{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_8571/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_8571","id":"gutenberg_8571","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8571","summary":null,"tags":["American essays","Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Short stories, American"],"text":"Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Widger\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWOLFERT'S ROOST\n\nAND\n\nMISCELLANIES\n\nBY\n\nWASHINGTON IRVING\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\nCHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST\n\nSLEEPY HOLLOW\n\nBIRDS OF SPRING\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\nABENCERRAGE\n\nENCHANTED ISLAND\n\nADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES\n\nNATIONAL NOMENCLATURE\n\nDESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM\n\nSPANISH ROMANCE\n\nLEGEND OF DON MUIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA\n\nCOMMUNIPAW\n\nCONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS\n\nLEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW\n\nBERMUDAS, THE\n\nPELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER\n\nKNIGHT OF MALTA\n\nLEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT\n\n\n\n\nCOUNT VAN HORN WOLFERT'S ROOST\n\nAND\n\nMISCELLANIES.\n\n\nA CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nSir: I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is subject to\na kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vast\naccumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt to\nbecome narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling long\nstories, and of doling out advice, to the small profit and great\nannoyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming the\noracle, or, more technically speaking, the \"bore,\" of the domestic\ncircle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon the\nworld at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of the\nintellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossiping\nvolumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writing\nvolumes; they do not afford exactly the relief I require; there is too\nmuch preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming\nbefore the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any\nthing that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore, of\nsecuring to myself a snug corner in some periodical work where I might,\nas it were, loll at my ease in my elbow-chair, and chat sociably with\nthe public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop\ninto my brain.\n\nIn looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excellent\nperiodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was struck by the\ntitle of your work--\"THE KNICKERBOCKER.\" My heart leaped at the sight.\nDIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, Sir, was one of my earliest and most valued\nfriends, and the recollection of him is associated with some of the\npleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To explain this, and to show how\nI came into possession of sundry of his posthumous works, which I\nhave from time to time given to the world, permit me to relate a\nfew particulars of our early intercourse. I give them with the more\nconfidence, as I know the interest you take in that departed worthy,\nwhose name and effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they will\nbe found important to the better understanding and relishing divers\ncommunications I may have to make to you.\n\nMy first acquaintance with that great and good man, for such I may\nventure to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years has\nshrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice has\nelevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore, my first\nacquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far\nfrom the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course\nof his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials for his\nimmortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking the archives of\none of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It was\na lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a\ngreen bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the\nGreat Tappan Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright\npure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook came\nbabbling down a neighboring ravine, and threw itself into a little woody\ncove, in front of the mansion. It was indeed as quiet and sheltered a\nnook as the heart of man could require, in which to take refuge from the\ncares and troubles of the world; and as such, it had been chosen in old\ntimes, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the renowned\nPeter Stuyvesant.\n\nThis worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried life,\nthroughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being one of those\nunlucky wights with whom the world is ever at variance, and who are kept\nin a continual fume and fret, by the wickedness of mankind. At the time\nof the subjugation of the province by the English, he retired hither in\nhigh dudgeon; with the bitter determination to bury himself from the\nworld, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of his\ndays. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his door the\nfavorite Dutch motto, \"Lust in Rust,\" (pleasure in repose.) The mansion\nwas thence called \"Wolfert's Rust\"--Wolfert's Rest; but in process of\ntime, the name was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost, probably from its\nquaint cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched on\nevery gable. This name it continued to bear, long after the unlucky\nWolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by the\ntongue of a termagant wife; for it passed into a proverb through the\nneighborhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that the cock of\nthe Roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the country.