing a vast deal of\ntime, which was as money to him, and spending a good portion of what he\nhad saved for his children, Claas was at length cast in his suit, and\nthe downfall of his goose pond irrevocably decreed.\n\nIt was a long time before he recovered this blow, and when he\ndid, Fortune, as if determined to persevere in her ill offices,\nsent a blacksmith from Holland, who brought over with him the new\nand diabolical invention of hobnails, the which he so strenuously\nrecommended to the foolish people, who are prone to run after\nnovelties, that they, one and all, had their shoes stuck full of\nnails, whereby they did clatter about the streets like unto a horse\nnewly shod. As might be expected, the business of shoemaking decreased\nmightily upon this, insomuch that the shoes might be said to last for\never; and I myself have seen a pair that have descended through three\ngenerations, the nails of which shone like unto silver sixpences. Some\npeople supposed this was a plot of Barendt Roeloffsen, to complete\nthe ruin of poor Claas; but whether it was or not, it is certain that\nsuch was the falling off in his trade, on account of the pestilent\nintroduction of hobnails, that, at the end of the year, Claas found\nthat he had gone down hill at a great rate. The next year it was still\nworse, and thus, in the course of a few more, from bad to worse, he at\nlast found himself without the means of support for himself, his wife,\nand his little children. But what shows the goodness of Providence, it\nis worthy of record, that from this time his family, miraculously as\nit were, ceased to increase.\n\nNeither begging nor running in debt without the prospect of paying\nwas in fashion in those days, nor were there any societies to invite\npeople to idleness and improvidence by the certainty of being relieved\nfrom their consequences without the trouble of asking. Claas tried\nwhat labouring day and night would do, but there was no use in making\nshoes when there was nobody to buy them. His good wife tried the\nmagic of saving; but where there is nothing left to save, economy is\nto little purpose. He tried to get into some other business, but the\nwrath of Barendt Roeloffsen was upon him, and the whole influence of\nthe burgomasters stood in his way on account of the opposition he had\nmade to the march of improvement. He then offered his house and lot for\nsale; but here again his old enemy Barendt put a spoke in his wheel,\ngoing about among the people and insinuating that as Claas had paid\nnothing for his lot, the title was good for nothing. So one by one he\ntried all ways to keep want from his door; but it came at last, and one\nNewyear's eve, in the year of our Lord\u2014I don't know what, the family\nwas hovering round a miserable fire, not only without the customary\nmeans of enjoying the festivity of the season, but destitute of the\nvery necessaries of life.\n\nThe evening was cold and raw, and the heavy moanings of a keen\nnortheast wind announced the approach of a snow storm. The little\nchildren cowered over the almost expiring embers, shivering with cold\nand hunger; the old cat lay half buried in the ashes to keep herself\nwarm; and the poor father and mother now looked at the little flock of\nragged\u2014no, not ragged\u2014the mother took care of that; and industry can\nalways ward off rags and dirt. But though not ragged or dirty, they\nwere miserably clad and worse fed; and as the parents looked first at\nthem and then at each other, the tears gathered in their eyes until\nthey ran over.\n\n\u201cWe must sell the silver clasps of the Bible my mother gave me, wife,\u201d\nsaid Claas, at last.\n\n\u201cThe Goodness forbid,\u201d said she; \u201cwe should never prosper after it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe can't prosper worse than we do now, Aintjie.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou had better sell the little book about the murders of the\nSpaniards, that you sometimes read to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has no silver clasps, and will bring nothing,\u201d replied Claas,\ndespondingly, covering his face with his hand, and seeming to think for\na few moments. All at once he withdrew his hand, and cried,\n\n\u201cThe pipe! the meershaum pipe! it is worth a hundred guilders!\u201d and he\nran to the place where he had kept it so carefully that he never used\nit once in the whole time he had it in his possession.\n\nHe looked at it wistfully, and it brought to his mind the time he\nfound it in his stocking. He thought of his parents, his brothers, his\nsisters, and old faderland, and wished he had never parted from them\nto visit the New World. His wife saw what was passing in his heart, and\nsaid,\n\n\u201cNever mind, dear Claas, with these hundred guilders we shall get on\nagain by the blessing of the good St. Nicholas, whose namesake you are.\u201d\n\nClaas shook his head, and looked at the meershaum, which he could\nnot bear to part with, because, somehow or other, he could not help\nthinking it was the gift of St. Nicholas. The wind now freshened, and\nmoaned more loudly than ever, and the snow began to come in through\nthe crevices of the door and windows. The cold increased apace, and\nthe last spark of fire was expiring in the chimney. There was darkness\nwithout and within, for the candle, the last they had, was just going\nout.\n\nClaas, without knowing what he was doing, rubbed the pipe against his\nsleeve, as it were mechanically.\n\nHe had scarcely commenced rubbing, when the door suddenly opened, and\nwithout more ado, a little man, with a right ruddy good-humoured face,\nas round as an apple, and a cocked beaver, white with snow, walked in,\nwithout so much as saying, \u201cBy your leave,\u201d and sitting himself by the\nside of the yffrouw, began to blow at the fire, and make as if he was\nwarming his fingers, though there was no fire there, for that matter.\n\nNow Claas was a good-natured fellow, and though he had nothing to give,\nexcept a welcome, which is always in the power of everybody, yet he\nwished to himself he had more fire to warm people's fingers. After\na few moments, the little man rubbed his hands together, and looking\naround him, with a good-humoured smile, said,\n\n\u201cMynheer Schlaschenschlinger, methinks it might not be amiss to\nreplenish this fire a little; 'tis a bitter cold night, and my fingers\nare almost frostbitten.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlack, mynheer,\u201d quoth Claas, \u201cI would, with all my heart, but I have\nnothing wherewith to warm myself and my children, unless I set fire to\nmy own house. I am sorry I cannot entertain thee better.\u201d\n\nUpon this the little man broke the cane with which he walked into two\npieces, which he threw in the chimney, and thereupon the fire began to\nblaze so cheerfully that they could see their shadows on the wall, and\nthe old cat jumped out of the ashes, with her coat well singed, which\nmade the little jolly fellow laugh heartily.\n\nThe sticks burnt and burnt, without going out, and they were soon all\nas warm and comfortable as could be. Then the little man said,\n\n\u201cFriend Claas, methinks it would not be much amiss if the good vrouw\nhere would bestir herself to get something to eat. I have had no dinner\nto-day, and come hither on purpose to make merry with thee. Knowest\nthou not that this is Newyear's eve?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlack!\u201d replied Claas, \u201cI know it full well; but we have not\nwherewithal to keep away hunger, much less to make merry with. Thou\nart welcome to all we have, and that is nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, come, Friend Claas, thou art a prudent man, I know, but I never\nthought thou wert stingy before. Bestir thyself, good Aintjie, and see\nwhat thou canst find in that cupboard. I warrant there is plenty of\ngood fare in it.\u201d\n\nThe worthy yffrouw looked rather foolish at this proposal, for she knew\nshe would find nothing there if she went; but the little man threatened\nher, in a good-humoured way, to break the long pipe he carried stuck in\nhis cocked hat, over her nightcap, if she didn't do as he bid her. So\nshe went to the cupboard, resolved to bring him out the empty pewter\ndishes, to show they had nothing to give him. But when she opened the\ncupboard, she started back, and cried out aloud, so that Claas ran to\nsee what was the matter; and what was his astonishment to find the\ncupboard full of all sorts of good things for a notable jollification.\n\n\u201cAha!\u201d cried the merry little man, \u201cyou're caught at last. I knew\nthou hadst plenty to entertain a stranger withal; but I suppose thou\nwantedst to keep it all to thyself. Come, come! bestir thyself,\nAintjie, for I am as hungry as a schoolboy.\u201d\n\nAintjie did as she was bid, wondering all the time who this familiar\nlittle man could be; for the city was not so big, but that she knew by\nsight everybody that lived in it, and she was sure she had never seen\nhim before.\n\nIn a short time there was a glorious array of good things set out\nbefore them, and they proceeded to enjoy themselves right lustily in\nkeeping of the merry Newyear's eve. The little man cracked his jokes,\npatted little Nicholas\u2014Claas, his youngest son, who was called after\nhis father\u2014on the head; chucked Aintjie under the chin; said he was\nglad she did not wed the splutterkin Barendt Roeloffsen, and set them\nso good an example, that they all got as merry as crickets.\n\nBy-and-by the little man inquired of Claas concerning his affairs,\nand he gave him an account of his early prosperity, and how he had\ndeclined, in spite of all he could do, into poverty and want; so that\nhe had nothing left but his wife, his children, his Dutch Bible, his\nhistory of the Low Country wars, and his meershaum pipe.\n\n\u201cAha!\u201d quoth the little man, \u201cyou've kept that, hey! Let me see it.\u201d\n\nClaas gave it to him, while the tears came into is eyes, although he\nwas so merry, to think that he must part with it on the morrow. It was\nthe pride of his heart, and he set too great a value on it to make any\nuse of it whatever.\n\nThe little man took the pipe, and looking at it, said, as if to himself,\n\n\u201cYes; here it is! the very identical meershaum out of which the great\nCalvin used to smoke. Thou hast done well, Friend Claas, to preserve\nit; and thou must keep it as the apple of thine eye all thy life, and\ngive it as an inheritance to thy children.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlack!\u201d cried Aintjie, \u201che must sell it to-morrow, or we shall want\nwherewithal for a dinner.\u201d\n\n\u201cYea,\u201d said Claas, \u201cof a truth it must go to-morrow!\u201d\n\n\u201cBe quiet, splutterkin!\u201d cried the little man, merrily; \u201cgive me some\nmore of that spiced beverage, for I am as thirsty as a dry sponge.\nCome, let us drink to the Newyear, for it will be here in a few\nminutes.\u201d\n\nSo they drank a cup to the jolly Newyear, and at that moment the little\nboys and negroes, who didn't mind the snow any more than a miller does\nflour, began to fire their cannon at a great rate; whereupon the little\nman jumped up, and cried out,\n\n\u201cMy time is come! I must be off, for I have a great many visits to pay\nbefore sunrise.\u201d\n\nThen he kissed the yffrouw with a hearty smack, just as doth the\nillustrious Rip Van Dam, on the like occasions; patted little\nNicholas on the head, and gave him his blessing; after which he did\nincontinently leap up the chimney and disappear. Then they knew it was\nthe good St. Nicholas, and rejoiced mightily in the visit he had paid\nthem, looking upon it as an earnest that their troubles were over.\n\nThe next morning the prudent housewife, according to custom, got up\nbefore the dawn of day to put her house in order, and when she came\nto sweep the floor, was surprised to hear something jingle just like\nmoney. Then opening the embers, the sticks which the good saint had\nthrown upon the fire again blazed out, and she descried a large purse,\nwhich, on examination, was found filled with golden ducats. Whereupon\nshe called out to Claas, and they examined the purse, and found\nfastened to it a paper bearing this legend:\u2014\n\n  \u201cTHE GIFT OF SAINT NICHOLAS.\u201d\n\nWhile they stood in joyful wonder, they heard a great knocking and\nconfusion of tongues outside the door, and the people calling aloud\nupon Claas Schlaschenschlinger to come forth; whereupon he went forth,\nand, to his great astonishment, found that his little wooden house had\ndisappeared in the night, and in its place was standing a gorgeous\nand magnificent mansion of Dutch bricks, two stories high, with three\nwindows in front, all of a different size; and a door cut right out of\nthe corner, just as it is seen at this blessed day.\n\nThe neighbours wondered much, and it was whispered among them, that\nthe fiend had helped Claas to this great domicil, which was one of the\nbiggest in the city, and almost equal to that of Barendt Roeloffsen.\nBut when Claas told them of the visit of St. Nicholas, and showed them\nthe purse of golden ducats, with the legend upon it, they thought\nbetter of it, and contented themselves with envying him heartily his\ngood fortune.\n\nI shall not relate how Claas prospered ever afterwards, in spite of his\nenemies the burgomasters, who, at last, were obliged to admit him as\none of their number; or how little Aintjie held up her head among the\nhighest; or how Claas ever after eschewed the lapstone, and, like a\nworshipful magistrate, took to bettering the condition of mankind, till\nat length he died, and was gathered to his forefathers, full of years\nand honours.\n\nAll I shall say is, that the great house in New street continued in the\nfamily for several generations, until a degenerate descendant of Claas,\nbeing thereunto incited by the d\u2014l, did sell it to another degenerate\nsplutterkin, who essayed to pull it down. But mark what followed. No\nsooner had the workmen laid hands on it, than the brickbats began to\nfly about at such a rate, that they all came away faster than they\nwent; some with broke heads, and others with broken bones, and not one\ncould ever be persuaded to meddle with it afterwards.\n\nAnd let this be a warning to any one who shall attempt to lay their\nsacrilegious hands on the LAST OF THE DUTCH HOUSES, the gift of St.\nNicholas, for whoever does so, may calculate, to a certainty on getting\nwell peppered with brickbats, I can tell them.\n\n\n\n\n                    THE REVENGE OF SAINT NICHOLAS.\n\n                       A TALE FOR THE HOLYDAYS.\n\n\nEverybody knows that in the famous city of New-York, whose proper name\nis New-Amsterdam, the excellent St. Nicholas\u2014who is worth a dozen St.\nGeorges and dragons to boot, and who, if every tub stood on its right\nbottom, would be at the head of the Seven Champions of christendom\u2014I\nsay, everybody knows the excellent St. Nicholas, in holyday times,\ngoes about among the people in the middle of the night, distributing\nall sorts of toothsome and becoming gifts to the good boys and girls\nin this his favourite city. Some say that he comes down the chimneys\nin a little Jersey wagon; others, that he wears a pair of Holland\nskates, with which he travels like the wind; and others, who pretend\nto have seen him, maintain that he has lately adopted a locomotive,\nand was once actually detected on the _Albany_ railroad. But this last\nassertion is looked upon to be entirely fabulous, because St. Nicholas\nhas too much discretion to trust himself in such a newfangled jarvie;\nand so I leave this matter to be settled by whomsoever will take the\ntrouble. My own opinion is, that his favourite mode of travelling\nis on a canal, the motion and speed of which aptly comport with the\nphilosophic dignity of his character. But this is not material, and\nI will no longer detain my readers with extraneous and irrelevant\nmatters, as is too much the fashion with our statesmen, orators,\nbiographers, and story tellers.\n\nIt was in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty, or sixty-one,\nfor the most orthodox chronicles differ in this respect; but it was\na very remarkable year, and it was called _annus mirabilis_ on that\naccount. It was said that several people were detected in speaking the\ntruth about that time; that nine staid, sober, and discreet widows,\nwho had sworn on an anti-masonic almanac never to enter a second time\ninto the holy state, were snapped up by young husbands before they knew\nwhat they were about; that six venerable bachelors wedded as many buxom\nyoung belles, and, it is reported, were afterwards sorry for what they\nhad done; that many people actually went to church, from motives of\npiety; and that a great scholar, who had written a book in support of\ncertain opinions, was not only convinced of his error, but acknowledged\nit publicly afterwards. No wonder the year one thousand seven hundred\nand sixty, if that was the year, was called _annus mirabilis_!\n\nWhat contributed to render this year still more remarkable, was\nthe building of six new three-story brick houses in the city, and\nthree persons setting up equipages, who, I cannot find, ever failed\nin business afterwards, or compounded with their creditors at a\npistareen in the pound. It is, moreover, recorded in the annals of the\nhorticultural society of that day, which were written on a cabbage\nleaf, as is said, that a member produced a forked radish, of such vast\ndimensions, that being dressed up in fashionable male attire at the\nexhibition, it was actually mistaken for a travelled beau by several\ninexperienced young ladies, who pined away for love of its beautiful\ncomplexion, and were changed into daffadowndillies. Some maintained\nit was a mandrake, but it was finally detected by an inquest of\nexperienced matrons. No wonder the year seventeen hundred and sixty was\ncalled _annus mirabilis_!\n\nBut the most extraordinary thing of all, was the confident assertion\nthat there was but one _gray mare_ within the bills of mortality; and,\nincredible as it may appear, she was the wife of a responsible citizen,\nwho, it was affirmed, had grown rich by weaving velvet purses out of\nsows' ears. But this we look upon as being somewhat of the character of\nthe predictions of almanac makers. Certain it is, however, that Amos\nShuttle possessed the treasure of a wife who was shrewdly suspected of\nhaving established within doors a system of government not laid down in\nAristotle or the Abbe Si\u00e8yes, who made a constitution for every day in\nthe year, and two for the first of April.\n\nAmos Shuttle, though a mighty pompous little man out of doors, was the\nmeekest of human creatures within. He belonged to that class of people\nwho pass for great among the little, and little among the great; and\nhe would certainly have been master in his own house had it not been\nfor a woman! We have read somewhere that no wise woman ever thinks her\nhusband a demigod. If so, it is a blessing that there are so few wise\nwomen in the world.\n\nAmos had grown rich, Heaven knows how\u2014he did net know himself; but,\nwhat was somewhat extraordinary, he considered his wealth a signal\nproof of his talents and sagacity, and valued himself according to the\ninfallible standard of pounds, shillings, and pence. But though he\nlorded it without, he was, as we have just said, the most gentle of men\nwithin doors. The moment he stepped inside of his own house, his spirit\ncowered down, like that of a pious man entering a church; he felt as\nif he was in the presence of a superior being\u2014to wit, Mrs. Abigail\nShuttle. He was, indeed, the meekest of beings at home, except Moses;\nand Sir Andrew Aguecheek's song, which Sir Toby Belch declared \u201cwould\ndraw nine souls out of one weaver,\u201d would have failed in drawing half\na one out of Amos. The truth is, his wife, who ought to have known,\naffirmed he had no more soul than a monkey; but he was the only man\nin the city thus circumstanced at the time we speak of. No wonder,\ntherefore, the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty was called\n_annus mirabilis_!\n\nSuch as he was, Mr. Amos Shuttle waxed richer and richer every day,\ninsomuch that those who envied his prosperity were wont to say, \u201cthat\nhe had certainly been born with a dozen silver spoons in his mouth, or\nsuch a great blockhead would never have got together such a heap of\nmoney.\u201d When he had become worth ten thousand pounds, he launched his\nshuttle magnanimously out of the window, ordered his weaver's beam to\nbe split up for oven wood, and Mrs. Amos turned his weaver's shop into\na _boudoir_. Fortune followed him faster than he ran away from her.\nIn a few years the ten thousand doubled, and in a few more trebled,\nquadrupled\u2014in short, Amos could hardly count his money.\n\n\u201cWhat shall we do now, my dear?\u201d asked Mrs. Shuttle, who never sought\nhis opinion, that I can learn, except for the pleasure of contradicting\nhim.\n\n\u201cLet us go and live in the country, and enjoy ourselves,\u201d quoth Amos.\n\n\u201cGo into the country! go to\u2014\u201d I could never satisfy myself what Mrs.\nShuttle meant; but she stopped short, and concluded the sentence with a\nwithering look of scorn, that would have cowed the spirits of nineteen\nweavers.\n\nAmos named all sorts of places, enumerated all sorts of modes of\nlife he could think of, and every pleasure that might enter into the\nimagination of a man without a soul. His wife despised them all; she\nwould not hear of them.\n\n\u201cWell, my dear, suppose you suggest something; do now, Abby,\u201d at length\nsaid Amos, in a coaxing whisper; \u201cwill you, my onydoney?\u201d\n\n\u201cOny fiddlestick! I wonder you repeat such vulgarisms. But if I must\nsay what I should like, I should like to travel.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, let us go and make a tour as far as Jamaica, or Hackensack, or\nSpiking-devil. There is excellent fishing for striped bass there.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpiking-devil!\u201d screamed Mrs. Shuttle; \u201can't you ashamed to swear so,\nyou wicked mortal! I won't go to Jamaica, nor Hackensack among the\nDutch Hottentots, nor to Spiking-devil to catch striped bass. I'll go\nto Europe!\u201d\n\nIf Amos had possessed a soul it would have jumped out of its skin at\nthe idea of going beyond seas. He had once been on the sea-bass banks,\nand got a seasoning there; the very thought of which made him sick.\nBut, as he had no soul, there was no great harm done.\n\nWhen Mrs. Shuttle said a thing, it was settled. They went to Europe,\ntaking their only son with them; the lady ransacked all the milliners'\nshops in Paris, and the gentleman visited all the restaurateurs. He\nbecame such a desperate connoisseur and gourmand, that he could almost\ntell an _omelette au jambon_ from a gammon of bacon. After consummating\nthe polish, they came home, the lady with the newest old fashions, and\nthe weaver with a confirmed preference of _potage \u00e0 la Turque_ over\npepper-pot. It is said the city trembled, as with an earthquake, when\nthey landed; but the notion was probably superstitious.\n\nThey arrived near the close of the year, the memorable year, the _annus\nmirabilis_, one thousand seven hundred and sixty. Everybody that had\never known the Shuttles flocked to see them, or rather to see what\nthey had brought with them; and such was the magic of a voyage to\nEurope, that Mr. and Mrs. Amos Shuttle, who had been nobodies when they\ndeparted, became somebodies when they returned, and mounted at once to\nthe summit of _ton_.\n\n\u201cYou have come in good time to enjoy the festivities of the holydays,\u201d\nsaid Mrs. Hubblebubble, an old friend of Amos the weaver and his wife.\n\n\u201cWe shall have a merry Christmas and a happy Newyear,\u201d exclaimed Mrs.\nDoubletrouble, another old acquaintance of old times.\n\n\u201cThe holydays,\u201d drawled Mrs. Shuttle; \u201cthe holydays? Christmas and\nNewyear? Pray what are they?\u201d\n\nIt is astonishing to see how people lose their memories abroad\nsometimes. They often forget their old friends, old customs, and\noccasionally themselves.\n\n\u201cWhy, la! now, who'd have thought it?\u201d cried Mrs. Doubletrouble; \u201cwhy,\nsure you haven't forgot the oily cooks and the mince pies, the merry\nmeetings of friends, the sleigh-rides, the Kissing Bridge, and the\nfamily parties?\u201d\n\n\u201cFamily parties!\u201d shrieked Mrs. Shuttle, and held her salts to her\nnose; \u201cfamily parties! I never heard of anything so Gothic in Paris\nor Rome; and oily cooks\u2014oh shocking! and mince pies\u2014detestable! and\nthrowing open one's doors to all one's old friends, whom one wishes to\nforget as soon as possible. Oh! the idea is insupportable!\u201d and again\nshe held the salts to her nose.\n\nMrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble found they had exposed\nthemselves sadly, and were quite ashamed. A real, genteel, well-bred,\nenlightened lady of fashion ought to have no rule of conduct\u2014no\nconscience, but Paris\u2014whatever is fashionable there is genteel\u2014whatever\nis not fashionable is vulgar. There is no other standard of right,\nand no other eternal fitness of things. At least so thought Mrs.\nHubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble.\n\n\u201cBut is it possible that all these things are out of fashion abroad?\u201d\nasked the latter, beseechingly.\n\n\u201cThey never were in,\u201d said Mrs. Amos Shuttle. \u201cFor my part, I mean to\nclose my doors and windows on Newyear's day\u2014I'm determined.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so am I,\u201d said Mrs. Hubblebubble.\n\n\u201cAnd so am I,\u201d said Mrs. Doubletrouble.\n\nAnd it was settled that they should make a combination among themselves\nand their friends, to put down the ancient and good customs of the\ncity, and abolish the sports and enjoyments of the jolly Newyear. The\nconspirators then separated, each to pursue her diabolical designs\nagainst oily cooks, mince pies, sleigh ridings, sociable visitings,\nand family parties.\n\nNow the excellent St. Nicholas, who knows well what is going on in\nevery house in the city, though, like a good and honourable saint, he\nnever betrays any family secrets, overheard these wicked women plotting\nagainst his favourite anniversary, and he said to himself,\n\n\u201c_Vuur en Vlammen!_ but I'll be even with you, _mein vrouw_.\u201d So he\ndetermined he would play these conceited and misled women a trick or\ntwo before he had done with them.\n\nIt was now the first day of the new year, and Mrs. Amos Shuttle,\nand Mrs. Doubletrouble, and Mrs. Hubblebubble, and all their wicked\nabetters, had shut up their doors and windows, so that when their old\nfriends called they could not get into their houses. Moreover, they\nhad prepared neither mince pies, nor oily cooks, nor crullers, nor\nany of the good things consecrated to St. Nicholas by his pious and\nwell-intentioned votaries, and they were mightily pleased at having\nbeen as dull and stupid as owls, while all the rest of the city were as\nmerry as crickets, chirping and frisking in the warm chimney corner.\nLittle did they think what horrible judgments were impending over them,\nprepared by the wrath of the excellent St. Nicholas, who was resolved\nto make an example of them for attempting to introduce their newfangled\ncorruptions in place of the ancient customs of his favourite city.\nThese wicked women never had another comfortable sleep in their lives!\n\nThe night was still, clear, and frosty\u2014the earth was everywhere one\ncarpet of snow, and looked just like the ghost of a dead world, wrapped\nin a white winding sheet; the moon was full, round, and of a silvery\nbrightness, and by her discreet silence afforded an example to the\nrising generation of young damsels, while the myriads of stars that\nmultiplied as you gazed at them, seemed as though they were frozen\ninto icicles, they looked so cold, and sparkled with such a glorious\nlustre. The streets and roads leading from the city were all alive\nwith sleighs, filled with jovial souls, whose echoing laughter and\ncheerful songs, mingled with a thousand merry bells, that jingled in\nharmonious dissonance, giving spirit to the horses and animation to\nthe scene. In the license of the season, hallowed by long custom, each\nof the sleighs saluted the others in passing with a \u201cHappy Newyear,\u201d\na merry jest, or mischievous gibe, exchanged from one gay party to\nanother. All was life, motion, and merriment; and as old frostbitten\nWinter, aroused from his trance by the rout and revelry around, raised\nhis weatherbeaten head to see what was passing, he felt his icy blood\nwarming and coursing through his veins, and wished he could only\novertake the laughing buxom Spring, that he might dance a jig with her,\nand be as frisky as the best of them. But as the old rogue could not\nbring this desirable matter about, he contented himself with calling\nfor a jolly bumper of cocktail, and drinking a swinging draught to the\nhealth of the blessed St. Nicholas, and those who honour the memory of\nthe president of good fellows.\n\nAll this time the wicked women and their abetters lay under the\nmalediction of the good saint, who caused them to be bewitched by\nan old lady from Salem. Mrs. Amos Shuttle could not sleep, because\nsomething had whispered in her apprehensive ear, that her son, her\nonly son, whom she had engaged to the daughter of Count Grenouille, in\nParis, then about three years old, was actually at that moment crossing\nKissing Bridge, in company with little Susan Varian, and some others\nbesides. Now Susan was the fairest little lady of all the land; she\nhad a face and an eye just like the Widow Wadman, in Leslie's charming\npicture; a face and an eye which no reasonable man under Heaven could\nresist, except my Uncle Toby\u2014beshrew him and his fortifications, I\nsay! She was, moreover, a good little girl, and an accomplished little\ngirl\u2014but, alas! she had not mounted to the step in Jacob's ladder of\nfashion, which qualifies a person for the heaven of high ton, and Mrs.\nShuttle had not been to Europe for nothing. She would rather have seen\nher son wedded to dissipation and profligacy than to Susan Varian; and\nthe thought of his being out sleigh-riding with her, was worse than\nthe toothache. It kept her awake all the livelong night; and the only\nconsolation she had was scolding poor Amos, because the sleigh bells\nmade such a noise.\n\nAs for Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, they neither of them\ngot a wink of sleep during a whole week, for thinking of the beautiful\nFrench chairs and damask curtains Mrs. Shuttle had brought from Europe.\nThey forthwith besieged their good men, leaving them no rest until they\nsent out orders to Paris for just such rich chairs and curtains as\nthose of the thrice happy Mrs. Shuttle, from whom they kept the affair\na profound secret, each meaning to treat her to an agreeable surprise.\nIn the mean while they could not rest for fear the vessel which was\nto bring these treasures might be lost on her passage. Such was the\ndreadful judgment inflicted on them by the good St. Nicholas.\n\nThe perplexities of Mrs. Shuttle increased daily. In the first place,\ndo all she could, she could not make Amos a fine gentleman. This was\na metamorphosis which Ovid would never have dreamed of. He would be\ntelling the price of everything in his house, his furniture, his\nwines, and his dinners, insomuch that those who envied his prosperity,\nor, perhaps, only despised his pretensions, were wont to say, after\neating his venison and drinking his old Madeira, \u201cthat he ought to\nhave been a tavern keeper, he knew so well how to make out a bill.\u201d\nMrs. Shuttle once overheard a speech of this kind, and the good St.\nNicholas himself, who had brought it about, almost felt sorry for the\nmortification she endured on the occasion.\n\nScarcely had she got over this, when she was invited to a ball, by Mrs.\nHubblebubble, and the first thing she saw on entering the drawing\nroom, was a suit of damask curtains and chairs, as much like her own\nas two peas, only the curtains had far handsomer fringe. Mrs. Shuttle\ncame very near fainting away, but escaped for that time, determining to\nmortify this impudent creature, by taking not the least notice of her\nfinery. But St. Nicholas ordered it otherwise, so that she was at last\nobliged to acknowledge they were very elegant indeed. Nay, this was not\nthe worst, for she overheard one lady whisper to another, that Mrs.\nHubblebubble's curtains were much richer than Mrs. Shuttle's.\n\n\u201cOh, I dare say,\u201d replied the other\u2014\u201dI dare say Mrs. Shuttle bought\nthem second-hand, for her husband is as mean as pursley.\n\nThis was too much. The unfortunate woman was taken suddenly ill\u2014called\nher carriage, and went home, where it is supposed she would have died\nthat evening had she not wrought upon Amos to promise her an entire\nnew suit of French furniture for her drawing room and parlour to boot,\nbesides a new carriage. But for all this she could not close her eyes\nthat night for thinking of the \u201csecond-hand curtains.\u201d\n\nNor was the wicked Mrs. Doubletrouble a whit better off, when her\nfriend Mrs. Hubblebubble treated her to the agreeable surprise of the\nFrench window curtains and chairs. \u201cIt is too bad\u2014too bad, I declare,\u201d\nsaid she to herself; \u201cbut I'll pay her off soon.\u201d Accordingly she\nissued invitations for a grand ball and supper, at which both Mrs.\nShuttle and Mrs. Hubblebubble were struck dumb at beholding a suit of\ncurtains and a set of chairs exactly of the same pattern with theirs.\nThe shock was terrible, and it is impossible to say what might have\nbeen the consequences, had not the two ladies all at once thought of\nuniting in abusing Mrs. Doubletrouble for her extravagance.\n\n\u201cI pity poor Mr. Doubletrouble,\u201d said Mrs. Shuttle, shrugging her\nshoulders significantly, and glancing at the room.\n\n\u201cAnd so do I,\u201d said Mrs. Hubblebubble, doing the same.\n\nMrs. Doubletrouble had her eye upon them, and enjoyed their\nmortification until her pride was brought to the ground by a dead shot\nfrom Mrs. Shuttle, who was heard to exclaim, in reply to a lady who\nobserved the chairs and curtains were very handsome,\n\n\u201cWhy, yes; but they have been out of fashion in Paris a long time; and,\nbesides, really they are getting so common, that I intend to have mine\nremoved to the nursery.\u201d\n\nHeavens! what a blow! Poor Mrs. Doubletrouble hardly survived it. Such\na night of misery as the wicked woman endured almost made the good St.\nNicholas regret the judgment he had passed upon these mischievous and\nconceited females. But he thought to himself he would persevere until\nhe had made them a sad example to all innovators upon the ancient\ncustoms of our forefathers.\n\nThus were these wicked and miserable women spurred on by witchcraft\nfrom one piece of extravagance to another, and a deadly rivalship\ngrew up between them, which destroyed their own happiness and that of\ntheir husbands. Mrs. Shuttle's new carriage and drawing-room furniture\nin due time were followed by similar extravagances on the part of\nthe two other wicked women, who had conspired against the hallowed\ninstitutions of St. Nicholas; and soon their rivalship came to such a\nheight that neither of them had a moment's rest or comfort from that\ntime forward. But they still shut their doors on the jolly anniversary\nof St. Nicholas, though the old respectable burghers and their wives,\nwho had held up their heads time out of mind, continued the good\ncustom, and laughed at the presumption of these upstart interlopers,\nwho were followed only by a few people of silly pretensions, who had\nno more soul than Amos Shuttle himself. The three wicked women grew to\nbe almost perfect skeletons, on account of the vehemence with which\nthey strove to outdo each other, and the terrible exertions necessary\nto keep up the appearance of being the best friends in the world.\nIn short, they became the laughingstock of the town; and sensible,\nwell-bred folks cut their acquaintance, except when they sometimes\naccepted an invitation to a party, just to make merry with their folly\nand conceitedness.\n\nThe excellent St. Nicholas, finding they still persisted in their\nopposition to his rites and ceremonies, determined to inflict on them\nthe last and worst punishment that can befall the sex. He decreed that\nthey should be deprived of all the delights springing from the domestic\naffections, and all taste for the innocent and virtuous enjoyments\nof a happy fireside. Accordingly, they lost all relish for home;\nwere continually gadding about from one place to another in search\nof pleasure, and worried themselves to death to find happiness where\nit is never to be found. Their whole lives became one long series of\ndisappointed hopes, galled pride, and gnawing envy. They lost their\nhealth, they lost their time, and their days became days of harassing\nimpatience, their nights nights of sleepless, feverish excitement,\nending in weariness and disappointment. The good saint sometimes\nfelt sorry for them, but their continued obstinacy determined him to\npersevere in his plan to punish the upstart pride of these rebellious\nfemales.\n\nYoung Shuttle, who had a soul, which I suppose he inherited from\nhis mother, all this while continued his attentions to little Susan\nVarian, which added to the miseries inflicted on his wicked mother.\nMrs. Shuttle insisted that Amos should threaten to disinherit his son,\nunless he gave up this attachment.\n\n\u201cLord bless your soul, Abby,\u201d said Amos, \u201cwhat's the use of my\nthreatening, the boy knows as well as I do that I've no will of my own.\nWhy, bless my soul, Abby\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cBless your soul!\u201d interrupted Mrs. Shuttle; \u201cI wonder who'd take the\ntrouble to bless it but yourself? However, if you don't I will.\u201d\n\nAccordingly, she threatened the young man with being disinherited\nunless he turned his back on little Susan Varian, which no man ever did\nwithout getting a heartache.\n\n\u201cIf my father goes on as he has done lately,\u201d sighed the youth, \u201che\nwon't have anything left to disinherit me of but his affection, I fear.\nBut if he had millions I would not abandon Susan.\u201d\n\nAre you not ashamed of such a lowlived attachment? You, that have been\nto Europe! But, once for all, remember this, renounce this lowborn\nupstart, or quit your father's home for ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cUpstart!\u201d thought young Shuttle; \u201cone of the oldest families in the\ncity.\u201d He made his mother a respectful bow, bade Heaven bless her, and\nleft the house. He was, however, met by his father at the door, who\nsaid to him,\n\n\u201cJohnny, I give my consent; but mind, don't tell your mother a word of\nthe matter. I'll let her know I've a soul as well as other people;\u201d and\nhe tossed his head like a war horse.\n\nThe night after this Johnny was married to little Susan, and the\nblessing of affection and beauty lighted upon his pillow. Her old\nfather, who was in a respectable business, took his son-in-law into\npartnership, and they prospered so well that in a few years Johnny was\nindependent of all the world, with the prettiest wife and children in\nthe land. But Mrs. Shuttle was inexorable, while the knowledge of his\nprosperity and happiness only worked her up to a higher pitch of anger,\nand added to the pangs of jealousy perpetually inflicted on her by the\nrivalry of Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, who suffered under\nthe like infliction from the wrathful St. Nicholas, who was resolved to\nmake them an example to all posterity.\n\nNo fortune, be it ever so great, can stand the eternal sapping of\nwasteful extravagance, engendered and stimulated by the baleful passion\nof envy. In less than ten years from the hatching of the diabolical\nconspiracy of these three wicked women against the supremacy of the\nexcellent St. Nicholas, their spendthrift rivalship had ruined the\nfortunes of their husbands, and entailed upon themselves misery and\nremorse. Rich Amos Shuttle became at last as poor as a church mouse,\nand, would have been obliged to take to the loom again in his old age,\nhad not Johnny, now rich, and a worshipful magistrate of the city,\nafforded him and his better half a generous shelter under his own happy\nroof. Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble had scarcely time to\ncondole with Mrs. Shuttle, and congratulate each other, when their\nhusbands went the way of all flesh, that is to say, failed for a few\ntens of thousands, and called their creditors together to hear the good\nnews. The two wicked women lived long enough after this to repent of\ntheir offence against St. Nicholas; but they never imported any more\nFrench curtains, and at last perished miserably in an attempt to set\nthe fashions in Pennypot alley.\n\nMrs. Abigail Shuttle might have lived happily the rest of her life\nwith her children and grandchildren, who all treated her with\nreverent courtesy and affection, now that the wrath of the mighty St.\nNicholas was appeased by her exemplary punishment. But she could not\nget over her bad habits and feelings, or forgive her lovely little\ndaughter-in-law for treating her so kindly when she so little deserved\nit. She gradually pined away; and though she revived at hearing of the\ncatastrophe of Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, it was only\nfor a moment. The remainder of the life of this wicked woman was a\nseries of disappointments and heartburnings, and when she died, Amos\ntried to shed a few tears, but he found it impossible, I suppose,\nbecause, as his wife always said, \u201che had no soul.\u201d\n\nSuch was the terrible revenge of St. Nicholas, which ought to be\na warning to all who attempt to set themselves up against the\nvenerable customs of their ancestors, and backslide from the hallowed\ninstitutions of the blessed saint, to whose good offices, without\ndoubt, it is owing that this his favourite city has transcended all\nothers of the universe in beautiful damsels, valorous young men, mince\npies, and Newyear cookies. The catastrophe of these three wicked women\nhad a wonderful influence in the city, insomuch that from this time\nforward, no _gray mares_ were ever known, no French furniture was ever\nused, and no woman was hardy enough to set herself up in opposition\nto the good customs of St. Nicholas. And so, wishing many happy\nNewyears to all my dear countrywomen and countrymen, saving those who\nshut their doors to old friends, high or low, rich or poor, on that\nblessed anniversary, which makes more glad hearts than all others put\ntogether\u2014I say, wishing a thousand happy Newyears to all, with this\nsingle exception, I lay down my pen, with a caution to all wicked women\nto beware of the revenge of St. Nicholas.\n\n\n\n\n                              THE ORIGIN\n\n                                  OF\n\n                          THE BAKERS' DOZEN.\n\n\nLittle Brom Boomptie, or Boss Boomptie, as he was commonly called by\nhis apprentices and neighbours, was the first man that ever baked\nNewyear cakes in the good city of New-Amsterdam. It is generally\nsupposed that he was the inventor of those excellent and respectable\narticles. However this may be, he lived and prospered in the little\nDutch house in William-street, called, time out of mind, Knickerbocker\nHall, just at the outskirts of the good town of New-Amsterdam.\n\nBoomptie was a fat comfortable creature, with a capital pair of\noldfashioned legs; a full, round, good-natured face; a corporation\nlike unto one of his plump loaves; and as much honesty as a Turkish\nbaker, who lives in the fear of having his ears nailed to his own door\nfor retailing bad bread. He wore a low-crowned, broad-brimmed beaver;\na gray bearskin cloth coat, waistcoat, and breeches, and gray woollen\nstockings, summer and winter, all the year round. The only language\nhe spoke, understood, or had the least respect for, was Dutch\u2014 and\nthe only books he ever read or owned, were a Dutch Bible, with silver\nclasps and hinges, and a Dutch history of the Duke of Alva's bloody\nwars in the Low Countries. Boss Boomptie was a pious man, of simple\nhabits and simple character; a believer in \u201cdemonology and witchcraft;\u201d\nand as much afraid of _spooks_ as the mother that bore him. It ran in\nthe family to be bewitched, and for three generations the Boompties had\nbeen very much pestered with supernatural visitations. But for all this\nthey continued to prosper in the world, insomuch that Boss Boomptie\ndaily added a piece of wampum or two to his strong box. He was blessed\nwith a good wife, who saved the very parings of her nails, and three\nplump boys, after whom he modelled his gingerbread babies, and who were\nevery Sunday zealously instructed never to pass a pin without picking\nit up and bringing it home to their mother.\n\nIt was on Newyear's eve, in the year 1655, and the good city of\nNew-Amsterdam, then under the special patronage of the blessed\nSt. Nicholas, was as jovial and wanton as hot spiced rum and long\nabstinence from fun and frolic could make it. It is worth while to\nlive soberly and mind our business all the rest of the year, if it be\nonly to enjoy the holydays at the end with a true zest. St. Nicholas,\nthrice blessed soul! was riding up one chimney and down another like a\nlocomotive engine in his little one-horse wagon, distributing cakes to\nthe good boys, and whips to the bad ones; and the laugh of the good\ncity, which had been pent up all the year, now burst forth with an\nexplosion that echoed even unto Breuckelen and Communipaw.\n\nBoss Boomptie, who never forgot the main chance, and knew from\nexperience that Newyear's eve was a shrewd time for selling cakes,\njoined profit and pleasure on this occasion. He was one minute in his\nshop, dealing out cakes to his customers, and the next laughing, and\ntippling, and jigging, and frisking it with his wife and children\nin the little back room, the door of which had a pane of glass that\ncommanded a full view of the shop. Nobody, that is, no genuine\ndisciple of jolly St. Nicholas, ever went to bed till twelve o'clock\non Newyear's eve. The Dutch are eminently a sober, discreet folk; but\nsomehow or other, no people frolic so like the very dickens, when they\nare once let loose, as your very sober and discreet bodies.\n\nBy twelve o'clock the spicy beverage, sacred to holydays at that time,\nbegan to mount up into Boss Boomptie's head, and he was vociferating a\nDutch ditty in praise of St. Nicholas with marvellous discordance, when\njust as the old clock in one corner of the room struck the hour that\nushers in the new year, a loud knock was heard on the counter, which\nroused the dormant spirit of trade within his bosom. He went into the\nshop, where he found a little ugly old thing of a woman, with a sharp\nchin, resting on a crooked black stick, which had been burned in the\nfire and then polished; two high sharp cheek bones; two sharp black\neyes; skinny lips, and a most diabolical pair of leather spectacles on\na nose ten times sharper than her chin.\n\n\u201cI want a dozen Newyear cookies,\u201d screamed she, in a voice sharper than\nher nose.\n\n\u201cVel, den, you needn't sbeak so loud,\u201d replied Boss Boomptie, whose ear\nbeing just then attuned to the melody of his own song, was somewhat\noutraged by this shrill salutation.\n\n\u201cI want a dozen Newyear cookies,\u201d screamed she again, ten times louder\nand shriller than ever.\n\n\u201cDuyvel\u2014I an't teaf den,\u201d grumbled the worthy man, as he proceeded to\ncount out the cakes, which the other very deliberately counted after\nhim.\n\n\u201cI want a dozen,\u201d screamed the little woman; \u201chere is only twelve.\u201d\n\n\u201cVel, den, and what de duyvel is dwalf but a dozen?\u201d said Boomptie.\n\n\u201cI tell you I want one more,\u201d screamed she, in a voice that roused Mrs.\nBoomptie in the back room, who came and peeped through the pane of\nglass, as she often did when she heard the boss talking to the ladies.\n\nBoss Boomptie waxed wroth, for he had a reasonable quantity of hot\nspiced rum in his noddle, which predisposes a man to valour.\n\n\u201cVel, den,\u201d said he, \u201cyou may co to de duyvel and get anoder, for you\nwon't get it here.\u201d\n\nBoomptie was not a stingy man; on the contrary, he was very generous\nto the pretty young damsels who came to buy cakes, and often gave them\ntwo or three extra for a smack, which made Mrs. Boomptie peevish\nsometimes, and caused her to watch at the little pane of glass when she\nought to have been minding her business like an honest woman.\n\nBut this old hag was as ugly as sin, and the little baker never in his\nwhole life could find in his heart to be generous to an ugly woman, old\nor young.\n\n\u201cIn my country they always give thirteen to the dozen,\u201d screamed the\nugly woman in the leather spectacles.\n\n\u201cAnd where de duyvel is your gountry?\u201d asked Boomptie.\n\n\u201cIt is nobody's business,\u201d screeched the old woman. \u201cBut will you give\nme another cake, once for all?