\n\nThis primitive and historical mansion has since passed through many\nchanges and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to notice. At the\ntime of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker it was in possession of\nthe gallant family of the Van Tassels, who have figured so conspicuously\nin his writings. What appears to have given it peculiar value, in his\neyes, was the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoarded\nup, like buried gold; for it is said that Wolfert Acker, when he\nretreated from New Amsterdam, carried off with him many of the records\nand journals of the province, pertaining to the Dutch dynasty; swearing\nthat they should never fall into the hands of the English. These, like\nthe lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former historians;\nbut these did I find the indefatigable Diedrich diligently deciphering.\nHe was already a sage in year's and experience, I but an idle stripling;\nyet he did not despise my youth and ignorance, but took me kindly by the\nhand, and led me gently into those paths of local and traditional lore\nwhich he was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamber\nat the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perseverance\nwith which he deciphered those venerable Dutch documents, worse than\nHerculanean manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot of\nthe green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the worthies of\nthe olden time, the paladins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in his\nlegendary researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored with\nhim the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many of\nhis conferences with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, from\nwhom he derived many of those marvelous facts not laid down in books\nor records, and which give such superior value and authenticity to his\nhistory, over all others that have been written concerning the New\nNetherlands.\n\nBut let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite theme; I may\nrecur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the intimacy thus formed,\ncontinued for a considerable time; and in company with the worthy\nDiedrich, I visited many of the places celebrated by his pen. The\ncurrents of our lives at length diverged. He remained at home to\ncomplete his mighty work, while a vagrant fancy led me to wander about\nthe world. Many, many years elapsed, before I returned to the parent\nsoil. In the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlands\nhad been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to renown. His\nnative city, that city in which he so much delighted, had decreed all\nmanner of costly honors to his memory. I found his effigy imprinted upon\nnew-year cakes, and devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins; a\ngreat oyster-house bore the name of \"Knickerbocker Hall;\" and I narrowly\nescaped the pleasure of being run over by a Knickerbocker omnibus!\n\nProud of having associated with a man who had achieved such greatness,\nI now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold pleasure, and sought to\nrevisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important of\nthese was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate\nWolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operations\nupon a Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little\nedifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. There\nstood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had occupied;\nthe old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he had pored over the\nchronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with the\narchives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been fired\noff as wadding from the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scene\naround the mansion was still the same; the green bank; the spring beside\nwhich I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian; the\nwild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locust\ntrees, half shutting out the prospect of the great Tappan Zee.\n\nAs I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at the recollection\nof my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed the mansion which he had\ninhabited, and which was fast mouldering to decay. The thought struck me\nto arrest the desolating hand of Time; to rescue the historic pile from\nutter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wanderings; a quiet\nhome, where I might enjoy \"lust in rust\" for the remainder of my days.\nIt is true, the fate of the unlucky Wolfert passed across my mind; but\nI consoled myself with the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that I\nhad no termagant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me.\n\nI have become possessor of the Roost! I have repaired and renovated it\nwith religious care, in the genuine Dutch style, and have adorned and\nillustrated it with sundry reliques of the glorious days of the New\nNetherlands. A venerable weathercock, of portly Dutch dimensions,\nwhich once battled with the wind on the top of the Stadt-House of New\nAmsterdam, in the time of Peter Stuyvesant, now erects its crest on\nthe gable end of my edifice; a gilded horse in full gallop, once the\nweathercock of the great Vander Heyden Palace of Albany, now glitters in\nthe sunshine, and veers with every breeze, on the peaked turret over\nmy portal; my sanctum sanctorum is the chamber once honored by the\nillustrious Diedrich, and it is from his elbow-chair, and his identical\nold Dutch writing-desk, that I pen this rambling epistle.