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot if it would save me and all my chineration from peing pewitched\nand pedemonologized dime out of mind,\u201d cried he, in a great passion.\n\nWhat put it into his head to talk in this way I don't know, but he\nmight better have held his tongue. The old woman gave him three stivers\nfor his cakes, and went away, grumbling something about \u201cliving to\nrepent it,\u201d which Boss Boomptie didn't understand or care a fig about.\nHe was chock full of Dutch courage, and defied all the ugly old women\nin Christendom. He put his three stivers in the till and shut up\nhis shop, determined to enjoy the rest of the night without further\nmolestation.\n\nWhile he was sitting smoking his pipe, and now and then sipping his\nbeverage, all at once he heard a terrible jingling of money in his\nshop, whereupon he thought some losel caitiff was busy with his little\ntill. Accordingly, priming himself with another reinforcement of Dutch\ncourage, he took a pine knot, for he was too economical to burn candles\nat that late hour, and proceeded to investigate. His money was all\nsafe, and the till appeared not to have been disturbed.\n\n\u201cDuyvel,\u201d quoth the little baker man, \u201cI pelieve mine _vrouw_ and I\nhave bote cot a zinging in our heads.\u201d\n\nHe had hardly turned his back when the same jingling began again, so\nmuch to the surprise of Boss Boomptie, that had it not been for his\ninvincible Dutch courage, he would, as it were, have been a little\nfrightened. But he was not in the least; and again went and unlocked\nthe till, when what was his astonishment to see the three diabolical\nstivers, received from the old woman, dancing, and kicking up a dust\namong the coppers and wampum with wonderful agility.\n\n\u201c_Wat donder is dat!_\u201d exclaimed he, sorely perplexed; \u201cde old duyvel\nhas cot indo dat old sinner's stivers, I dink.\u201d He had a great mind to\nthrow them away, but he thought it a pity to waste so much money; so\nhe kept them locked up all night, enjoining them to good behaviour,\nwith a design to spend them the next day in another jollification.\nBut the next day they were gone, and so was the broomstick with which\nit was the custom to sweep out the shop every morning. Some of the\nneighbours coming home late the night before, on being informed of the\n\u201cabduction\u201d of the broomstick, deposed and said, they had seen an old\nwoman riding through the air upon just such another, right over the top\nof the little bakehouse; whereat Boss Boomptie, putting these odds and\nends together, did tremble in his heart, and he wished to himself that\nhe had given the ugly old woman thirteen to the dozen.\n\nNothing particular came to pass the next day, except that now and then\nthe little Boompties complained of having pins stuck in their backs,\nand that their cookies were snatched away by some one unknown. On\nexamination it was found that no marks of the pins were to be seen; and\nas to the cookies, the old black woman of the kitchen declared she saw\nan invisible hand just as one of the children lost his commodity.\n\n\u201cDen I am pewitched, zure enough!\u201d cried Boomptie, in despair, for\nhe had had too much of \u201cdemonology and witchcraft\u201d in the family not\nto know when he saw them, just as well as he did his own face in the\nCollect.\n\nOn the second day of the year, the 'prentice boys all returned to their\nbusiness, and Boomptie once more solaced himself with the baking of the\nstaff of life. The reader must know that it is the custom of bakers to\nknead a great batch at a time, in a mighty bread tray, into which they\nthrow two or three little apprentice boys to paddle about, like ducks\nin a mill pond, whereby it is speedily amalgamated, and set to rising\nin due time. When the little caitiffs began their gambols in this\nmatter they one and all stuck fast in the dough, as though it had been\nso much pitch, and, to the utter dismay of honest Boomptie, behold the\nwhole batch rose up in a mighty mass, with the boys sticking fast on\nthe top of it!\n\n\u201c_Wat blikslager!_\u201d exclaimed little Boomptie, as he witnessed this\ncatastrophe; \u201cde duyvel ish cot into de yeast dis dime, I dink.\u201d\n\nThe bread continued to rise till it lifted the roof off the bakehouse,\nwith the little 'prentice boys on the top, and the bread tray following\nafter. Boss Boomptie and his wife watched this wonderful rising of the\nbread in dismay, and in proof of the poor woman's being bewitched,\nit was afterwards recollected that she uttered not a single word on\nthis extraordinary occasion. The bread rose and rose, until it finally\ndisappeared, boys and all, behind the Jersey hills. If such things had\nbeen known of at that time, it would have been taken for a balloon; as\nit was, the people of Bergen and Communipaw thought that it was a water\nspout.\n\nLittle Boss Boomptie was disconsolate at the loss of his bread and his\n'prentice boys, whom he never expected to see again. However, he was a\nstirring body, and set himself to work to prepare another batch, seeing\nhis customers must be supplied in spite of \u201cwitchcraft or demonology.\u201d\nTo guard against such another rebellious rising, he determined to go\nthrough the process down in the cellar, and turn his bread tray upside\ndown. The bread, instead of rising, began to sink into the earth so\nfast, that Boss Boomptie had just time to jump off before it entirely\ndisappeared in the ground, which opened and shut just like a snuffbox.\n\n\u201cWat blikslager is dat!\u201d exclaimed he, out of breath; \u201cmy pread rises\ndownward dis dime, I dink. My customers must go widout to-day.\u201d\n\nBy-and-by his customers came for hot rolls and muffins, but some of\nthem had gone up and some down, as little Boss Boomptie related after\nthe manner just described. What is very remarkable, nobody believed\nhim; and doubtless, if there had been any rival baker in New-Amsterdam,\nthe boss would have lost all his customers. Among those that called on\nthis occasion, was the ugly old woman with the sharp eyes, nose, chin,\nvoice, and leather spectacles.\n\n\u201cI want a dozen Newyear cookies!\u201d screamed she, as before.\n\n\u201cVuur en vlammen!\u201d muttered he, as he counted out the twelve cakes.\n\n\u201cI want one more!\u201d screamed she.\n\n\u201cDen you may co to de duyvel and kit it, I say, for not anoder shall\nyou haf here, I dell you.\u201d\n\nSo the old woman took her twelve cakes, and went out grumbling, as\nbefore. All the time she staid, Boomptie's old dog, who followed him\nwherever he went, growled and whined, as it were, to himself, and\nseemed mightily relieved when she went away. That very night, as\nthe little baker was going to see one of his old neighbours at the\n_Maiden's Valley_, then a little way out of town walking, as he always\ndid, with his hands behind him, every now and then he felt something as\ncold as death against them, which he could never account for, seeing\nthere was not a soul with him but his old dog. Moreover, Mrs. Boomptie,\nhaving bought half a pound of tea at a grocery store, and put it into\nher pocket, did feel a twitching and jerking of the paper of tea in\nher pocket, every step she went. The faster she ran the quicker and\nstronger was the twitching and jerking, so that when the good woman got\nhome she was nigh fainting away. On her recovery she took courage, and\npulled the tea out of her pocket, and laid it on the table, when behold\nit began to move by fits and starts, jumped off the table, hopped out\nof doors, all alone by itself, and jigged away to the place from whence\nit came. The grocer brought it back again, but Madam Boomptie looked\nupon the whole as a judgment for her extravagance, in laying out so\nmuch money for tea, and refused to receive it again. The grocer assured\nher that the strange capers of the bundle were owing to his having\nforgot to cut the twine with which he had tied it; but the good woman\nlooked upon this as an ingenious subterfuge, and would take nothing but\nher money. When the husband and wife came to compare notes, they both\nagreed they were certainly bewitched. Had there been any doubt of the\nmatter, subsequent events would soon have put it to rest.\n\nThat very night Mrs. Boomptie was taken after a strange way. Sometimes\nshe would laugh about nothing, and then she would cry about nothing;\nthen she would set to work and talk about nothing for a whole hour\nwithout stopping, in a language nobody could understand; and then, all\nat once, her tongue would cleave to the roof of her mouth, so that\nit was impossible to force it away. When this fit was over she would\nget up and dance double trouble, till she tired herself out, when she\nfell asleep, and waked up quite rational. It was particularly noticed\nthat when she talked loudest and fastest, her lips remained perfectly\nclosed, without motion, and her mouth wide open, so that the words\nseemed to come from down her throat. Her principal talk was railing\nagainst Dominie Laidlie, the good pastor of Garden-street Church,\nwhence everybody concluded that she was possessed by a devil. Sometimes\nshe got hold of a pen, and though she had never learned to write, would\nscratch and scrawl certain mysterious and diabolical figures, that\nnobody could understand, and everybody said must mean something.\n\nAs for little Boss Boomptie, he was worse off than his wife. He was\nhaunted by an invisible hand, which played him all sorts of scurvy\ntricks. Standing one morning at his counter, talking to one of the\nneighbours, he received a great box on the ear, whereat being exceeding\nwroth, he returned it with such interest on the cheek of his neighbour,\nthat he laid him flat on the floor. His friend hereupon took the law of\nhim, and proved, to the satisfaction of the court, that he had both\nhands in his breeches pockets at the time Boss Boomptie said he gave\nhim the box on the ear. The magistrate not being able to come at the\ntruth of the matter, fined them each twenty-five guilders for the use\nof the dominie.\n\nA dried codfish was one day thrown at his head, and the next minute his\nwalking stick fell to beating him, though nobody seemed to have hold of\nit A chair danced about the room, and at last alighted on the dinner\ntable, and began to eat with such a good appetite, that had not the\nchildren snatched some of the dinner away, there would have been none\nleft. The old cow one night jumped over the moon, and a pewter dish\nran fairly off with a horn spoon, which seized a cat by the tail, and\naway they all went together, as merry as crickets. Sometimes, when Boss\nBoomptie had money, or cakes, or perhaps a loaf of bread in his hand,\ninstead of putting them in their proper places, he would throw them\ninto the fire, in spite of his teeth, and then the invisible hand would\nbeat him with a bag of flour, till he was as white as a miller. As for\nkeeping his accounts, that was out of the question; whenever he sat\nhimself down to write his ink horn was snatched away by the invisible\nhand, and by-and-by it would come tumbling down the chimney. Sometimes\nan old dishcloth would be pinned to the skirt of his coat, and then a\ngreat diabolical laugh heard under the floor. At night he had a pretty\ntime of it. His nightcap was torn off his head, his hair pulled out by\nhandfuls, his face scratched, and his ears pinched as if with a red-hot\npincers. If he went out in the yard at night, he was pelted with\nbrickbats, sticks, stones, and all sorts of filthy missives; and if he\nstaid at home, the ashes were blown upon his supper; and old shoes,\ninstead of plates, seen on the table. One of the frying pans rang\nevery night of itself for a whole hour, and a three-pronged fork stuck\nitself voluntarily into Boss Boomptie's back, without hurting him in\nthe least. But what astonished the neighbours more than all, the little\nman, all at once, took to speaking in a barbarous and unknown jargon,\nwhich was afterwards found out to be English.\n\nThese matters frightened some of the neighbours and scandalized others,\nuntil at length poor Boomptie's shop was almost deserted. People were\njealous of eating his bread, for fear of being bewitched. Nay, more\nthan one little urchin complained grievously of horrible, out of the\nway pains in the stomach, after eating two or three dozen of his\nNewyear cookies.\n\nThings went on in this way until Newyear's eve came round again, when\nBoss Boomptie was sitting behind his counter, which was wont to be\nthronged with customers on this occasion, but was now quite deserted.\nWhile thinking on his present miserable state and future prospects, all\nof a sudden the little ugly old woman, with a sharp nose, sharp chin,\nsharp eyes, sharp voice, and leather spectacles, again stood before\nhim, leaning on her crooked black cane.\n\n\u201cBen je bedondered?\u201d exclaimed Boss Boomptie, \u201cwhat to you want now?\u201d\n\n\u201cI want a dozen Newyear cookies!\u201d screamed the old creature.\n\nThe little man counted out twelve, as before.\n\n\u201cI want one more!\u201d screamed she, louder than ever.\n\n\u201cMen weet hoe een koe een haas vangen kan!\u201d cried the boss, in a rage;\n\u201cden want will pe your masder.\u201d\n\nShe offered him six stivers, which he indignantly rejected, saying,\n\n\u201cI want none of your duyvel's stuyvers\u2014begone, duyvel's huysvrouw!\u201d\n\nThe old woman went her way, mumbling and grumbling as usual.\n\n\u201cBy Saint Johannes de Dooper,\u201d quoth Boss Boomptie, \u201cput she's a\npeaudy!\u201d\n\nThat night, and all the week after, the brickbats flew about\nKnickerbocker Hall like hail, insomuch that Boss Boomptie marvelled\nwhere they could all come from, until one morning, after a terrible\nshower of bricks, he found, to his great grief and dismay, that his\noven had disappeared; next went the top of his chimney; and when that\nwas gone, these diabolical sinners began at the extreme point of the\ngable end, and so went on picking at the two edges downward, until they\nlooked just like the teeth of a saw, as may be still seen in some of\nour old Dutch houses.\n\n\u201cOnbegrypelik!\u201d cried Boss Boomptie, \u201cput it's too pad to have my\nprains peat out wid my own prickpats.\u201d\n\nAbout the same time a sober respectable cat, that for years had done\nnothing but sit purring in the chimney corner, all at once got the\nduyvel in her, and after scratching the poor man half to death, jumped\nout of the chimney and disappeared. A Whitehall boatman afterwards saw\nher in Buttermilk Channel, with nothing but the tail left, swimming\nagainst the tide as easy as kiss your hand. Poor Mrs. Boomptie had\nno peace of her life, what with pinchings, stickings of needles, and\ntalking without opening her mouth. But the climax of the malice of the\ndemon which beset her was in at last tying up her tongue, so that she\ncould not speak at all, but did nothing but sit crying and wringing her\nhands in the chimney corner.\n\nThese carryings on brought round Newyear's eve again, when Boss\nBoomptie thought he would have a frolic, \u201cin spite of de duyvel,\u201d as\nhe said, which saying was, somehow or other, afterwards applied to\nthe creek at Kingsbridge. So he commanded his wife to prepare him a\nswinging mug of hot spiced rum, to keep up his courage against the\nassaults of the brickbats. But what was the dismay of the little man\nwhen he found that every time he put the beverage to his lips he\nreceived a great box on the ear, the mug was snatched away by an\ninvisible hand, and every single drop drank out of it before it came to\nBoss Boomptie's turn. Then as if it was an excellent joke, he heard a\nmost diabolical laugh down in the cellar.\n\n\u201cGoeden Hemel! Is het mogelyk!\u201d exclaimed the little man in despair.\nThis was attacking him in the very intrenchments of his heart. It was\nworse than the brickbats.\n\n\u201cSaint Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! what will become of me\u2014what sal ich\ndoon, mynheer?\u201d\n\nScarcely had he uttered this pathetic appeal, when there was a sound\nof horses' hoofs in the chimney, and presently a light wagon, drawn by\na little, fat, gray 'Sopus pony, came trundling into the room, loaded\nwith all sorts of knickknacks. It was driven by a jolly, fat, little\nrogue of a fellow, with a round sparkling eye, and a mouth which would\ncertainly have been laughing had it not been for a glorious Meershaum\npipe, which would have chanced to fall out in that case. The little\nrascal had on a three-cornered cocked hat, decked with old gold lace;\na blue Dutch sort of a short pea jacket, red waistcoat, breeks of the\nsame colour, yellow stockings, and honest thick-soled shoes, ornamented\nwith a pair of skates. Altogether he was a queer figure\u2014but there was\nsomething so irresistibly jolly and good-natured in his face, that Boss\nBoomptie felt his heart incline towards the stranger as soon as he saw\nhim.\n\n\u201cOrange Boven!\u201d cried the good saint, pulling off his cocked hat, and\nmaking a low bow to Mrs. Boomptie, who sat tonguetied in the chimney\ncorner.\n\n\u201cWat donderdag is dat?\u201d said Boss Boomptie, speaking for his wife,\nwhich made the good woman very angry, that he should take the words out\nof her mouth.\n\n\u201cYou called on Saint Nicholas. Here am I,\u201d quoth the jolly little\nsaint. \u201cIn one word\u2014for I am a saint of few words, and have my hands\nfull of business to-night\u2014in one word, tell me what you want.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am pewitched,\u201d quoth Boss Boomptie. \u201cThe duyvel is in me, my house,\nmy wife, my Newyear cookies, and my children. What shall I do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen you count a dozen you must count thirteen,\u201d answered the wagon\ndriver, at the same time cracking his whip, and clattering up the\nchimney, more like a little duyvel than a little saint.\n\n\u201cWat blixum!\u201d muttered Boss Boomptie, \u201cwhen you count a dozen you must\ncount dirdeen! je mag even wel met un stokje in de goot roeron! I never\nheard of such counting. By Saint Johannes de Dooper, put Saint Nicholas\nis a great plockhead!\u201d\n\nJust as he uttered this blasphemy against the excellent Saint Nicholas,\nhe saw through the pane of glass, in the door leading from the spare\nroom to the shop, the little ugly old woman, with the sharp eyes, sharp\nnose, sharp chin, sharp voice, and leather spectacles, alighting from a\nbroomstick, at the street door.\n\n\u201cDere is de duyvel's kint come again,\u201d quoth he, in one of his cross\nhumours, which was aggravated by his getting just then a great box on\nthe ear from the invisible hand. However, he went grumbling into the\nshop, for it was part of his religion never to neglect a customer, let\nthe occasion be what it might.\n\n\u201cI want a dozen Newyear cookies,\u201d screamed the old beauty, as usual,\nand as usual Boss Boomptie counted out twelve.\n\n\u201cI want another one,\u201d screamed she still louder.\n\n\u201cAha!\u201d thought Boss Boomptie, doubtless inspired by the jolly little\ncaitiff, Saint Nicholas\u2014\u201dAha! Het is goed visschen in troebel\nwater\u2014when you count dwalf, you must count dirdeen. Ha\u2014ha! ho\u2014ho\u2014ho!\u201d\nAnd he counted out the thirteenth cooky like a brave fellow.\n\nThe old woman made him a low courtesy, and laughed till she might have\nshown her teeth, if she had had any.\n\n\u201cFriend Boomptie,\u201d said she, in a voice exhibiting the perfection of a\nnicely modulated scream\u2014\u201cFriend Boomptie, I love such generous little\nfellows as you, in my heart. I salute you,\u201d and she advanced to kiss\nhim. Boss Boomptie did not at all like the proposition; but, doubtless\ninspired by Saint Nicholas, he submitted with indescribable grace.\n\nAt that moment, an explosion was heard inside the little glass pane,\nand the voice of Mrs. Boomptie crying out,\n\n\u201cYou false-hearted villain, have I found out your tricks at last!\u201d\n\n\u201cDe Philistyner Onweetende!\u201d cried Boss Boomptie. \u201cShe's come to her\nspeech now!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe spell is broken!\u201d screamed the old woman with the sharp eyes,\nnose, chin, and voice. \u201cThe spell is broken, and henceforward a dozen\nis thirteen, and thirteen is a dozen! There shall be thirteen Newyear\ncookies to the dozen, as a type of the thirteen mighty states that are\nto arise out of the ruins of the government of faderland!\u201d\n\nThereupon she took a Newyear cake bearing the effigy of the blessed\nSt. Nicholas, and caused Boss Boomptie to swear upon it, that for ever\nafterwards twelve should be thirteen, and thirteen should be twelve.\nAfter which, she mounted her broomstick and disappeared, just as the\nlittle old Dutch clock struck twelve. From that time forward, the\nspell that hung over the fortunes of little Boss Boomptie was broken;\nand ever after he became illustrious for baking the most glorious\nNewyear cookies in our country. Everything became as before: the little\n'prentice boys returned, mounted on the batch of bread, and their\nadventures may, peradventure, be told some other time. Finally, from\nthat day forward no baker of New-Amsterdam was ever bewitched, at least\nby an ugly old woman, and a bakers dozen has been always counted as\nthirteen.\n\n\n\n\n                              THE GHOST.\n\n\nSome time in the year 1800 or 1801, I am not certain which, a man of\nthe name of William Morgan\u2014I don't mean the person whose \u201cabduction\u201d\nhas made so much noise in the world\u2014enlisted on board the United States\nfrigate \u2014\u2014 for a three years' cruise in the Mediterranean. He was an\nawful-looking person, six feet four inches high; a long pale visage\ndeeply furrowed with wrinkles; sunken eyes far up towards his forehead;\nblack exuberant hair standing on end as if he was always frightened at\nsomething; a sharp chin of a length proportioned to his height; teeth\nwhite, but very irregular; and the colour of his eyes what the writers\non supernatural affairs call very singular and mysterious. Besides\nthis, his voice was hollow and sepulchral; on his right arm were\nengraved certain mysterious devices, surmounted with the letters E. M.;\nand his tobacco box was of iron. His everyday dress was a canvass hat\nwith a black riband band, a blue jacket, white trousers, and leather\nshoes. On Sundays he wore a white beaver, which, among sailors, bespoke\nsomething extraordinary, and on rainy days a pea jacket too short by\nhalf a yard. It is worthy of remark that Morgan entered on Friday;\nthat the frigate was launched on Friday; that the master carpenter who\nbuilt her was born on Friday; and that the squadron went to sea on\nFriday. All these singular coincidences, combined with his mysterious\nappearance, caused the sailors to look upon Morgan with some little\ndegree of wonder.\n\nDuring the voyage to Gibraltar, Morgan's conduct served to increase\nthe impression his appearance had made on the crew. He sometimes went\nwithout eating for several days together, at least no one ever saw him\neat; and, if he ever slept at all, it was without shutting his eyes or\nlying down, for his messmates, one and all, swore that, wake at what\ntime of the night they would, Morgan was seen sitting upright in his\nhammock, with his eyes glaring wide open. When his turn came to take\nhis watch upon deck, his conduct was equally strange. He would stand\nstock still in one place, gazing at the stars, or the ocean, apparently\nunconscious of his situation; and when roused by his companions, tumble\non the deck in a swoon. When he revived, he would fall to preaching\nthe most strange and incomprehensible rhapsodies that ever were heard.\nIn their idle hours upon the forecastle, Morgan told such stories\nabout himself, and his strange escapes by sea and land, as caused\nthe sailors' hair to stand on end, and made the jolly fellows look\nupon him as a person gifted with the privilege of living for ever. He\noften indeed hinted that he had as many lives as a cat, and several\ntimes offered to let himself be hanged for the gratification of his\nmessmates. On more than one occasion, he was found lying on his back\nin his hammock, apparently without life, his eyes fixed and glassy,\nhis limbs stiff and rigid, his lower jaw sunk down, and his pulse\nmotionless, at least so his messmates swore when they went to call the\ndoctor; though when the latter came he always found Morgan as well as\never he was in his life, and apparently unconscious of all that had\nhappened.\n\nAs they proceeded on the voyage, which proved for the most part a\nsuccession of calms, the sailors having little else to do, either\nimagined or invented new wonders about Morgan. At one time a little\nWelsh foretopman swore that as he was going to sit down to dinner, his\ncanteen was snatched from under him by an invisible hand, and he fell\nplump on the deck. A second had his allowance of grog \u201cabducted\u201d in a\nmysterious manner, although he was ready to make oath he never had his\neyes off it for a moment. A third had his tobacco box rifled, though it\nhad never been out of his pocket. A fourth had a crooked sixpence, with\na hole by which it was suspended from his neck by a riband, taken away\nwithout his ever being the wiser for it.\n\nThese things at length reached the ears of Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, who, the\nnext time Morgan got into one of his trances, had him confined for\nfour-and-twenty hours; and otherwise punished him in various ways\non the recurrence of any one of these wonderful reports. All this\nproduced no effect whatever either on Morgan or the crew, which at\nlength had its wonder stretched to the utmost bounds by a singular\nadventure of our hero.\n\nOne day, the squadron being about halfway across the Atlantic, and\nthe frigate several leagues ahead with a fine breeze, there was an\nalarm of the magazine being on fire. Morgan was just coming on deck\nwith a spoon in his hand, for some purpose or other, when hearing the\ncry of \u201cmagazine on fire,\u201d he made one spring overboard. The fire was\nextinguished by the daring gallantry of an officer, now living, and\nstanding in the first rank of our naval heroes. In the confusion and\nalarm, it was impossible to make any efforts to save Morgan; and it was\nconsidered a matter of course that he had perished in the ocean. Two\ndays after, one of the other vessels of the squadron came alongside\nthe frigate, and sent a boat on board with Billy Morgan. Twelve hours\nfrom the time of his leaping overboard, he had been found swimming away\ngallantly, with the spoon in his hand. When asked why he did not let it\ngo, he replied that he kept it to help himself to salt water when he\nwas dry. This adventure fixed in the minds of the sailors an obstinate\nopinion, that Morgan was either a dead man come to life again, or one\nthat was not very easy to be killed.\n\nAfter this, Morgan continued his mysterious pranks. The sailors talked\nand wondered, and Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 punished him, until the squadron was\nwithin two or three days' sail of Gibraltar, admitting the wind\ncontinued fair as it then was. Morgan had been punished pretty severely\nthat morning for stargazing and falling into a swoon on his watch the\nnight before, and had solemnly assured his messmates, that he intended\nto jump overboard and drown himself the first opportunity. He made his\nwill, dressed himself in his best, and settled all his affairs. He\nalso replenished his tobacco box, put his allowance of biscuit in his\npocket, and filled a small canteen with water, which he strung about\nhis neck; saying that perhaps he might take it into his head to live a\nday or two in the water, before he finally went to the bottom.\n\nBetween twelve and one, the vessel being becalmed, the night a clear\nstarlight, and the sentinels pacing their rounds, Morgan was distinctly\nseen to come up through the hatchway, walk forward, climb the bulwark,\nand let himself drop into the sea. A midshipman and two seamen\ntestified to the facts; and Morgan being missing the next morning,\nthere was no doubt of his having committed suicide by drowning himself.\nThis affair occasioned much talk, and various were the opinions of the\nship's crew on the subject. Some swore it was one Davy Jones who had\nbeen playing his pranks; others that it was no man, but a ghost or a\ndevil that had got among them; and others were in daily expectation of\nseeing him come on board again, as much alive as ever he was.\n\nIn the mean time, the squadron proceeded but slowly, being detained\nseveral days by calms and head winds, most of which were in some way or\nother laid to Billy Morgan by the gallant tars, who fear nothing but\nFridays and men without heads. His fate, however, gradually ceased to\nbe a subject of discussion, and the wonder was quickly passing away,\nwhen one night, about a week after his jumping overboard, the figure of\nMorgan, all pale and ghastly, his clothes hanging wet about him\u2014with\neyes more sunken, hair more upright, and face more thin and cadaverous\nthan ever, was seen by one of his messmates, who happened to be lying\nawake, to emerge slowly from the forepart of the ship, approach one of\nthe tables where there was a can of water, from which it took a hearty\ndraught, and disappear in the direction whence it came. The sailor told\nthe story next morning, but as yet very few believed him.\n\nThe next night the same figure appeared, and was seen by a different\nperson from him by whom it was first observed. It came from the same\nquarter again, helped itself to a drink, and disappeared in the same\ndirection it had done before. The story of Morgan's ghost, in the\ncourse of a day or two, came to the ears of Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, who caused\na search to be made in that part of the vessel whence the ghost had\ncome; under the impression that the jumping overboard of Morgan had\nbeen a deception, and that he was now secreted on board the ship. The\nsearch ended, however, without any discovery. The calms and head winds\nstill continued, and not a sailor on board but ascribed them to Billy\nMorgan's mysterious influence. The ghost made its appearance again\nthe following night after the search, when it was seen, by another of\nMorgan's messmates, to empty his tobacco box, and seize some of the\nfragments of supper, which had been accidentally left on a table, with\nwhich it again vanished in the manner before described. The sailor\nswore that when the ghost made free with his tobacco box, he attempted\nto lay hold of him, but felt nothing in his hand, except something\nexactly like cold water.\n\nCaptain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 was excessively provoked at these stories, and caused\nanother and still more thorough search to be made, but without any\ndiscovery. He then directed a young midshipman to keep watch between\ndecks. That night the ghost again made its appearance, and the\ncourageous young officer sallied out upon it; but the figure darted\naway with inconceivable velocity, and disappeared. The midshipman,\nas directed, immediately informed Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, who instituted an\nimmediate search, but with as little success as before. By this time\nthere was not a sailor on board that was not afraid of his shadow, and\neven the officers began to be infected with a superstitious dread. At\nlength the squadron arrived at Gibraltar, and came to in the bay of\nAlgesiras, where the ships remained some days waiting the arrival of\nthose they had come to relieve. About the usual hour that night, the\nghost of Billy Morgan again appeared to one of his messmates, offered\nhim its hand, and saying \u201cGood-by, Tom,\u201d disappeared as usual.\n\nIt was a fortnight or more before the relief squadron sailed up the\nMediterranean, during which time the crews of the ships were permitted\nto take their turn to go on shore. On one of these occasions, a\nmessmate of Billy Morgan, named Tom Brown, was passing through a\ntolerably dark lane in the suburbs of Algesiras, when he heard a\nwell-known voice call out, \u201cTom, Tom, d\u2014n your eyes, don't you know\nyour old messmate?\u201d Tom knew the voice, and looking round, recognised\nhis old messmate Morgan's ghost. But he had no inclination to renew the\nacquaintance; he took to his heels, and without looking behind him to\nsee if the ghost followed, ran to the boat where his companions were\nwaiting, and told the story as soon as he could find breath for the\npurpose. This reached the ear of Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, who, being almost sure\nof the existence of Morgan, applied to the governor of the town, who\ncaused search to be made everywhere without effect. No one had ever\nseen such a person. That very night the ghost made its appearance on\nboard the frigate, and passed its cold wet hand over the face of Tom\nBrown, to whom Morgan had left his watch and chest of clothes. The poor\nfellow bawled out lustily; but before any pursuit could be made, the\nghost had disappeared in the forward part of the ship as usual. After\nthis Billy again appeared two or three times alternately to some one\nof his old messmates; sometimes in the town, at others on board the\nfrigate, but always in the dead of night. He seemed desirous to say\nsomething particular, but could never succeed in getting any of the\nsailors to listen quietly to the communication. The last time he made\nhis appearance at Algesiras, on board the frigate, he was heard by one\nof the sailors to utter, in a low hollow whisper, \u201cYou shall see me at\nMalta;\u201d after which he vanished as before.\n\nCaption R\u2014\u2014 was excessively perplexed at these strange and\nunaccountable visitations, and instituted every possible inquiry\ninto the circumstances in the hope of finding some clew to explain\nthe mystery. He again caused the ship to be examined with a view to\nthe discovery either of the place where Morgan secreted himself, or\nthe means by which he escaped from the vessel. He questioned every\nman on board, and threatened the severest punishment, should he ever\ndiscover that they deceived him in their story, or were accomplices\nin the escape of Morgan. He even removed everything in the forward\npart of the ship, and rendered it impossible for any human being to\nbe there without being detected. The whole resulted in leaving the\naffair involved in complete mystery, and the squadron proceeded up the\nMediterranean, to cruise along the African coast, and rendezvous at\nMalta.\n\nIt was some weeks before the frigate came to the latter place, and in\nthe mean time, as nothing had been seen of the ghost, it was concluded\nthat the shade of Billy Morgan was appeased, or rather the whole affair\nhad been gradually forgotten. Two nights after her arrival, a party\nof sailors, being ashore at La Vallette, accidentally entered a small\ntavern in a remote part of the suburbs, where they commenced a frolic,\nafter the manner of those amphibious bipeds. Among them was the heir\nof Billy Morgan, who about three or four in the morning went to bed,\nnot quite as clear headed as he might have been. He could not tell how\nlong he had been asleep, when he was awakened by a voice whispering in\nhis ear, \u201cTom, Tom, wake up!\u201d On opening his eyes, he beheld, by the\npale light of the morning, the ghastly figure of Billy Morgan leaning\nover his bed and glaring at him with eyes like saucers. Tom cried,\n\u201cMurder! ghost! Billy Morgan!\u201d as loud as he could bawl, until he\nroused the landlord, who came to know what was the matter. Tom related\nthe whole affair, and inquired if he had seen anything of the figure\nhe described. Mine host utterly denied having seen or ever heard of\nsuch a figure as Billy Morgan, and so did all his family. The report\nwas again alive on board the frigate, that Billy Morgan's ghost had\ntaken the field once more. \u201cHeaven and earth!\u201d cried Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, \u201cis\nBilly Morgan's ghost come again? Shall I never get rid of this infernal\nspectre, or whatever else it may be?\u201d\n\nCaptain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 immediately ordered his barge, waited on the governor,\nexplained the situation of his crew, and begged his assistance in\napprehending the ghost of Billy Morgan, or Billy himself, as the case\nmight be. That night the governor caused the strictest search to be\nmade in every hole and corner of the little town of La Vallette; but in\nvain. No one had seen that remarkable being, corporeal or spiritual;\nand the landlord of the house where the spectre appeared, together with\nall his family, utterly denied any knowledge of such a person or thing.\nIt is little to be wondered at, that the search proved ineffectual,\nfor that very night Billy took a fancy to appear on board the frigate,\nwhere he again accosted his old friend Tom, to whom he had bequeathed\nall his goods and chattels. But Tom had no mind for a confidential\ncommunication with the ghost, and roared out so lustily, as usual, that\nit glided away and disappeared as before, without being intercepted in\nthe confusion which followed.\n\nCaptain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 was in despair; never was man so persecuted by a ghost\nin this world before. The ship's crew were in a state of terror and\ndismay, insomuch that had an Algerine come across them they might\nperadventure have surrendered at discretion. They signed a round robin,\ndrawn up by one of Billy Morgan's old messmates, representing to\nCaptain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 the propriety of running the ship ashore, and abandoning\nher entirely to the ghost, which now appeared almost every night,\nsometimes between decks, at others on the end of the bowsprit, and\nat others cutting capers on the yards and topgallant mast. The story\nspread into the town of La Vallette, and nothing was talked of but the\nghost of Billy Morgan, which now began to appear occasionally to the\nsentinels of the fort, one of whom had the courage to fire at it, by\nwhich he alarmed the whole island and made matters ten times worse than\never.\n\nFrom Malta the squadron, after making a cruise of a few weeks,\nproceeded to Syracuse, with the intention of remaining some time. They\nwere obliged to perform a long quarantine; the ships were strictly\nexamined by the health officers, and fumigated with brimstone, to\nthe great satisfaction of the crew of the frigate, who were in great\nhopes this would drive away Billy Morgan's ghost. These hopes were\nstrengthened by their seeing no more of that troublesome visiter during\nthe whole time the quarantine continued. The very next night after the\nexpiration of the quarantine, Billy again visited his old messmate\nand heir Tom Brown, lank, lean, and dripping wet, as usual, and after\ngiving him a rousing shake, whispered, \u201cHush, Tom; I want to speak to\nyou about my watch and chest of clothes.\u201d But Tom had no inclination\nto converse with his old friend, and cried out \u201cMurder\u201d with all his\nmight; when the ghost vanished as before, muttering, as Tom swore, \u201cYou\nbloody infernal lubber.\u201d\n\nThe reappearance of the ghost occasioned greater consternation than\never among the crew of the good ship, and it required all the\ninfluence of severe punishments to keep them from deserting on every\noccasion. Poor Tom Brown, to whom the devoirs of the spectre seemed\nmost especially directed, left off swearing and chewing tobacco, and\ndwindled to a perfect shadow. He became very serious, and spent almost\nall his leisure time in reading chapters in the Bible or singing\npsalms. Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 now ordered a constant watch all night between\ndecks, in hopes of detecting the intruder; but all in vain, although\nthere was hardly a night passed without Tom's waking and crying out\nthat the ghost had just paid him a visit. It was, however, thought very\nsingular, and to afford additional proof of its being a ghost, that on\nall these occasions, except two, it was invisible to everybody but Tom\nBrown.\n\nIn addition to the vexation arising from this persevering and\ndiabolical persecution of Billy's ghost, various other strange and\nunaccountable things happened almost every day on board the frigate.\nTobacco boxes were emptied in the most mysterious manner, and in the\ndead of the night; sailors would sometimes be missing a whole day, and\nreturn again without being able to give any account of themselves;\nand not a few of them were overtaken with liquor, without their being\never the wiser for it, for they all swore they had not drunk a drop\nbeyond their allowance. Sometimes, on going ashore on leave for a\nlimited time, the sailors would be decoyed, as they solemnly assured\nthe captain, by some unaccountable influence into strange, out of the\nway places, where they could not find their road back, and where they\nwere found by their officers in a state of mysterious stupefaction,\nthough not one had tasted a drop of liquor. On these occasions, they\nalways saw the ghost of Billy Morgan, either flying through the air, or\ndancing on the tops of the steeples, with a fiery tail like a comet.\nWonder grew upon wonder every day, until the wonder transcended the\nbounds of human credulity.\n\nAt length, Tom Brown, the night after receiving a visit from Billy\nMorgan's ghost, disappeared, and was never heard of afterwards. As\nthe chest of clothes inherited from his deceased messmate was found\nentirely empty, it might have been surmised that Tom had deserted,\nhad not a sailor, who was on the watch, solemnly declared that he saw\nthe ghost of Billy Morgan jump overboard with him in a flame of fire,\nand that he hissed like a red-hot ploughshare in the water. After\nthis bold feat, the spectre appeared no more. The squadron remained\nsome time at Syracuse, and various adventures befell the officers\nand crews, which those remaining alive tell of to this day. How\nMacdonough, then a madcap midshipman, \u201clicked\u201d the high constable of\nthe town; how Burroughs quizzed the governor; what rows they kicked\nup at masquerades; what a dust they raised among the antiquities; and\nwhat wonders they whispered in the ear of Dionysius. From thence, they\nagain sailed on a cruise, and after teaching the Bey of Tripoli a new\nway of paying tribute, and laying the foundation of that structure\nof imperishable glory which shall one day reach the highest heaven,\nreturned home, after an absence of between two and three years. The\ncrew of the frigate were paid off and discharged, and it is on record,\nas a wonder, that their three years' pay lasted some of them nearly\nthree days. But though we believe in the ghost of Billy Morgan, we\ncan scarcely credit this incredible wonder. Certain it is, that not a\nman of them ever doubted for a moment the reality of the spectre, or\nwould have hesitated to make oath of having seen it more than once.\nEven Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 spoke of it on his return, as one of those strange,\ninscrutable things, which baffle the efforts of human ingenuity, and\nseem to justify the most extraordinary relations of past and present\ntimes. His understanding revolted at the absurdity of a great part of\nthe wonders ascribed to Billy Morgan's ghost; but some of the facts\nwere so well attested, that a painful doubt would often pass over his\nmind, and dispose it to the reception of superstitious impressions.\n\nHe remained in this state of mixed skepticism and credulity, when, some\nyears after his return from the Mediterranean, being on a journey to\nthe westward, he had occasion to halt at a log house, on the borders\nof the Tennessee, for refreshment. A man came forth to receive him,\nwhom he at once recognised as his old acquaintance, Billy Morgan.\n\u201cHeavens!\u201d thought Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, \u201chere's Monsieur Tonson come again!\u201d\nBilly, who had also found out who his guest was, when too late to\nretreat, looked rather sheepish, and invited him in with little of the\nfrank hospitality characteristic of a genuine backwoodsman. Captain\nR\u2014\u2014 followed him into the house, where he found a comely good-natured\ndame, and two or three yellow-haired boys and girls, all in a fluster\nat the stranger. The house had an air of comfort, and the mistress, by\nher stirring activity, accompanied with smiling looks withal, seemed\npleased at the rare incident of a stranger's entering their door.\n\nBill Morgan was at first rather shy and awkward. But finding Captain\nR\u2014\u2014 treated him with good-humoured frankness, he, in the course of\nthe evening, when the children were gone to bed, and the wife busy in\nmilking the cows, took occasion to accost his old commander.\n\n\u201cCaptain, I hope you don't mean to shoot me for a deserter?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means,\u201d said the captain, smiling; \u201cthere would be little use in\nshooting a ghost, or a man with as many lives as a cat.\u201d\n\nBilly Morgan smiled rather a melancholy smile. \u201cAh! captain, you have\nnot forgot the ghost, I see. But it is a long time to remember an old\nscore, and I hope you'll forgive me.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn one condition I will,\u201d replied Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014; \u201cthat you tell me\nhonestly how you managed to make all my sailors believe they saw you,\nnight after night, on board the ship as well as on shore.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey did see me,\u201d replied Billy, in his usual sepulchral voice.\n\nThe captain began to be in some doubt whether he was talking to Billy\nMorgan or his ghost.\n\n\u201cYou don't pretend to say you were really on board my vessel all the\ntime?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, not all the time, only at such times as the sailors saw me\u2014except\nprevious to our arrival at Gibraltar.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen their seeing you jump overboard was all a deception.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means, sir; I did jump overboard\u2014but then I climbed back again,\ndirectly after.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe deuse you did\u2014explain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, sir, as well as I am able. I was many years among the Sandwich\nIslanders, where the vessel in which I was a cabin boy was wrecked,\na long time ago, and I can pass whole hours, I believe days, in the\nwater, without being fatigued, except for want of sleep. I have also\ngot some of their other habits, such as a great dislike to hard work,\nand a liking for going where I will, and doing just what I please. The\ndiscipline of a man-of-war did not suit me at all, and I grew tired\nafter a few days. To pass the time, and to make fun for myself with the\nsailors, I told them stories of my adventures, and pretended that I\ncould live in the water, and had as many lives as a cat. Besides this,\nas you know, I played them many other pranks, partly for amusement, and\npartly from a kind of pride I felt in making them believe I was half\na wizard. The punishment you gave me, though I own I deserved it, put\nme out of all patience, and I made up my mind to desert the very first\nopportunity. I had an old shipmate with me, whom I could trust, and we\nplanned the whole thing together. I knew if I deserted at Gibraltar,\nor any of the ports of the Mediterranean, I should almost certainly be\ncaught, and shot as an example; and for this reason we settled that\nI should jump overboard, return again, and hide myself in a coil of\ncable which was stowed away between decks, close to the bows, where\nit was dark even in the daytime. My messmate procured a piece of old\ncanvass, with which I might cover myself if necessary. To make my\njumping overboard have a greater effect on the crew, and to provide\nagainst accidents until the ship arrived at Gibraltar, I took care to\nfill my tobacco box with tobacco, my pockets with biscuits, and to\nsling a canteen of water round my neck, as I told them perhaps I might\ntake it into my head not to go to the bottom for two or three days. I\ngot Tom Brown to write my will, intending to leave my watch and chest\nto my messmate, who was to return them to me at Gibraltar, the first\nchance he could get. But Tom played us a trick, and put his own name in\nplace of my friend's. Neither he nor I were any great scholars, and the\ntrick was not found out till afterwards, when my friend was afraid of\ndiscovery, if he made any rout about the matter.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho was your friend?\u201d asked Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014.\n\n\u201cHe is still alive, and in service. I had rather not mention his name.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d replied Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, \u201cgo on.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat night I jumped overboard.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you get back into the ship?\u201d asked the captain, hastily.\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, the forward porthole, on the starboard side, was left open,\nwith a bit of rope fastened to the gun, and hanging down so that I\ncould catch it.\u201d\n\nThe captain struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, and said to\nhimself,\n\n\u201cWhat a set of blockheads we were!\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so great as might have been expected,\u201d said honest Billy Morgan,\nintending to compliment the captain; but it sounded directly the\ncontrary.\n\n\u201cAs soon as I had jumped overboard I swam to the rope, which I held\nfast, waiting the signal from my friend to climb up and hide myself in\nthe coil of cable. In the bustle which followed it was easy enough to\ndo this, and nobody saw me but my friend. Here I remained in my wet\nclothes, rather uncomfortably, as you may suppose, until my provision\nand water were expended, and my tobacco box empty. I calculated they\nwould last till we arrived at Gibraltar, when nothing would have\nbeen easier for me than to jump out of the porthole and swim ashore.\nBut the plaguy head winds and calms, which I dare say you remember,\ndelayed the squadron several days longer than I expected, and left me\nwithout supply. I could have gone without biscuit and water, but it\nwas impossible to live without tobacco. My friend had promised to come\nnear enough to hear signals of distress sometimes, but, as he told me\nafterwards, he was confined several days for picking a quarrel with Tom\nBrown, whom he longed to flog for forging the will.\n\n\u201cI remained in this state until I was nearly starved, when, not being\nable to stand it any longer, I one night, when everybody between decks\nseemed fast asleep, crept out from my hiding place, where I was coiled\nup in the shape of a cable, and finding a pitcher of water, took a\nhearty drink out of it. This was as far as I dared go at that time,\nso I went back again as quietly as possible. But I was too hungry to\nremain quiet, though among the Sandwich Islanders I had been used to go\nwithout eating for days at a time. The next night I crept out again,\nand was lucky enough to get a pretty good supply of provisions, which\nhappened to be left by some accident in the way. Two or three times I\nheard search making for me, and was very much frightened lest I should\nbe found out in my hole.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow was it possible for the blockheads to miss you?\u201d asked Captain\nR\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014.\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, they did come to the cable tier where I was, but I believe\nthey were too much frightened to look into it, or could not see me in\nthe dark hole. They did not lift the canvass that covered me either\nof the times they came. The night I found the officer on the watch,\nI gave myself up for gone; but as luck would have it, my friend was\nnow out of limbo, and always took care to examine the coil of cable so\ncarefully, that nobody thought of looking into it after him. When we\narrived at the bay of Algesiras, I took an opportunity to frighten Tom\nBrown a little, by visiting him in the night and bidding him good-by,\nafter which I slipped quietly out of the porthole, and swam ashore,\nwhile my friend pulled up the rope and shut the port after me as usual.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how did you manage to escape from the search made by the police at\nAlgesiras?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sir! I was on board the frigate all the time in my old hiding\nplace.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when the ship was searched directly after?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was ashore at that time.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how did you manage at Malta?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe landlord was my sworn brother, and wouldn't have blabbed for a\nthousand pounds.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the capers on the yardarm and topgallant, the visits paid to Tom\nBrown at Syracuse, and the wonderful stories told by the sailors of\nbeing robbed of their tobacco, getting tipsy upon nothing, and being\nled astray by nobody? What do you say to all this, Mr. Ghost?\u201d said the\ncaptain, smiling.\n\n\u201cI never paid but two visits to the ship, so far is I remember, sir,\nafter she left Malta. One was the night I wanted to talk with Tom\nBrown, the other when he disappeared the night afterwards. The rest of\nthe stories were all owing to the jokes of some of the sailors, and the\nfears of the others.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you are sure you did not jump into the sea with Tom Brown, in a\nflame of fire?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir, as I am an honest man. Tom got away without any help of\nmine, and without my ever knowing how, until a long time afterwards,\nwhen I accidentally met him at Liverpool.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was not to be convinced I was living, but ran away as hard as he\ncould, and to this day believes in ghosts as much as he does in his\nbeing alive himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo far all is clear enough,\u201d said Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014; \u201cbut what could\npossibly induce you to put yourself in the way of being caught after\nescaping, by visiting the ship and letting yourself be seen?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wanted to see Tom Brown, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy so?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wanted to get back my watch and clothes from him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I see it now. But had you no other object?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I'll tell you, sir; besides that, I had a sort of foolish pride,\nall my life, in frightening people, and making them wonder at me, by\ntelling tough stories, or doing strange things. I haven't got over it\nto this day, and have been well beaten two or three times, besides\nbeing put in jail, for playing the ghost hereabout, with the country\npeople, at court time. I confess too, sir, that I have once or twice\nfrightened my wife almost into fits, by way of a frolic; and for all\nthe trouble it has brought upon me, I believe in my soul I shall play\nthe ghost till I give up the ghost at last. Besides this, the truth is,\nsir, I had a little spite at you for having put me in the bilboes for\nsome of these pranks, as I deserved, and had no objection to pay you\noff, by breeding trouble in the ship.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruly, you succeeded wonderfully; but what became of you afterwards?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, after Tom Brown deserted, and, to quiet his conscience, left\nmy watch and clothes to my friend, I had no motive for playing the\nghost any more. I shipped in an American merchantman for Smyrna\u2014from\nthence I went to Gibraltar\u2014and after voyaging a year or two, and saving\na few hundred dollars, came to Boston at last. I did not dare to stay\nalong shore, for fear of being known by some of the officers of the\nsquadron, so I took my money and my bundle and went into the back\ncountry. I am a little of everything, a jack of all trades, and turned\nfarmer, as sea captains often do when they are tired of ploughing the\nocean. I get on pretty well now, and hope you won't have me shot by a\ncourt martial.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, \u201cI am out of the navy now. I have turned\nfarmer too, and you are quite safe.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you prosper well, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot quite as well as you, Billy\u2014I have come into the backwoods to see\nif I can do better.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly serve under me,\u201d said Billy,\u201c and I will repay all your good\noffices.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, the floggings, _et cetera_?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy God's help, sir, I may,\u201d said Billy. \u201cTry me, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo\u2014I am going on a little farther.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may go farther, and fare worse, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps so\u2014but I believe it is bedtime, and so good-night, Mr. Ghost.\u201d\n\nCaptain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 retired very quietly to his room, went to bed, and slept\nlike a top, till the broad sun shone over the summits of the trees into\nhis face, as he lay under the window. He breakfasted sumptuously, and\nset out gallantly for the prairies of St. Louis.\n\n\u201cGood-by, captain,\u201d said Billy, leering, and lengthening his face to a\nsupernatural degree. \u201cI hope you won't meet any ghosts on your way.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-by, Billy,\u201d replied Captain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014, a little nettled at this joke.\n\u201cI hope you will not get into the state prison for playing the ghost.\u201d\n\n\u201cI'll take care of that, sir; I've been in the state prison already,\nand you won't catch me there again, I warrant you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, Billy?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean, that there is little or no odds between a state ship and a\nstate prison,\u201d said Billy, with a face longer than ever, and a most\nexpressive shrug.\n\nCaptain R\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 proceeded on his way, reflecting on the singular story\nof Billy Morgan, whose pranks on board the frigate had convinced some\nhundreds of men of the existence of ghosts, and thrown the gloom of\nsuperstitious horror over the remainder of their existence. \u201cNot a\nsailor,\u201d thought he, \u201cout of more than five hundred, with the exception\nof a single one, but will go to his grave in the full belief of the\nappearance of Billy Morgan's ghost. What an unlucky rencounter this of\nmine; it has spoiled one of the best-authenticated ghost stories of the\nage.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nNYMPH OF THE MOUNTAIN.\n\n\nIn a certain corner of the Bay State there once stood, and we hope will\ncontinue to nourish long and happily, a snug town, now promoted to be\na city, the name of which is not material to our purpose. Here in a\ngreat shingle palace, which would have been a very comfortable edifice\nhad it only been finished, lived a reputable widow, well to do in the\nworld, and the happy mother of a promising lad, a wonderful clever boy,\nas might be expected. In fact, Shearjashub (that was his name) was no\nbad specimen of the country lad. He was hardy, abstemious, independent,\nand _cute_ withal; and before he was a man grown, made a great bargain\nonce out of a travelling merchant, a Scotchman, who chanced that way.\nBesides this, he was a mechanical genius; and, though far from being\nlazy, delighted in the invention of labour-saving machines, some of\nwhich were odd enough. He peeled all his mother's pumpkins by water,\nand spun her flax with a windmill. Nay, it was reported of him, that he\nonce invented a machine for digging graves upon speculation, by which\nhe calculated he should certainly have made his fortune, had not the\npeople of the village all with one accord taken it into their heads to\nlive for ever. The name of the family was Yankee, they having been the\nfirst that had intercourse with the Indians, who called them Yankee,\nbecause they could not say English.\n\nThe Widow Yankee was a right pious, meeting-going woman, who held it\nto be a great want of faith not to believe in everything; especially\neverything out of the way and impossible. She was a great amateur of\ndemonology and witchcraft. Moreover, she was gifted with a reasonable\nshare of curiosity, though it is recorded that once she came very near\nmissing to get at the bottom of a secret. The story ran as follows:\u2014\n\nOne day, as she was sitting at her window, which had a happy aspect for\noverlooking the affairs of the village, she saw a mysterious-looking\nman, with a stick in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, walking exactly\nthree feet behind a white cow. The same thing happened precisely at the\nsame hour in the same manner the next day, and so continued for some\ntime. The first week the widow began to think it rather odd; the second\nshe began to think it quite strange; the third it became altogether\nmysterious; and the fourth the poor woman took to her bed, of the\ndisease of the man and the cow.\n\nDoctor Calomel undertook the cure in a new and original manner, to wit,\nwithout the use of medicine. He wrought upon the mysterious cowdriver\nto come to the widow's house, and tell her the whole secret of the\nbusiness. When he came into the room the sick woman raised herself up,\nand in a faint voice addressed him as follows:\u2014\n\n\u201cMysterious man! I conjure thee to tell me what under the sun makes\nthee always follow that cow about every day at the same hour, and at\nthe same distance from her tail?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause the cow always goes before me!\u201d replied the mysterious man.\n\nUpon which the widow jumped out of her sick bed, seized an old shoe,\nfired it at the mysterious man's head, and was miraculously cured from\nthat moment. Doctor Calomel got into great practice thereupon.\n\nShearjashub inherited a considerable share of his mother's inquiring\ndisposition, and was very inquisitive about the affairs of other\npeople; but, to do him justice, he took pretty good care to keep\nhis own to himself, like a discreet lad as he was. Having invented\nso many labour-saving machines, Jashub, as he was usually called by\nthe neighbours, thought it was great nonsense to work himself; so he\nset his machines going, and took to the amusement of killing time,\nwhich, in a country village, is no such easy matter. It required a\nconsiderable share of ingenuity. His favourite mode of doing this was\ntaking his gun on his shoulder, and sallying forth into the fields and\nwoods, followed by a cur, whose genealogy was perfectly mysterious.\nNobody could tell to what family he belonged; certain it was, that\nhe was neither \u201cmongrel, puppy, whelp, nor hound,\u201d but a cur of low\ndegree, whose delight was to bask in the sun when he was not out with\nhis young master.\n\nIn this way Jashub would pass day after day, in what he called\nsporting; that is to say, toiling through tangled woods and rough bog\nmeadows and swamps, that quivered like a jelly at every step, and\nreturning home at night hungry as well as tired. Report said that he\nnever was known to shoot anything; and thus far his time was spent\ninnocently, if not improvingly.\n\nOne fast-day, early in the spring of 1776, Jashub went forth as usual,\nwith his gun on his shoulder, and little Snap (such was the name of the\ndog) at his heels. The early May had put on all her charms; a thousand\nlittle patches of wild violets were peeping forth with deep blue eyes;\na thousand, yea, tens of thousands of little buds were expanding into\nleaves apace; and crowds of chirping birds were singing a hymn to the\njolly laughing spring. Jashub could not find it in his heart to fire\nat them; but if he had, there would have been no danger, except of\nfrightening the little warblers, and arresting their song.\n\nBeguiled by the beauties of Nature and her charming music, Jashub\nalmost unconsciously wandered on until he came to the opening of a deep\nglen in the mountain, which rose at some miles distance, west of the\nvillage. It was formed by the passage of a pure crystal stream, which,\nin the course of ages, or perhaps by a single effort, had divided the\nmountain about the space of twenty yards, ten of which were occupied\nby the brook, which silently wound its way along the edge of steep and\nrocky precipices several hundred feet high, that formed the barriers of\nthe glen on either side. These towering perpendicular masses of gray\neternity were here and there green with the adventurous laurel, which,\nfastening its roots in the crevices, nodded over the mighty steep in\nfearful dizziness. Here and there a little spring gushed forth high up\namong the graybeard rocks, and trickled down their sides in silvery\nbrightness. In other places patches of isinglass appeared, sparkling\nagainst the sober masses, and communicating a singularly lustrous\ncharacter to the scene, which had otherwise been all gloomy solitude.\n\nJashub gazed a while in apprehensive wonder, as he stood at the\nentrance of these everlasting gates. Curiosity prompted him to enter,\nand explore the recesses within, while a certain vague unwillingness\ndeterred him. At length curiosity, or perhaps fate, which had decreed\nthat he should become the instrument of her great designs, prevailed\nagainst all opposition, and he entered the gates of this majestic\npalace of nature. He slowly advanced, sometimes arrested by a certain\nfeeling of mysterious awe; at others driven on by the power which had\nassumed the direction of his conduct, until he arrived at the centre\nof the hallowed solitude. Not a living thing breathed around him,\nexcept his little dog, and his gun trembled in his hand. All was\ngloom, silence, solitude, deep and profound. The brook poured forth\nno murmurs, the birds and insects seemed to have shunned the unsunned\nregion, where everlasting twilight reigned; and the scream of the\nhawks, pursuing their way across the deep chasm, was hushed as they\npassed.\n\nJashub was arrested by the melancholy grandeur of the scene, and his\ndog looked wistfully in his face, as if he wanted to go home. As he\nstood thus lingering, leaning on his gun, a merry strain broke forth\nupon the terrible silence, and echoed through the glen. The sound made\nhim suddenly start, in doing which his foot somehow or other caught\nin the lock of his gun, which he had forgot to uncock, as was usual\nwith him, and caused it to go off. The explosion rang through the\nrecesses of the glen in a hundred repetitions, which were answered by\nthe howlings of the little dog. As the echoes gradually subsided, and\nthe smoke cleared away, the music again commenced. It was a careless,\nlively air, such as suited the taste of the young man, and he forgot\nhis fears in his love of music.\n\nAs he stood thus entranced he heard a voice, sweet, yet animating as\nthe clear sound of the trumpet, exclaim,\n\n\u201cShearjashub! Shearjashub!\u201d\n\nJashub's heart bounded into his throat, and prevented his answering. He\nloaded his gun, and stood on the defensive.\n\nIn a moment after the same trumpet voice repeated the same words,\n\n\u201cShearjashub! Shearjashub!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat d'ye want, you tarnal kritter?\u201d at length the young man answered,\nwith a degree of courage that afterwards astonished him.\n\n\u201cListen\u2014and look!\u201d\n\nHe listened and looked, but saw nothing, until a little flourish of the\nsame sprightly tune directed his attention to the spot whence it came.\n\nHigh on the summit of the highest perpendicular cliff, which shone\ngorgeously with sparkling isinglass, seated under the shade of a tuft\nof laurels, he beheld a female figure, holding a little flageolet,\nand playing the sprightly air which he had just heard. Her height,\nnotwithstanding the distance, appeared majestic; the flash of her\nbright beaming eye illumined the depths of the gloom, and her air\nseemed that of a goddess. She was dressed in simple robes of virgin\nwhite, and on her head she wore a cap, such as has since been\nconsecrated to Liberty by my gallant countrymen.\n\nShearjashub looked, trembled, and was silent. In a few minutes,\nhowever, his recollection returned.\n\n\u201cShearjashub!\u201d exclaimed the lady of the rock, \u201clisten!\u201d\n\nBut Shearjashub had given leg bail. Both he and his faithful squire,\nlittle Snap, had left the haunted glen as fast as their feet would\ncarry them.\n\nHe told the story when he got home, with some little exaggeration.\nNobody believed him except the widow, his honoured mother, who had\nfaith to swallow a camel. All the rest laughed at him, and the wicked\ndamsels of the village were always joking about his mountain sweetheart.\n\nAt last he got out of patience, and one day demanded of those who were\nbantering him what proof they would have of the truth of his story.\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said old Deacon Mayhew, \u201cI guess I should be considerably\nparticular satisfied if you would bring us hum that same fife you heard\nthe gal play on so finely.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I,\u201d said another, \u201cwill believe the young squire if he'll play the\nsame tune on it he heard yonder in the mountain.\u201d\n\nShearjashub was so pestered and provoked at last, that he determined to\nput his courage to the proof, and see whether it would bear him out in\nanother visit to the chasm in the mountain. He thought he might as well\nbe dead as have no comfort of his life.\n\n\u201cI'll be darned if I don't go,\u201d said he, and away he went, with no\nother company than his little dog. It was on the fourth day of July,\n1776, that Shearjashub wrought himself up to a second visit.\n\n\u201cI'm just come of age this very day,\u201d said he, \u201cand I'll show the\nkritters I'm not made a man for nothing.\u201d\n\nHe certainly felt, as he afterwards confessed, a little skittish on\nthis occasion, and his dog seemed not much to relish the excursion.\nShearjashub had his gun, but had not the heart to fire at any of the\nbirds that flitted about, and seemed as if they were not afraid of\ncoming nigh him. His mind ran upon other matters entirely. He was a\nlong while getting to the chasm in the mountain. Sometimes he would\nstop to rest, as he said to himself, though he was not in the least\ntired; sometimes he found himself standing still, admiring nothing;\nand once or twice actually detected his feet moving on their way home,\ninstead of towards the mountain.\n\nOn arriving at the vast gates that, as it were, guarded the entrance to\nthe glen, he halted to consider the matter. All was silence, repose,\ngloom, and sublimity. His spirit at first sunk under the majesty of\nnature, but at length became gradually inspired by the scene before\nhim with something of a kindred dignity. He marched forward with a\nvigorous step and firm heart, rendered the more firm by hearing and\nseeing nothing of the white nymph of the rock or her sprightly music.\nHe hardly knew whether he wished to see her or not, if she appeared he\nmight be inspired to run away again; and if she did not, the deacon and\nthe girls would laugh at him worse than ever.\n\nWith these conflicting thoughts he arrived at the very centre of the\ngloomy solitude, where he stood a few moments, expecting to hear the\nmusic. All was loneliness; Repose lay sleeping on his bed of rocks, and\nSilence reigned alone in her chosen retreat.\n\n\u201cIs it possible that I was dreaming the other day, when I was here, as\nthese tarnal kritters twit me I was?\u201d asked the young man of himself.\n\nHe was answered by the voice of the white girl of the mountain,\nexclaiming, in the same sweet yet clear, animating, trumpet tones,\n\n\u201cShearjashub! Shearjashub! listen.\u201d\n\nJashub's legs felt some little inclination to run away; but this time\nhe kept his ground like a brave fellow.\n\nAgain the same sprightly air echoed through the silence of the deep\nprofound, in strains of animating yet simple, careless vivacity.\nShearjashub began to feel himself inspired. He bobbed his head from\nside to side to suit the air, and was once or twice on the point of\ncutting a caper.\n\nHe felt his bosom thrill with unwonted energies, and a new vigour\nanimated his frame as he contemplated the glorious figure of the\nmountain nymph, and listened to her sprightly flageolet.\n\n\u201cShearjashub!\u201d cried the nymph, after finishing her strain of music,\n\u201clisten!\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak\u2014I hear,\u201d said the young man.\n\n\u201cMy name is Liberty; dost thou know me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard my father and grandfather speak of thee, and say they\ncame to the New World to seek thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I am found at last. Listen to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak on.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour country has just devoted herself forever to me and my glory. Your\ncountrymen have this day pronounced themselves freemen, and they shall\nbe what they have willed, in spite of fate or fortune. But my blessings\nare never thrown away on cowards; they are to be gained by toil,\nsuffering, hunger, wounds, and death; by courage and perseverance;\nby virtue and patriotism. The wrath and the mighty energies of the\noppressor are now directed against your people; hunger assails them;\nforce overmatches them, and their spirits begin to fail. Take this\npipe,\u201d and she flung him the little flageolet, which he caught in his\nhand. \u201cCanst thou play on it? Try.\u201d\n\nHe put it to his lips, and to his surprise, produced the same animating\nstrain he had heard from the nymph of the mountain.\n\n\u201cNow go forth among the people and their armies, and inspire them for\nbattle. Wherever thou goest with thy pipe, and whenever thou playest\nthat air, I will be with thee and thy countrymen. Go, fear not; those\nwho deserve me shall always win me. Farewell\u2014we shall meet again.\u201d So\nsaying, she vanished behind the tuft of laurels.\n\nShearjashub marched straight home with his pipe, and somehow or other\nfelt he did not quite know how; he felt as if he could eat gunpowder,\nand snap his fingers at the deacon.\n\n\u201cWhat the dickens has got in the kritter?\u201d said the deacon, when he saw\nhim strutting along like a captain of militia.\n\n\u201cI declare, Jashub looks like a continental,\u201d exclaimed the girls.\n\nJust then Shearjashub put his pipe to his mouth, and played the tune\nhe had learned, as if by magic, from the mountain nymph; whereat\nDeacon Mayhew made for the little white meeting house, whither all\nthe villagers followed him, and preached a sermon, calling on the\npeople to rise and fight for liberty, in such stirring strains that\nforthwith all the men, young and old, took their muskets and went out\nin defence of their country, under the command of Shearjashub. Wherever\nhe came he played the magic tune on his pipe, and the men, like those\nof his native village, took to their arms, and went forth to meet the\noppressor, like little David against Goliath, armed with a sling and a\nstone.\n\nThey joined the army of Liberty, which they found dispirited with\ndefeat, and weak with suffering and want. They scarcely dared hope for\nsuccess to their cause, and a general gloom depressed the hearts of all\nthe true friends of freedom. In this state the enemy attacked them, and\nthrew them into confusion, when Shearjashub came on at the head of his\ntroops, playing his inspiring music with might and main. Wherever he\nwent the sounds seemed to awaken the spirit of heroism in every breast.\nThose who were retreating rallied; and those who stood their ground\nmaintained it more stoutly than ever. The victory remained with the\nsons of Liberty, and Shearjashub celebrated it with a tune on his pipe,\nwhich echoed through the whole land, and wakened it to new triumphs.\n\nAfter a hard and bloody struggle, in which the pipe of Shearjashub\nanimated the very clods of the valley wherever he went, the promise of\nthe nymph of the mountain was fulfilled. The countrymen of Shearjashub\nwere free and independent. They were about to repose under the laurels\nthey had reaped, and to wear what they had so dearly won.\n\nShearjashub also departed for his native village with his pipe,\nwhich had so materially assisted in the attainment of the blessings\nof freedom. His way lay through the chasm in the mountain, where he\nfirst encountered the nymph with the cap and snow-white robe. He was\nanticipating the happiness of seeing his aged mother, who had lived\nthrough the long war, principally on the excitement of news, and the\nstill more near and dear happiness of taking to his bosom the girl of\nhis heart, Miss Prudence Worthy, as fair a maid as ever raised a sigh\nin the bosom of lusty youth.\n\nHe had got to the centre of the glen when he was roused from his\nsweet anticipations by the well-remembered voice of the nymph of the\nmountain, who sat on the same inaccessible rock, under the same tuft of\nlaurel, where he had first seen her, with an eagle at her side.\n\n\u201cShearjashub!\u201d cried she, in a voice which made the echoes of the rocks\nmad with ecstasy\u2014\u201cShearjashub! thou hast done well, and deserved nobly\nof thy country. The thought of that is, in itself, a glorious reward\nfor toil, danger, and suffering. But thou shalt have one as dear, if\nnot dearer than even this. Look where it comes.\u201d\n\nShearjashub looked, and beheld afar off a figure all in white coming\ntowards him, at the entrance of the glen. It approached nearer, and it\nwas a woman; nearer yet, and it was a young woman; still nearer, and\nShearjashub rushed towards it, and kissed its blushing cheek. It was\nthe girl of his heart, Miss Prudence Worthy.\n\n\u201cThis is thy other blessing,\u201d exclaimed the mountain nymph, the\nsight of whom made Miss Prudence a little jealous; \u201ca richer reward\nfor noble exertions than a virtuous woman I know not of. Live free,\nlive virtuous, and then thou wilt be happy. I shall be with thee an\ninvisible witness, an invisible protector; but, in the mean while,\nshould the spirit of the people ever flag, and their hearts fail them\nin time of peril, go forth among them as thou didst before, and rouse\nthem with thy pipe and thy music. Farewell, and be happy!\u201d\n\nThe nymph disappeared, and the little jealous pang felt by Miss\nPrudence melted away in measureless confidence and love. The tune of\nthe mountain nymph was played over and over again at Shearjashub's\nwedding, and ever afterwards became known by the name of YANKEE DOODLE.\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n                        RIDE OF SAINT NICHOLAS\n                                  ON\n                            NEWYEAR'S EVE.\n\n\nOf all the cities in this New World, that which once bore the name of\nFort Orange, but now bears it no more, is the favourite of the good St.\nNicholas. It is there that he hears the sound of his native language,\nand sees the honest Dutch pipe in the mouths of a few portly burghers,\nwho, disdaining the pestilent innovations of modern times, still cling\nwith honest obstinacy to the dress, the manners, and customs of old\nfaderland. It is there, too that they have instituted a society in\nhonour of the excellent saint, whose birthday they celebrate in a\nmanner worthy of all commendation.\n\nTrue it is, that the city of his affections has from time to time\ncommitted divers great offences which sorely wounded the feelings of\nSt. Nicholas, and almost caused him to withdraw his patronage from\nits backsliding citizens. First, by adopting the newfangled style of\nbeginning the year at the bidding of the old lady of Babylon, whereby\nthe jolly Newyear was so jostled out of place that the good saint\nscarcely knew where to look for it. Next, they essayed themselves to\nlearn outlandish tongues, whereby they gradually sophisticated their\nown, insomuch that he could hardly understand them. Thirdly, they did,\nfrom time to time, admit into their churches preachings and singings\nin the upstart English language, until by degrees the ancient worship\nbecame adulterated in such a manner that the indignant St. Nicholas,\nwhen he first witnessed it, did, for the only time in his life, come\nnear to uttering a great oath, by exclaiming, \u201cWat donderdag is dat?\u201d\nNow be it known that had he said, \u201cWat donder is dat,\u201d it would have\nbeen downright swearing; so you see what a narrow escape he had.\n\nNot content with these backslidings, the burghers of Fort Orange\u2014a\npestilence on all new names!\u2014suffered themselves by degrees to be\ncorrupted by various modern innovations, under the mischievous disguise\nof improvements. Forgetting the reverence due to their ancestors, who\neschewed all internal improvement, except that of the mind and heart,\nthey departed from the venerable customs of the faderland, and pulling\ndown the old houses that, scorning all appearance of ostentation,\nmodestly presented the little end to the street, began to erect in\ntheir places certain indescribable buildings, with the broadsides as\nit were turned frontwise, by which strange contortion the comeliness\nof Fort Orange was utterly destroyed. It is on record that a heavy\njudgment fell upon the head of the first man who adventured on this\ndaring innovation. His money gave out before this monstrous novelty\nwas completed, and he invented the pernicious system of borrowing and\nmortgaging, before happily unknown among these worthy citizens, who\nwere utterly confounded, not long afterwards, at seeing the house\nchange its owner\u2014a thing that had never happened before in that goodly\ncommunity, save when the son entered on the inheritance of his father.\n\nBecoming gradually more incorrigible in their backslidings, they were\nseduced into opening, widening, and regulating the streets; making the\ncrooked straight and the narrow wide, thereby causing sad inroads into\nthe strong boxes of divers of the honest burghers, who became all at\nonce very rich, saving that they had no money to go to market. To cap\nthe climax of their enormities, they at last committed the egregious\nsacrilege of pulling down the ancient and honourable Dutch church,\nwhich stood right in the middle of State-street, or Staats-street,\nbeing so called after the family of that name, from which I am lineally\ndescended.\n\nAt this the good St. Nicholas was exceedingly grieved; and when, by\ndegrees, his favourite burghers left off eating sturgeon, being thereto\ninstigated by divers scurvy jests of certain silly strangers, that knew\nnot the excellence of that savoury fish, he cried out in the bitterness\nof his soul, \u201cOnbegrypelyk!\u201d\u2014\u201cIncredible!\u201d meaning thereby that he\ncould scarcely believe his eyes. In the bitterness of his soul he\nhad resolved to return to faderland, and leave his beloved city to be\nswallowed up in the vortex of improvement. He was making his progress\nthrough the streets, to take his last farewell, in melancholy mood,\nwhen he came to the outlet of the Grand Canal, just then completed.\n\u201cIs het mogelyk?\u201d\u2014which means, is it possible\u2014exclaimed St. Nicholas;\nand thereupon he was so delighted with this proof that his beloved\npeople had not altogether degenerated from their ancestors, that he\ndetermined not to leave them to strange saints, outlandish tongues, and\nmodern innovations. He took a sail on the canal, and returned in such\nmeasureless content, that he blessed the good city of Fort Orange, as\nhe evermore called it, and resolved to distribute a more than usual\nstore of his Newyear cookies, at the Christmas holydays. That jovial\nseason was now fast approaching. The autumn frosts had already invested\nthe forests with a mantle of glory; the farmers were in their fields\nand orchards, gathering in the corn and apples, or making cider, the\nwholesome beverage of virtuous simplicity; the robins, blackbirds, and\nall the annual emigrants to southern climes, had passed away in flocks,\nlike the adventurers to the far West; the bluebird alone lingered last\nof all to sing his parting song; and sometimes of a morning, the river\nshowed a little fretted border of ice, looking like a fringe of lace on\nthe garment of some decayed dowager. At length the liquid glass of the\nriver cooled into a wide, immoveable mirror, glistening in the sun;\nthe trees, all save the evergreens, stood bare to the keen cold winds;\nthe fields were covered with snow, affording no lures to tempt to rural\nwanderings; the enjoyments of life gradually centred themselves at the\ncheerful fireside\u2014it was winter, and Newyear's eve was come again!\n\nThe night was clear, calm, and cold, and the bright stars glittered in\nthe heavens in such multitudes, that every man might have had a star to\nhimself. The worthy patriarchs of Fort Orange, having gathered around\nthem their children, and children's children, even unto the third and\nfourth generation, were enjoying themselves in innocent revelry at the\ncheerful fireside. All the enjoyments of life had contracted themselves\ninto the domestic circle; the streets were as quiet as a churchyard,\nand not even the stroke of the watchman was heard on the curbstone.\nGradually it waxed late, and the city clocks rang, in the silence\nof night, the hour which not one of the orderly citizens had heard,\nexcept at midday, since the last anniversary of the happy Newyear,\nsave peradventure troubled with a toothache, or some such unseemly\nirritation.\n\nThe doleful warning, which broke upon the frosty air like the tolling\nof a funeral bell, roused the sober devotees of St. Nicholas to a sense\nof their trespasses on the waning night, and after one good, smoking\ndraught of spiced Jamaica to the patron saint, they, one and all, young\nand old, hied them to bed, that he might have a fair opportunity to\nbestow his favours without being seen by mortal eye. For be it known,\nthat St. Nicholas, like all really heart-whole generous fellows, loves\nto do good in secret, and eschews those pompous benefactions which are\nduly recorded in the newspapers, being of opinion they only prove that\nthe vanity of man is sometimes an overmatch for his avarice.\n\nHaving allowed them fifteen minutes, which is as much as a sober\nburgher of good morals and habits requires, to get as fast asleep as a\nchurch, St. Nicholas, having harnessed his pony, and loaded his little\nwagon with a store of good things for well-behaved, diligent children,\ntogether with whips and other mementoes for undutiful varlets, did set\nforth gayly on his errand of benevolence.\n\n_Vuur en vlammen!_ how the good saint did hurry through the streets,\nup one chimney and down another; for be it known, they are not such\nmiserable narrow things as those of other cities, where the claims\nof ostentation are so voracious that people can't afford to keep up\ngood fires, and the chimneys are so narrow that the little sweeps\nof seven years old often get themselves stuck fast, to the imminent\nperil of their lives. You may think he had a good deal of business\non hand, being obliged to visit every house in Fort Orange, between\ntwelve o'clock and daylight, with the exception of some few would-be\nfashionable upstarts, who had mortally offended him, by turning up\ntheir noses at the simple jollifications and friendly greetings of the\nmerry Newyear. Accordingly, he rides like the wind, scarcely touching\nthe ground; and this is the reason that he is never seen, except by\na rare chance, which is the cause why certain unbelieving sinners,\nwho scoff at old customs and notions, either really do, or pretend\nto doubt, whether the good things found on Christmas and Newyear\nmornings in the stockings of the little varlets of Fort Orange and\nNew-Amsterdam, are put there by the jolly St. Nicholas or not. Beshrew\nthem, say I\u2014and may they never taste the blessing of his bounty! Goeden\nHemel! as if I myself, being a kinsman of the saint, don't know him\nas well as a debtor does his creditor! But people are grown so wise\nnowadays, that they believe in nothing but the increased value of\nproperty.\n\nBe this as it may, St. Nicholas went forth blithely on his goodly\nerrand, without minding the intense cold, for he was kept right warm by\nthe benevolence of his heart, and when that failed, he ever and anon\naddressed himself to a snug little pottle, the contents of which did\nsmoke lustily when he pulled out the stopper, a piece of snow-white\ncorn cob.\n\nIt is impossible for me to specify one by one the visits paid\nthat night by the good saint, or the various adventures which he\nencountered. I therefore content myself, and I trust my worthy and\nexcellent readers, with dwelling briefly on those which appear to me\nmost worthy of descending to posterity, and withal convey excellent\nmoral lessons, without which history is naught, whether it be true or\nfalse.\n\nAfter visiting various honest little Dutch houses, with notched\nroofs, and the gable ends to the street, leaving his benedictions,\nSt. Nicholas at length came to a goodly mansion bearing strong marks\nof being sophisticated by modern fantastic innovations. He would have\npassed it by in scorn, had he not remembered that it belonged to a\ndescendant of one of his favoured votaries, who had passed away to\nhis long home without being once backslided from the customs of his\nancestors. Respect for the memory of this worthy man wrought upon his\nfeelings, and he forthwith dashed down the chimney, where he stuck\nfast in the middle, and came nigh being suffocated with the fumes of\nanthracite coal, which this degenerate descendant of a pious ancestor,\nwho spent thousands in useless and unseemly ostentation, burned by way\nof economy.\n\nIf the excellent saint had not been enveloped, as it were, in the odour\nof sanctity, which in some measure protected him from the poison of\nthis pestilent vapour, it might have gone hard with him; as it was, he\nwas sadly bewildered, when his little pony, which liked the predicament\nno better than his master, made a violent plunge, drew the wagon\nthrough the narrow passage, and down they came plump into a magnificent\nbedchamber, filled with all sorts of finery, such as wardrobes,\nbedizened with tawdry ornaments; satin chairs too good to be looked\nat or sat upon, and therefore covered with brown linen; a bedstead of\nvarnished mahogany, with a canopy over it somewhat like a cocked hat,\nwith a plume of ostrich feathers instead of orthodox valances and the\nlike; and a looking-glass large enough to reflect a Dutch city.\n\nSt. Nicholas contemplated the pair who slept in this newfangled\nabomination with a mingled feeling of pity and indignation, though I\nmust say the wife looked very pretty in her lace nightcap, with one arm\nas white as snow partly uncovered. But he soon turned away, being a\ndevout and self-denying saint, to seek for the stockings of the little\nchildren, who were innocent of these unseemly innovations. But what was\nhis horror at finding that, instead of being hung up in the chimney\ncorner, they were thrown carelessly on the floor, and that the little\nsouls, who lay asleep in each other's arms in another room, lest they\nshould disturb their parents, were thus deprived of all the pleasant\nanticipations accompanying the approaching jolly Newyear.\n\n\u201cEen vervlocte jonge,\u201d said he to himself, for he never uttered his\nmaledictions aloud, \u201cto rob their little ones of such wholesome and\ninnocent delights! But they shall not be disappointed.\u201d So he sought\nthe cold and distant chamber of the children, who were virtuous and\ndutiful, who, when they waked in the morning, found the bed covered\nwith good things, and were as happy as the day is long. When St,\nNicholas returned to the splendid chamber, which, be it known, was\nfurnished with the spoils of industrious unfortunate people, to whom\nthe owner lent money, charging them so much the more in proportion\nto their necessities. It is true that he gave some of the wealth he\nthus got over the duyvel's back, as it were, to public charities, and\nsometimes churches, when he knew it would get into the newspapers, by\nwhich he obtained the credit of being very pious and charitable. But\nSt. Nicholas was too sensible and judicious not to know that the only\ncharitable and pious donations agreeable to the Giver of good, are\nthose which are honestly come by. The alms which are got by ill means\ncan never come to good, and it is better to give back to those from\nwhom we have taken it dishonestly even one fourth, yea, one tenth, than\nto bestow ten times as much on those who have no such claim. The true\natonement for injuries is that made to the injured alone. All other is\na cheat in the eye of Heaven. You cannot settle the account by giving\nto Peter what you have filched from Paul.\n\nSo thought the good St. Nicholas, as he revolved in his mind a plan\nfor punishing this degenerate caitiff, who despised his ordinances\nand customs, and was moreover one who, in dealing with borrowers,\nnot only shaved but skinned them. Remembering not the perils of the\nchimney, he was about departing the same way he came, but the little\npony obstinately refused; and the good saint, having first taken off\nthe lace nightcap, and put a foolscap in its place, and given the\nmoney lender a tweak of the nose that made him roar, whipped instantly\nthrough the keyhole to pursue his benevolent tour through the ancient\ncity of Fort Orange.\n\nGliding through the streets unheard and unseen, he at length came\nto a little winding lane, from which his quick ear caught the sound\nof obstreperous revelry. Stopping his pony, and listening more\nattentively,\u2014 he distinguished the words, \u201cIch ben Liederich,\u201d roared\nout in a chorus of mingled voices seemingly issuing from a little low\nhouse of the true orthodox construction, standing on the right-hand\nside, at a distance of a hundred yards, or thereabout.\n\n\u201cWat donderdag!\u201d exclaimed St. Nicholas, \u201cis mine old friend, Baltus\nVan Loon, keeping it up at this time of the morning? The old rogue! but\nI'll punish him for this breach of the good customs of Fort Orange.\u201d\nSo he halted on the top of Baltus's chimney, to consider the best way\nof bringing it about, and was, all at once, saluted in the nostrils by\nsuch a delectable perfume, arising from a certain spiced beverage, with\nwhich the substantial burghers were wont to recreate themselves at this\nseason of the year, that he was sorely tempted to join a little in the\nrevelry below, and punish the merry caitiffs afterwards. Presently he\nheard honest Baltus propose\u2014\u201cThe jolly St. Nicholas,\u201d as a toast, which\nwas drunk in a full bumper, with great rejoicing and acclamation.\n\nSt. Nicholas could stand it no longer, but descended forthwith into\nthe little parlour of old Baltus, thinking, by-the-way, that, just\nto preserve appearances, he would lecture the roistering rogues a\nlittle for keeping such late hours, and, provided Baltus could give\na good reason, or indeed any reason at all, for such an unseemly\ntransgression, he would then sit down with them, and take some of the\nsavoury beverage that had regaled his nostrils while waiting at the top\nof the chimney.\n\nThe roistering rogues were so busy roaring out, \u201cIch ben Liederich,\u201d\nthat they did not take note of the presence of the saint, until he\ncried out with a loud and angry voice, \u201cWat blikslager is dat?\u201d\u2014he\ndid not say blixem, because that would have been little better than\nswearing. \u201cBen je be dondered, to be carousing here at this time of\nnight, ye ancient, and not venerable sinners?\u201d\n\nOld Baltus was not a little startled at the intrusion of the\nstrangers\u2014for, if the truth must out, he was a little in for it, and\nsaw double, as is usual at such times. This caused such a confusion in\nhis head that he forgot to rise from his seat, and pay due honour to\nhis visiter, as did the rest of the company.\n\n\u201cAre you not ashamed of yourselves,\u201d continued the saint, \u201cto set\nsuch a bad example to the neighbourhood, by carousing at this time of\nthe morning, contrary to good old customs, known and accepted by all,\nexcept such noisy splutterkins as yourselves?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis time of the morning,\u201d replied old Baltus, who had his full\nportion of Dutch courage\u2014\u201dthis time of the morning, did you say? Look\nyonder, and see with your own eyes whether it is morning or not.\n\nThe cunning rogue, in order to have a good excuse for transgressing\nthe canons of St. Nicholas, had so managed it, that the old clock in\nthe corner had run down, and now pointed to the hour of eleven, where\nit remained stationary, like a rusty weathercock. St. Nicholas knew\nthis as well as old Baltus himself, and could not help being mightily\ntickled at this device. He told Baltus that this being the case, with\npermission of his host he would sit down by the fire and warm himself,\ntill it was time to set forth again, seeing he had mistaken the hour.\n\nBaltus, who by this time began to perceive that there was but one\nvisiter instead of two, now rose from the table with much ado, and\napproaching the stranger, besought him to take a seat among the jolly\nrevellers, seeing they were there assembled in honour of St. Nicholas,\nand not out of any regard to the lusts of the flesh. In this he was\njoined by the rest of the company, so that St. Nicholas, being a\ngood-natured fellow, at length suffered himself to be persuaded,\nwhereto he was mightily incited by the savoury fumes issuing from a\nhuge pitcher standing smoking in the chimney corner. So he sat down\nwith old Baltus, and being called on for a toast, gave them \u201cOld\nFaderland\u201d in a bumper.\n\nThen they had a high time of it you may be sure. Old Baltus sang a\nfamous song celebrating the valour of our Dutch ancestors, and their\ntriumph over the mighty power of Spain after a struggle of more than a\ngeneration, in which the meads of Holland smoked, and her canals were\nred with blood. Goeden Hemel! but I should like to have been there,\nfor I hope it would have been nothing unseemly for one of my cloth to\nhave joined in chorus with the excellent St. Nicholas. Then they talked\nabout the good old times when the son who departed from the customs of\nhis ancestors was considered little better than misbegotten; lamented\nover the interloping of such multitudes of idle flaunting men and\nwomen in their way to and from the springs; the increase of taverns,\nthe high price of everything, and the manifold backslidings of the\nrising generation. Ever and anon, old Baltus would observe that sorrow\nwas as dry as a corn cob, and pour out a full bumper of the smoking\nbeverage, until at last it came to pass that honest Baltus and his\nworthy companions, being not used to such late hours, fell fast a sleep\nin their goodly armchairs, and snored lustily in concert. Whereupon St.\nNicholas, feeling a little waggish, after putting their wigs the hinder\npart before, and placing a great China bowl upside down on the head of\nold Baltus, who sat nodding like a mandarin, departed laughing ready to\nsplit his sides. In the morning, when Baltus and his companions awoke,\nand saw what a figure they cut, they laid all the trick to the door of\nthe stranger, and never knew to the last day of their lives who it was\nthat caroused with them so lustily on Newyear's morning.\n\nPursuing his way in high good humour, being somewhat exhilarated by\nthe stout carousal with old Baltus and his roistering companions, St.\nNicholas in good time came into the ancient _Colonie_, which being,\nas it were, at the outskirts of Fort Orange, was inhabited by many\npeople not well to do in the world. He descended the chimney of an old\nweatherworn house that bore evident marks of poverty, for he is not one\nof those saints that hanker after palaces and turn their backs on their\nfriends. It is his pleasure to seek out and administer to the innocent\ngratifications of those who are obliged to labour all the year round,\nand can only spare time to be merry at Christmas and Newyear. He is\nindeed the poor man's saint.\n\nOn entering the room, he was struck with the appearance of poverty\nand desolation that reigned all around. A number of little children\nof different ages, but none more than ten years old, lay huddled\nclose together on a straw bed, which was on the floor, their limbs\nintertwined to keep themselves warm, for their covering was scant and\nmiserable. Yet they slept in peace, for they had quiet countenances,\nand hunger seeks refuge in the oblivion of repose. In a corner of the\nroom stood a miserable bed, on which lay a female, whose face, as the\nmoonbeams fell upon it through a window without shutters, many panes\nof which were stuffed with old rags to keep out the nipping air of the\nwinter night, bore evidence of long and painful suffering. It looked\nlike death rather than sleep. A little pine table, a few broken\nchairs, and a dresser, whose shelves were ill supplied, constituted the\nremainder of the furniture of this mansion of poverty.\n\nAs he stood contemplating the scene, his honest old heart swelled with\nsorrowful compassion, saying to himself, \u201cGod bewaar ous, but this is\npitiful.\u201d At that moment, a little child on the straw bed cried out in\na weak voice that went to the heart of the saint, \u201cMother, mother, give\nme to eat\u2014I am hungry.\u201d St. Nicholas went to the child, but she was\nfast asleep, and hunger had infected her very dreams. The mother did\nnot hear, for long-continued sorrow and suffering sleep sounder than\nhappiness, as the waters lie stillest when the tempest is past.\n\nAgain the little child cried out, \u201cMother, mother, I am freezing\u2014give\nme some more covering.\u201d \u201cBe quiet, Blandina,\u201d answered a voice deep and\nhoarse, yet not unkind; and St. Nicholas, looking around to see whence\nit came, beheld a man sitting close in the chimney corner, though there\nwas no fire burning, his arms folded close around him, and his head\ndrooping on his bosom. He was clad like one of the children of poverty,\nand his teeth chattered with cold. St. Nicholas wiped his eyes, for he\nwas a good-hearted saint, and coming close up to the miserable man,\nsaid to him kindly, \u201cHow do ye, my good friend?\u201d\n\n\u201cFriend,\u201d said the other, \u201cI have no friend but God, and he seems to\nhave deserted me.\u201d As he said this, he raised his saddened eyes to the\ngood saint, and after looking at him a little while, as if he was not\nconscious of his presence, dropped them again, even without asking who\nhe was, or whence he came, or what he wanted. Despair had deadened his\nfaculties, and nothing remained in his mind but the consciousness of\nsuffering.\n\n\u201c_Het is jammer, het is jammer_\u2014it is a pity, it is a pity!\u201d quoth\nthe kind-hearted saint, as he passed his sleeve across his eyes. \u201cBut\nsomething must be done, and that quickly too.\u201d So he shook the poor man\nsomewhat roughly by the shoulder, and cried out, \u201cHo! ho! what aileth\nthee, son of my good old friend, honest Johannes Garrebrantze?\u201d\n\nThis salutation seemed to rouse the poor man, who arose upon his seat,\nand essaying to stand upright, fell into the arms of St. Nicholas,\nwho almost believed it was a lump of ice, so cold and stiff did it\nseem. Now, be it known that Providence, as a reward for his benevolent\ndisposition, has bestowed on St. Nicholas the privilege of doing good\nwithout measure to all who are deserving of his bounty, and that by\nsuch means as he thinks proper to the purpose. It is a power he seldom\nexerts to the uttermost, except on pressing occasions, and this he\nbelieved one of them.\n\nPerceiving that the poor man was wellnigh frozen to death, he called\ninto action the supernatural faculties which had been committed to him,\nand lo! in an instant a rousing fire blazed on the hearth, towards\nwhich the poor man, instinctively as it were, edged his chair, and\nstretched out one of his bony hands, that was as stiff as an icicle.\nThe light flashed so brightly in the face of the little ones and their\nmother, that they awoke, and seeing the cheerful blaze, arose in their\nmiserable clothing, which they had worn to aid in keeping them warm,\nand hied as fast as they could to bask in its blessed warmth. So eager\nwere they, that for a while they were unconscious of the presence of a\nstranger, although St. Nicholas had now assumed his proper person, that\nhe might not be taken for some one of those diabolical wizards who,\nbeing always in mischief, are ashamed to show their faces among honest\npeople.\n\nAt length the poor man, who was called after his father Johannes\nGarrebrantze, being somewhat revived by the genial warmth of the fire,\nlooked around, and became aware of the presence of the stranger,\nwhich inspired him with a secret awe, for which he could not account,\ninsomuch that his voice trembled, though now he was not cold, when,\nafter some hesitation, he said,\n\n\u201cStranger, thou art welcome to this poor house. I would I were better\nable to offer thee the hospitalities of the season, but I will wish\nthee a happy Newyear, and that is all I can bestow.\u201d The good yffrouw,\nhis wife, repeated the wish, and straightway began to apologize for the\nuntidy state of her apartment.\n\n\u201cMake no apologies,\u201d replied the excellent saint; \u201cI come to give, not\nto receive. To-night I treat, to-morrow you may return the kindness to\nothers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI?\u201d said Johannes Garrebrantze; \u201cI have nothing to bestow but good\nwishes, and nothing to receive but the scorn and neglect of the world.\nIf I had anything to give thee to eat or drink, thou shouldst have it\nwith all my heart. But the newyear, which brings jollity to the hearts\nof others, brings nothing but hunger and despair to me and mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou hast seen better days, I warrant thee,\u201d answered the saint; \u201cfor\nthou speakest like a scholar of Leyden. Tell me thy story, Johannes, my\nson, and we shall see whether in good time thou wilt not hold up thy\nhead as high as a church steeple.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! to what purpose, since man assuredly has, and Heaven seems to\nhave forsaken me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHush!\u201d cried St. Nicholas, \u201cHeaven never forsakes the broken spirit,\nor turns a deaf ear to the cries of innocent children. It is for the\nwicked never to hope, the virtuous never to despair. I predict thou\nshalt live to see better days.\u201d\n\n\u201cI must see them soon then, for neither I, my wife, nor my children\nhave tasted food since twenty-four hours past.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! God be with us! is there such lack of charity in the burghers of\nthe Colonie, that they will suffer a neighbour to starve under their\nvery noses? Onbegrypelik\u2014I'll not believe it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey know not my necessities.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo? What! hast thou no tongue to speak them?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am too proud to beg.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd too lazy to work,\u201d cried St. Nicholas, in a severe tone.\n\n\u201cLook you,\u201d answered the other, holding up his right arm with his left,\nand showing that the sinews were stiffened by rheumatism.\n\n\u201cIs it so, my friend? Well, but thou mightst still have bent thy spirit\nto ask charity for thy starving wife and children, though, in truth,\nbegging is the last thing an honest man ought to stoop to. But Goeden\nHemel! here am I talking while thou and thine are perishing with\nhunger.\u201d\n\nSaying which, St. Nicholas straightway bade the good yffrouw to bring\nforth the little pine table, which she did, making divers apologies for\nthe want of a tablecloth; and when she had done so, he incontinently\nspread out upon it such store of good things from his little cart, as\nmade the hungry childrens' mouths to water, and smote the hearts of\ntheir parents with joyful thanksgivings. \u201cEat, drink, and be merry,\u201d\nsaid St. Nicholas, \u201cfor to-morrow thou shalt not die, but live.\u201d\n\nThe heart of the good saint expanded, like as the morning-glory does\nto the first rays of the sun, while he sat rubbing his hands at seeing\nthem eat with such a zest, as made him almost think it was worth while\nto be hungry in order to enjoy such triumphant satisfaction. When they\nhad done, and returned their pious thanks to Heaven and the good\nstranger, St. Nicholas willed the honest man to expound the causes\nwhich had brought him to his present deplorable condition. \u201cMy own\nfolly,\u201d said he; and the other sagely replied, \u201cI thought as much.\nBeshrew me, friend, if in all my experience, and I have lived long,\nand seen much, I ever encountered distress and poverty that could not\nbe traced to its source in folly or vice. Heaven is too bountiful to\nentail misery on its creatures, save through their own transgressions.\nBut I pray thee, go on with thy story.\u201d\n\nThe good man then went on to relate that his father, old Johannes\nGarrebrantze\u2014\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d quoth St. Nicholas, \u201cI knew him well. He was an honest man, and\nthat, in these times of all sorts of improvements, except in mind\nand morals, is little less than miraculous. But I interrupt thee,\nfriend\u2014proceed with thy story, once more.\u201d\n\nThe son of Johannes again resumed his story, and related how his father\nhad left him a competent estate in the _Colonie_, on which he lived\nin good credit, and in the enjoyment of a reasonable competency, with\nhis wife and children, until within a few years past, when seeing\na vast number of three-story houses, with folding doors and marble\nmantelpieces rising up all around him, he began to be ashamed of his\nlittle one-story house with the gable end to the street, and\u2014\n\n\u201cAh! Johannes,\u201d interrupted the pale wife, \u201cdo not spare me. It was I\nthat in the vanity of my heart put such notions in thy head. It was I\nthat tempted thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was the duyvel,\u201d muttered St.Nicholas, \u201cin the shape of a pretty\nwife.\u201d\n\nJohannes gave his helpmate a look of affectionate forgiveness, and\nwent on to tell St. Nicholas how, finally egged on by the evil example\nof his neighbours, he had at last committed sacrilege against his\nhousehold gods, and pulled down the home of his fathers, commencing a\nnew one on its ruins.\n\n\u201cDonderdag!\u201d quoth the saint to himself; \u201cand the bricks came from\nfaderland too!\u201d\n\nWhen Johannes had about half finished his new house, he discovered one\nday, to his great astonishment and dismay, that all his money, which he\nhad been saving for his children, was gone. His strong box was empty,\nand his house but half finished, although, after estimating the cost,\nhe had allowed one third more in order to be sure in the business.\n\nJohannes was now at a dead stand. The idea of borrowing money and\nrunning in debt never entered his head before, and probably would\nnot now, had it not been suggested to him by a neighbour, a great\nspeculator, who had lately built a whole street of houses, not a single\nbrick of which belonged to him in reality. He had borrowed the money,\nmortgaged the property, and expected to grow rich by a sudden rise.\nPoor Johannes may be excused for listening to the seductions of this\nlosel varlet, seeing he had a house half finished on his hands; but\nwhether so or not, he did listen and was betrayed into borrowing money\nof a bank just then established in the _Colonie_ on a capital paid in\naccording to law\u2014that is, not paid at all\u2014the directors of which were\nvery anxious to exchange their rags for lands and houses.\n\nJohannes finished his house in glorious style, and having opened\nthis new mine of wealth, furnished it still more gloriously; and as\nit would have been sheer nonsense not to live gloriously in such a\nglorious establishment, spent thrice his income in order to keep up\nhis respectability. He was going on swimmingly, when what is called a\nreaction took place; which means, as far as I can understand, that the\nbank directors, having been pleased to make money plenty to increase\ntheir dividends, are pleased thereafter to make it scarce for the\nsame purpose. Instead of lending it in the name of the bank, it is\ncredibly reported they do it through certain brokers, who charge lawful\ninterest and unlawful commission, and thus cheat the law with a clear\nconscience. But I thank Heaven devoutly that I know nothing of their\nwicked mysteries, and therefore will say no more about them.\n\nBe this as it may, Johannes was called upon all of a sudden to pay his\nnotes to the bank, for the reaction had commenced, and there was no\nmore renewals. The directors wanted all the money to lend out at three\nper cent. a month. It became necessary to raise the wind, as they say\nin Wall-street, and Johannes, by the advice of his good friend the\nspeculative genius, went with him to a certain money lender of his\nacquaintance, who was reckoned a good Christian, because he always\ncharged most usury where there was the greatest necessity for a loan.\nTo a rich man he would lend at something like a reasonable interest,\nbut to a man in great distress for money he showed about as much mercy\nas a weazel does to a chicken. He sucked their blood till there was not\na drop left in their bodies. This he did six days in the week, and on\nthe seventh went three times to church, to enable him to begin the next\nweek with a clear conscience. Beshrew such varlets, I say; they bring\nreligion itself into disrepute, and add the sin of hypocrisy to men to\nthat of insult to Heaven.\n\nSuffice it to say, that poor Johannes Garrebrantze the younger went\ndown hill faster than he ever went up in his life; and inasmuch as\nI scorn these details of petty roguery as unworthy of my cloth and\ncalling, I shall content myself with merely premising, that by a\nprocess very common nowadays, the poor man was speedily bereft of all\nthe patrimony left him by his worthy father in paying commission to\nthe money lender. He finally became bankrupt; and inasmuch as he was\nunacquainted with the mystery of getting rich by such a man\u0153uvre, was\nleft without a shilling in the world. He retired from his fine house,\nwhich was forthwith occupied by his good friend the money lender, whose\nnose had been tweaked by St. Nicholas, as heretofore recorded, and took\nrefuge in the wretched building where he was found by that benevolent\nworthy. Destitute of resources, and entirely unacquainted with the art\nof living by his wits or his labours, though he tried hard both ways,\npoor Johannes became gradually steeped in poverty to the very lips, and\nbeing totally disabled by rheumatism, might, peradventure, with all his\nfamily, have perished that very night, had not Providence mercifully\nsent the good St. Nicholas to their relief.\n\n\u201c_Wat donderdag!_\u201d exclaimed the saint, when he had done\u2014\u201d_wat\ndonderdag!_\u2014was that your house down yonder, with the fine bedroom, the\nwardrobes, the looking-glass as big as the moon, and the bedstead with\na cocked hat and feathers?\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d replied the other, hanging down his head.\n\n\u201c_Is het mogelyk!_\u201d And after considering a little while, the good\nsaint slapped his hand on the table, broke forth again\u2014\u201cBy donderdag,\nbut I'll soon settle this business.\u201d\n\nHe then began to hum an old Dutch hymn, which by its soothing and\nwholesome monotony so operated upon Johannes and his family, that one\nand all fell fast asleep in their chairs.\n\nThe good St. Nicholas then lighted his pipe, and seating himself by\nthe fire, revolved in his mind the best mode of proceeding on this\noccasion. At first he determined to divest the rich money lender of all\nhis ill-gotten gains, and bestow them on poor Johannes and his family.\nBut when he considered that the losel caitiff was already sufficiently\npunished in being condemned to the sordid toils of money making, and\nin the privation of all those social and benevolent feelings which,\nwhile they contribute to our own happiness, administer to that of\nothers; that he was for ever beset with the consuming cares of avarice,\nthe hope of gain, and the fear of losses; and that, rich as he was, he\nsuffered all the gnawing pangs of an insatiable desire for more\u2014when he\nconsidered all this, St. Nicholas decided to leave him to the certain\npunishment of ill-gotten wealth, and the chances of losing it by an\nover craving appetite for its increase, which sooner or later produces\nall the consequences of reckless imprudence.\n\n\u201cLet the splutterkin alone,\u201d thought St. Nicholas, \u201cand he will become\nthe instrument of his own punishment.\u201d\n\nThen he went on to think what he should do for poor Johannes and his\nlittle children. Though he had been severely punished for his folly,\nyet did the good saint, who in his nightly holyday peregrinations had\nseen more of human life and human passions than the sun ever shone\nupon, very well know that sudden wealth, or sudden poverty, is a sore\ntrial of the heart of man, in like manner as the sudden transition\nfrom light to darkness, or darkness to light, produces a temporary\nblindness. It was true that Johannes had received a severe lesson,\nbut the great mass of mankind are prone to forget the chastening rod\nof experience, as they do the pangs of sickness when they are past.\nHe therefore settled in his mind, that the return of Johannes to\ncompetence and prosperity should be by the salutary process of his own\nexertions, and that he should learn their value by the pains it cost to\nattain them. \u201c_Het is goed visschen in troebel water_,\u201d quoth he, \u201cfor\nthen a man knows the value of what he catches.\u201d\n\nIt was broad daylight before he had finished his pipe and his\ncogitations, and placing his old polished delft pipe carefully in\nhis buttonhole, the good saint sallied forth, leaving Johannes and\nhis family still fast asleep in their chairs. Directly opposite the\nmiserable abode of Johannes there dwelt a little fat Dutchman, of\na reasonable competency, who had all his life manfully stemmed the\ntorrent of modern innovation. He eschewed all sorts of paper money as\nan invention of people without property to get hold of those that had\nit; abhorred the practice of widening streets; and despised in his\nheart all public improvements except canals, a sneaking notion for\nwhich he inherited from old faderland. He was honest as the light of\nthe blessed sun; and though he opened his best parlour but twice a year\nto have it cleaned and put to rights, yet this I will say of him, that\nthe poor man who wanted a dinner was never turned away from his table.\nThe worthy burgher was standing at the street door, which opened in the\nmiddle, and leaning over the lower half, so that the smoke of his pipe\nascended in the clear frosty morning in a little white column far into\nthe sky before it was dissipated.\n\nSt. Nicholas stopped his wagon right before his door, and cried out in\na clear hearty voice,\n\n\u201cGood-morning, good-morning, mynheer; and a happy Newyear to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-morning,\u201d cried the hale old burgher, \u201cand many happy Newyears\nto _you_. Hast got any good fat hen turkies to sell?\u201d for he took him\nfor a countryman coming in to market. St. Nicholas answered and said\nthat he had been on a different errand that morning; and the other\ncordially invited him to alight, come in, and take a glass of hot\nspiced rum, with the which it was his custom to regale all comers at\nthe jolly Newyear. The invitation was frankly accepted, for the worthy\nSt. Nicholas, though no toper, was never a member of the temperance\nsociety. He chose to be keeper of his own conscience, and was of\nopinion that a man who is obliged to sign an obligation not to drink,\nwill be very likely to break it the first convenient opportunity.\n\nAs they sat cozily together, by a rousing fire of wholesome and\nenlivening hickory, the little plump Dutchman occasionally inveighing\nstoutly against paper money, railroads, improving streets, and the\nlike, the compassionate saint took occasion to utter a wish that the\npoor man over the way and his starving family had some of the good\nthings that were so rife on Newyear's day, for he had occasion to know\nthat they were suffering all the evils of the most abject poverty.\n\n\u201cThe splutterkin,\u201d exclaimed the little fat burgher\u2014\u201dhe is as proud as\nLucifer himself. I had a suspicion of this, and sought divers occasions\nto get acquainted with him, that I might have some excuse for prying\ninto his necessities, and take the privilege of an old neighbour to\nrelieve them. But _vuur en vlammen_! would you believe it\u2014he avoided me\njust as if he owed me money, and couldn't pay.\u201d\n\nSt. Nicholas observed that if it was ever excusable for a man to be\nproud, it was when he fell into a state where every one, high and low,\nworthless and honourable, looked down upon him with contempt. Then he\nrelated to him the story of poor Johannes, and taking from his pocket\na heavy purse, he offered it to the worthy old burgher, who swore he\nwould be dondered if he wanted any of his money.\n\n\u201cBut hearken to me,\u201d said the saint; \u201cyon foolish lad is the son of an\nold friend of mine, who did me many a kindness in his day, for which\nI am willing to requite his posterity. Thou shalt take this purse and\nbestow a small portion of it, as from thyself, as a loan from time to\ntime, as thou seest he deserves it by his exertions. It may happen, as\nI hope it will, that in good time he will acquire again the competency\nhe hath lost by his own folly and inexperience; and as he began the\nworld a worthy, respectable citizen, I beseech thee to do this\u2014to be\nhis friend, and to watch over him and his little ones, in the name of\nSt. Nicholas.\u201d\n\nThe portly Burgher promised that he would, and they parted with\nmarvellous civility, St. Nicholas having promised to visit him again\nshould his life be spared. He then mounted his little wagon, and\nthe little Dutchman having turned his head for an instant, when he\nlooked again could see nothing of the saint or his equipage. \u201c_Is\nhet mogelyk!_\u201d exclaimed he, and his mind misgave him that there was\nsomething unaccountable in the matter.\n\nMy story is already too long, peradventure, else would I describe the\nastonishment of Johannes and his wife when they awoke and found the\nbenevolent stranger had departed without bidding them farewell. They\nwould have thought all that had passed was but a dream, had not the\nfragments of the good things on which they regaled during the night\nbore testimony to its reality. Neither will I detail how, step by step,\naided by the advice and countenance of the worthy little Dutchman, and\nthe judicious manner of his dispensing the bounty of St. Nicholas,\nJohannes Garrebrantze, by a course of industry, economy, and integrity,\nat length attained once again the station he had lost by his follies\nand extravagance. Suffice it to say, that though he practised a\nrational self-denial in all his outlayings, he neither became a miser,\nnor did he value money except as the means of obtaining the comforts of\nlife, and administering to the happiness of others.\n\nIn the mean time, the money lender, not being content with the\nwealth he had obtained by taking undue advantage of the distresses of\nothers, and becoming every day more greedy, launched out into mighty\nspeculations. He founded a score of towns without any houses in them;\ndealt by hundreds of thousands in fancy stocks; and finally became the\nvictim of one of his own speculations, by in time coming to believe in\nthe very deceptions he had practised upon others. It is an old saying,\nthat the greatest rogue in the world, sooner or latter, meets with\nhis match, and so it happened with the money lender. He was seduced\ninto the purchase of a town without any houses in it, at an expense of\nmillions; was met by one of those reactions that play the mischief with\nhonest labourers, and thus finally perished in a bottomless pit of his\nown digging. Finding himself sinking, he resorted to forgeries, and had\nby this means raised money to such an amount, that his villany almost\napproached to sublimity. His property, as the phrase is, came under the\nhammer, and Johannes purchased his own house at half the price it cost\nhim in building.\n\nThe good St. Nicholas trembled at the new ordeal to which Johannes\nhad subjected himself; but finding, when he visited him, as he did\nregularly every Newyear's eve, that he was cured of his foolish\nvanities, and that his wife was one of the best housekeepers in all\nFort Orange, he discarded his apprehensions, and rejoiced in the\nprosperity that was borne so meekly and wisely. The little fat Dutchman\nlived a long time in expectation that the stranger in the one-horse\nwagon would come for the payment of his purse of money; but finding\nthat year after year rolled away without his appearing, often said to\nhimself, as he sat on his stoop with a pipe in his mouth,\n\n\u201cI'll be dondered if I don't believe it was the good St. Nicholas.\u201d\n\n\n                               THE END.\n\n\n\n\n                           INTERESTING WORKS\n\n                             PUBLISHED BY\n\n                          HARPER & BROTHERS,\n\n                               New-York.\n\n\n             In 3 vols. 18mo., with Engravings, Maps, &c.,\n\n                      =THE HISTORY OF THE JEWS=.\n\n             From the earliest Period to the Present Time.\n\n                       By the Rev. H. H. MILMAN.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                   In 2 vols. 18mo., with Portraits,\n\n                    THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.\n\n                        By J. G. LOCKHART, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                          THE LIFE OF NELSON.\n\n                       By ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                    In one vol. 18mo., with a Map,\n\n                        THE LIFE AND ACTIONS OF\n\n                         ALEXANDER THE GREAT.\n\n                         By Rev. J. WILLIAMS.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n              In 2 vols. 18mo., with numerous Engravings,\n\n                    THE NATURAL HISTORY OF INSECTS.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n                        THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON.\n\n                             By JOHN GALT.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                         THE LIFE OF MOHAMMED.\n\n Founder of the Religion of Islam, and of the Empire of the Saracens.\n\n                         By Rev. GEORGE BUSH.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                 In one vol. 18mo., with an Engraving\n\n                 LETTERS ON DEMONOLOGY AND WITCHCRAFT.\n\n                      By Sir WALTER SCOTT, Bart.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                     In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Map,\n\n                         HISTORY OF THE BIBLE.\n\n                       By the Rev. G. R. GLEIG.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                   In one vol. 18mo., with Maps, &c.\n\n                NARRATIVE OF DISCOVERY AND ADVENTURE IN\n\n                      the Polar Seas and Regions.\n\nWith Illustrations of their Climate, Geology, and Natural History, and\n                   an Account of the Whale-Fishery.\n\n        By Professors LESLIE and JAMESON, and HUGH MURRAY, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n               THE LIFE AND TIMES OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.\n\n   With Anecdotes of Distinguished Persons of the last Fifty years.\n\n                         By Rev. GEORGE CROLY.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In one vol. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n            NARRATIVE OF DISCOVERY AND ADVENTURE IN AFRICA.\n\n              From the Earliest Ages to the Present Time\n\n      With Illustrations of its Geology, Mineralogy, and Zoology.\n\n    By Professor JAMESON, and JAMES WILSON and HUGH MURRAY, Esqrs.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                   In 5 vols. 18mo., with Portraits,\n\n                       LIVES OF THE MOST EMINENT\n\n                        PAINTERS AND SCULPTORS.\n\n                       By ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                 HISTORY OF CHIVALRY AND THE CRUSADES.\n\n                        By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                     LIFE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.\n\n                     By HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In one vol. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n                               A VIEW OF\n\n                       ANCIENT AND MODERN EGYPT.\n\n                With an Outline of its Natural History.\n\n                     By the Rev. M. RUSSELL, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                          HISTORY OF POLAND.\n\n             From the Earliest Period to the Present Time.\n\n                        By JAMES FLETCHER, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n                     PALESTINE, OR THE HOLY LAND,\n\n             From the Earliest Period to the Present Time\n\n                     By the Rev. M. RUSSELL, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                      =LIFE OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON=.\n\n              By Sir DAVID BREWSTER, K.B., LL.D., F.R.S.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n                   FESTIVALS, GAMES, AND AMUSEMENTS.\n\n                          Ancient and Modern.\n\n                        By HORATIO SMITH, Esq.\n\n        With Additions, by SAMUEL WOODWORTH, Esq., of New-York.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Portraits,\n\n                   MEMOIRS OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.\n\n                        By JOHN S. MEMES, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Portraits,\n\n                         LIVES AND VOYAGES OF\n\n                    DRAKE, CAVENDISH, AND DAMPIER,\n\nIncluding an Introductory View of the Earlier Discoveries in the South\n                Sea, and the History of the Bucaniers.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n       A. DESCRIPTION OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND, AND ITS INHABITANTS.\n\nWith an Authentic Account of the Mutiny of the Ship Bounty, and of the\n                 subsequent Fortunes of the Mutineers.\n\n                          By J. BARROW, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                   The Court and Camp of Bonaparte.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In 2 vols. 18mo.,\n\n                     Sacred History of the World,\n\n   as displayed in the Creation and Subsequent Events to the Deluge.\n\nAttempted to be Philosophically considered in a Series of Letters to a\n                                 Son.\n\n                       By SHARON TURNER, F.S.A.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In 2 vols. 18mo.,\n\n                              MEMOIRS OF\n\n                     CELEBRATED FEMALE SOVEREIGNS.\n\n                           By Mrs. JAMESON.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In one vol. 18mo., with Portraits, Maps, &c.,\n\n                  JOURNAL OF AN EXPEDITION TO EXPLORE\n\n               THE COURSE AND TERMINATION OF THE NIGER.\n\n   With a Narrative of a Voyage down that River to its Termination.\n\n                      By RICHARD and JOHN LANDER.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n             INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS,\n\n                    and the Investigation of Truth.\n\n                   By JOHN ABERCROMBIE, M.D., F.R.S.\n\n                            With Questions.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In 3 vols. 18mo.,\n\n                    LIVES OF CELEBRATED TRAVELLERS.\n\n                      By JAMES AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                     LIFE OF FREDERIC THE SECOND,\n\n                           King of Prussia.\n\n                            By LORD DOVER.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                    SKETCHES FROM VENETIAN HISTORY.\n\n                     By the Rev. E. SMEDLEY, M.A.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In 2 vols. 18mo.,\n\n                           INDIAN BIOGRAPHY,\n\n        or, an Historical Account of those individuals who have\n              been distinguished among the North American\n               Natives as Orators, Warriors, Statesmen,\n                         and other Remarkable\n                              Characters.\n\n                        By B. B. THATCHER, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In 3 vols. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n                 HISTORICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE ACCOUNT OF\n\n                            BRITISH INDIA.\n\n           From the most remote Period to the Present Time.\n\n       Including a Narrative of the early Portuguese and English\n             Voyages, the Revolutions in the Mogul Empire,\n              and the Origin, Progress, and Establishment\n               of the British Power; with Illustrations\n                   of the Botany, Zoology, Climate,\n                       Geology, and Mineralogy.\n\n            By HUGH MURRAY, Esq., JAMES WILSON, Esq., R. K.\n               GREVILLE, LL.D., WHITELAW AINSLIE, M.D.,\n                WILLIAM RHIND, Esq., Professor JAMESON,\n                    Professor WALLACE, and Captain\n                          CLARENCE DALRYMPLE.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                       LETTERS ON NATURAL MAGIC.\n\n                    Addressed to Sir Walter Scott.\n\n                           By Dr. BREWSTER.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                          HISTORY OF IRELAND.\n\nFrom the Anglo-Norman Invasion till the Union of the Country with Great\n                               Britain.\n\n                         By W. C. TAYLOR, Esq.\n\n               With Additions, by WILLIAM SAMPSON, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In one vol. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\nHISTORICAL VIEW OF THE PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY ON THE NORTHERN COASTS OF\n                            NORTH AMERICA.\n\n             From the Earliest Period to the Present Time.\n\n                         By P. F. TYTLER, Esq.\n\nWith Descriptive Sketches of the Natural History of the North American\n                               Regions.\n\n                         By Professor WILSON.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                     THE TRAVELS AND RESEARCHES OF\n\n                        ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT;\n\n          being a condensed Narrative of his Journeys in the\n            Equinoctial Regions of America, and in Asiatic\n                 Russia: together with Analyses of his\n                    more important Investigations.\n\n                       By W. MACGILLIVRAY, A. M.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n              In 2 vols. 18mo., with numerous Engravings,\n\n                           LETTERS OF EULER\n\n             ON DIFFERENT SUBJECTS OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY.\n\n                    Addressed to a German Princess.\n\n                         Translated by HUNTER.\n\n With Notes, and a Life of Euler, by Sir DAVID BREWSTER and Additional\n                     Notes, by JOHN GRISCOM, LL.D.\n\n                 With a Glossary of Scientific Terms.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                          A POPULAR GUIDE TO\n\n                      THE OBSERVATION OF NATURE;\n\n    or, Hints of Inducement to the Study of Natural Productions and\n            Appearances, in their Connexions and Relations.\n\n                           By ROBERT MUDIE.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n                 THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL FEELINGS.\n\n                   By JOHN ABERCROMBIE, M.D., F.R.S.\n\n                            With Questions.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n     ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF SOCIETY BY THE DIFFUSION OF KNOWLEDGE.\n\n                         By THOMAS DICK, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                        HISTORY OF CHARLEMAGNE.\n\nTo which is prefixed an Introduction, comprising the History of France\n         from the Earliest Period to the Birth of Charlemagne.\n\n                        By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In one vol. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n                         NUBIA AND ABYSSINIA.\n\n    Comprehending their Civil History, Antiquities, Arts, Religion,\n                   Literature, and Natural History.\n\n                     By the Rev. M. RUSSELL, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                       LIFE OF OLIVER CROMWELL.\n\n                     By the Rev. M. RUSSELL, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n              LECTURES ON GENERAL LITERATURE, POETRY, &c.\n\n          Delivered at the Royal Institute in 1830 and 1831.\n\n                         By JAMES MONTGOMERY.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                               MEMOIR OF\n\n                     THE LIFE OF PETER THE GREAT.\n\n                         By JOHN BARROW, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In one vol. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n                 HISTORICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE ACCOUNT OF\n\n                                PERSIA.\n\n             From the Earliest Period to the Present Time.\n\n          With a Detailed View of its Resources, Government,\n            Population, Natural History, and the Character\n                of its Inhabitants, particularly of the\n                      Wandering Tribes: including\n                     a Description of Afghanistan.\n\n                       By JAMES B. FRASER, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Map and Engravings,\n\n                        THE HISTORY OF ARABIA.\n\n                          Ancient and Modern.\n\n          Containing a Description of the Country\u2014An Account\n         of its Inhabitants, Antiquities, Political Condition,\n              and Early Commerce\u2014The Life and Religion of\n             Mohammed\u2014The Conquests, Arts, and Literature\n               of the Saracens\u2014The Caliphs of Damascus,\n                  Bagdad, Africa, and Spain\u2014The Civil\n                Government and Religious Ceremonies of\n                the Modern Arabs\u2014Origin and Suppression\n                   of the Wahabees\u2014The Institutions,\n                        Character, Manners, and\n                     Customs of the Bedouins; and\n                        a Comprehensive View of\n                         its Natural History.\n\n                          By ANDREW CRICHTON.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n                     THE PRINCIPLES OF PHYSIOLOGY,\n\n   APPLIED TO THE PRESERVATION OF HEALTH, AND TO THE IMPROVEMENT OF\n                    PHYSICAL AND MENTAL EDUCATION.\n\n                         By ANDREW COMBE, M.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                   HISTORY AND PRESENT CONDITION OF\n\n                          THE BARBARY STATES.\n\n Comprehending a View of their Civil Institutions, Antiquities, Arts,\n Religion, Literature, Commerce, Agriculture, and Natural Productions.\n\n                     By the Rev. M. RUSSELL, LL.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n             In 2 vols. 18mo., with beautiful Engravings,\n\n                         A LIFE OF WASHINGTON.\n\n                        By J. K. PAULDING, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with Engravings,\n\n                       The Philosophy of Living;\n\n              OR, THE WAY TO ENJOY LIFE AND ITS COMFORTS.\n\n                     By CALEB TICKNOR, A.M., M.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n       In one vol. 18mo., with numerous Illustrative Engravings,\n\n                              THE EARTH.\n\n        ITS PHYSICAL CONDITION, AND MOST REMARKABLE PHENOMENA.\n\n                       By W. MULLINGER HIGGINS.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                               XENOPHON.\n\n (Anabasis, translated by EDWARD SPELMAN, Esq., Cyrop\u00e6dia, by the Hon.\n                            M. A. COOPER.)\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                     THE ORATIONS OF DEMOSTHENES.\n\n                   Translated by THOMAS LELAND, D.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n                               SALLUST.\n\n                   Translated by WILLIAM ROSE, M.A.\n\n                     With Improvements and Notes.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                CAESAR.\n\n                     Translated by WILLIAM DUNCAN.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 3 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                CICERO.\n\nThe Orations translated by DUNCAN, the Offices by COCKMAN, and the Cato\n                        and L\u00e6lius by MELMOTH.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                VIRGIL.\n\n The Eclogues translated by WRANGHAM, the Georgics by SOTHEBY, and the\n                           \u00c6neid by DRYDEN.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 18mo.,\n\n                               \u00c6SCHYLUS.\n\n                Translated by the Rev. R. POTTER, M.A.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                              SOPHOCLES.\n\n                 Translated by THOMAS FRANCKLIN, D.D.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 3 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                              EURIPIDES.\n\n                Translated by the Rev. R. POTTER, M.A.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                HORACE.\n\n                  Translated by PHILIP FRANCIS, D.D.\n\n    With an Appendix, containing translations of various Odes, &c.\n\n By BEN JONSON, COWLEY, MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, ADDISON, SWIFT, BENTLEY,\n             CHATTERTON, G. WAKEFIELD, PORSON, BYRON, &c.\n\n       And by some of the most eminent Poets of the present day.\n\n                               PH\u00c6DRUS.\n\n                     With the Appendix of Gudius.\n\n                 Translated by CHRISTOPHER SMART, A.M.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                 OVID.\n\n      Translated by DRYDEN, POPE, CONGREVE, ADDISON, and others.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 3 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                              HERODOTUS.\n\n                 Translated by the Rev. WILLIAM BELOE.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 3 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                HOMER.\n\n                  Translated by ALEXANDER POPE, Esq.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 5 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                                 LIVY.\n\n                   Translated by GEORGE BAKER, A.M.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In 2 vols. 18mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                              THUCYDIDES.\n\n                   Translated by WILLIAM SMITH, A.M.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                    In one vol. 8vo., with Plates,\n\n                           PLUTARCH'S LIVES.\n\n     Translated from the original Greek, with Notes, Critical and\n                  Historical, and a Life of Plutarch.\n\n           By JOHN LANGHORNE, D.D., and WM. LANGHORNE, A.M.\n\n            A New Edition, carefully revised and corrected.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                  In one vol. 12mo., with a Portrait,\n\n                     A LIFE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.\n\n                            In Latin Prose.\n\n                   By FRANCIS GLASS, A.M., of Ohio.\n\n                       Edited by J. N. Reynolds.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In one vol. 8vo.,\n\n                        A TREATISE ON LANGUAGE,\n\n              or the Relation which Words bear to Things.\n\n                           By A. B. JOHNSON.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n       In one vol. 8vo., with numerous Illustrative Engravings,\n\n                 THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF SURVEYING;\n\n containing all the Instructions requisite for the skilful practice of\n                               this art.\n\n            With a new set of accurate Mathematical Tables.\n\n                           By ROBERT GIBSON.\n\n  Newly arranged, improved, and enlarged, with useful selections, by\n                              JAMES RYAN.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In one vol. 8vo.,\n\n                 AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON MECHANICS.\n\n             Translated from the French of M. Boucharlat.\n\nWith additions and emendations, designed to adapt it to the use of the\n                 Cadets of the U. S. Military Academy.\n\n                        By EDWARD H. COURTENAY.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                          In one vol. 48mo.,\n\n                  The Reticule and Pocket Companion;\n\n                                  OR,\n\n               MINIATURE LEXICON OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE\n\n                            By LYMAN COBB.\n\n                           \u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\n\n                           In one vol. 8vo.,\n\n                          ENGLISH SYNONYMES.\n\n   With copious Illustrations and Explanations, drawn from the best\n                               Writers.\n\n                         By GEORGE CRABB, M.A.","title":"The book of Saint Nicholas","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":59668}