\n\nHere, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recollections of\nearly days, and the mementoes of the historian of the Manhattoes, with\nthat glorious river before me, which flows with such majesty through his\nworks, and which has ever been to me a river of delight.\n\nI thank God I was born on the banks of the Hudson! I think it an\ninvaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of\nsome grand and noble object in nature; a river, a lake, or a mountain.\nWe make a friendship with it, we in a manner ally ourselves to it for\nlife. It remains an object of our pride and affections, a rallying\npoint, to call us home again after all our wanderings. \"The things which\nwe have learned in our childhood,\" says an old writer, \"grow up with our\nsouls, and unite themselves to it.\" So it is with the scenes among which\nwe have passed our early days; they influence the whole course of our\nthoughts and feelings; and I fancy I can trace much of what is good and\npleasant in my own heterogeneous compound to my early companionship with\nthis glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used to\nclothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it a soul. I admired\nits frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfect\ntruth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangerous\nsand-bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was broad, and\nbearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I\ngloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; ever straight\nforward. Once, indeed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from its\ncourse by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them, and\nimmediately resumes its straightforward march. Behold, thought I, an\nemblem of a good man's course through life; ever simple, open, and\ndirect; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate into\nerror, it is but momentary; he soon recovers his onward and honorable\ncareer, and continues it to the end of his pilgrimage.\n\nExcuse this rhapsody, into which I have been betrayed by a revival of\nearly feelings. The Hudson is, in a manner, my first and last love; and\nafter all my wanderings and seeming infidelities, I return to it with a\nheart-felt preference over all the other rivers in the world. I seem\nto catch new life as I bathe in its ample billows and inhale the pure\nbreezes of its hills. It is true, the romance of youth is past, that\nonce spread illusions over every scene. I can no longer picture an\nArcadia in every green valley; nor a fairy land among the distant\nmountains; nor a peerless beauty in every villa gleaming among the\ntrees; but though the illusions of youth have faded from the landscape,\nthe recollections of departed years and departed pleasures shed over it\nthe mellow charm of evening sunshine.\n\nPermit me, then, Mr. Editor, through the medium of your work, to\nhold occasional discourse from my retreat with the busy world I have\nabandoned. I have much to say about what I have seen, heard, felt, and\nthought through the course of a varied and rambling life, and some\nlucubrations that have long been encumbering my portfolio; together with\ndivers reminiscences of the venerable historian of the New Netherlands,\nthat may not be unacceptable to those who have taken an interest in his\nwritings, and are desirous of any thing that may cast a light back upon\nour early history. Let your readers rest assured of one thing, that,\nthough retired from the world, I am not disgusted with it; and that if\nin my communings with it I do not prove very wise, I trust I shall at\nleast prove very good-natured.\n\nWhich is all at present, from\n\nYours, etc.,\n\nGEOFFREY CRAYON.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nWorthy Sir: In a preceding communication, I have given you some brief\nnotice of Wolfert's Roost, the mansion where I first had the good\nfortune to become acquainted with the venerable historian of the New\nNetherlands. As this ancient edifice is likely to be the place whence\nI shall date many of my lucubrations, and as it is really a very\nremarkable little pile, intimately connected with all the great epochs\nof our local and national history, I have thought it but right to give\nsome farther particulars concerning it. Fortunately, in rummaging a\nponderous Dutch chest of drawers, which serves as the archives of the\nRoost, and in which are preserved many inedited manuscripts of Mr.\nKNICKERBOCKER, together with the precious records of New-Amsterdam,\nbrought hither by Wolfert Acker at the downfall of the Dutch dynasty,\nas has been already mentioned, I found in one corner, among dried\npumpkin-seeds, bunches of thyme, and pennyroyal, and crumbs of new-year\ncakes, a manuscript, carefully wrapped up in the fragment of an old\nparchment deed, but much blotted, and the ink grown foxy by time, which,\non inspection, I discovered to be a faithful chronicle of the Roost. The\nhand-writing, and certain internal evidences, leave no doubt in my\nmind, that it is a genuine production of the venerable historian of the\nNew-Netherlands, written, very probably, during his residence at the\nRoost, in gratitude for the hospitality of its proprietor. As such, I\nsubmit it for publication. As the entire chronicle is too long for the\npages of your Magazine, and as it contains many minute particulars,\nwhich might prove tedious to the general reader, I have abbreviated and\noccasionally omitted some of its details; but may hereafter furnish\nthem separately, should they seem to be required by the curiosity of an\nenlightened and document-hunting public. Respectfully yours, GEOFFREY\nCRAYON.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST.\n\nFOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nAbout five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and renowned city of\nManhattan, formerly called New-Amsterdam, and vulgarly called New-York,\non the eastern bank of that expansion of the Hudson, known among\nDutch mariners of yore, as the Tappan Zee, being in fact the great\nMediterranean Sea of the New-Netherlands, stands a little old-fashioned\nstone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and\ncorners as an old cocked hat. Though but of small dimensions, yet, like\nmany small people, it is of mighty spirit, and values itself greatly on\nits antiquity, being one of the oldest edifices, for its size, in the\nwhole country. It claims to be an ancient seat of empire, I may rather\nsay an empire in itself, and like all empires, great and small, has had\nits grand historical epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorous\nlittle pile, I shall call it by its usual appellation of \"The Roost;\"\nthough that is a name given to it in modern days, since it became the\nabode of the white man.\n\nIts origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote region commonly\ncalled the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes mystified, and\ntinted up with delectable fiction. The eastern shore of the Tappan Sea\nwas inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated race, existing in all\nthe simplicity of nature; that is to say, they lived by hunting and\nfishing, and recreated themselves occasionally with a little tomahawking\nand scalping. Each stream that flows down from the hills into the\nHudson, had its petty sachem, who ruled over a hand's-breadth of forest\non either side, and had his seat of government at its mouth. The\nchieftain who ruled at the Roost, was not merely a great warrior, but a\nmedicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they all mean the same thing,\nin Indian parlance. Of his fighting propensities, evidences still\nremain, in various arrowheads of flint, and stone battle-axes,\noccasionally digged up about the Roost: of his wizard powers, we have a\ntoken in a spring which wells up at the foot of the bank, on the\nvery margin of the river, which, it is said, was gifted by him with\nrejuvenating powers, something like the renowned Fountain of Youth in\nthe Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after by the veteran Ponce\nde Leon. This story, however, is stoutly contradicted by an old Dutch\nmatter-of-fact tradition, which declares that the spring in question was\nsmuggled over from Holland in a churn, by Femmetie Van Slocum, wife of\nGoosen Garret Van Slocum, one of the first settlers, and that she took\nit up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-house\nnear Rotterdam; being sure she should find no water equal to it in the\nnew country--and she was right.\n\nThe wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing territorial\nquestions, and settling boundary lines; this kept him in continual feud\nwith the neighboring sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for his\nhand-breadth of territory; so that there is not a petty stream nor\nragged hill in the neighborhood, that has not been the subject of long\ntalks and hard battles. The sachem, however, as has been observed, was a\nmedicine-man, as well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by arts\nas well as arms; so that, by dint of a little hard fighting here, and\nhocus-pocus there, he managed to extend his boundary-line from field\nto field and stream to stream, until he found himself in legitimate\npossession of that region of hills and valleys, bright fountains and\nlimpid brooks, locked in by the mazy windings of the Neperan and the\nPocantico. [Footnote: As every one may not recognize these boundaries\nby their original Indian names, it may be well to observe, that the\nNeperan is that beautiful stream, vulgarly called the Saw-Mill River,\nwhich, after winding gracefully for many miles through a lovely valley,\nshrouded by groves, and dotted by Dutch farm-houses, empties itself\ninto the Hudson, at the ancient drop of Yonkers. The Pocantico is that\nhitherto nameless brook, that, rising among woody hills, winds in many a\nwizard maze through the sequestered banks of Sleepy Hollow. We owe it to\nthe indefatigable researches of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, that those beautiful\nstreams are rescued from modern common-place, and reinvested with their\nancient Indian names. The correctness of the venerable historian may be\nascertained, by reference to the records of the original Indian grants\nto the Herr Frederick Philipsen, preserved in the county clerk's office,\nat White Plains.]\n\nThis last-mentioned stream, or rather the valley through which it flows,\nwas the most difficult of all his acquisitions. It lay half way to the\nstrong-hold of the redoubtable sachem of Sing-Sing, and was claimed by\nhim as an integral part of his domains. Many were the sharp conflicts\nbetween the rival chieftains for the sovereignty of this valley, and\nmany the ambuscades, surprisals, and deadly onslaughts that took place\namong its fastnesses, of which it grieves me much that I cannot furnish\nthe details for the gratification of those gentle but bloody-minded\nreaders of both sexes, who delight in the romance of the tomahawk and\nscalping-knife. Suffice it to say that the wizard chieftain was at\nlength victorious, though his victory is attributed in Indian tradition\nto a great medicine or charm by which he laid the sachem of Sing-Sing\nand his warriors asleep among the rocks and recesses of the valley,\nwhere they remain asleep to the present day with their bows and\nwar-clubs beside them. This was the origin of that potent and drowsy\nspell which still prevails over the valley of the Pocantico, and which\nhas gained it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow. Often, in\nsecluded and quiet parts of that valley, where the stream is overhung by\ndark woods and rocks, the ploughman, on some calm and sunny day as\nhe shouts to his oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from the\nhill-sides in reply; being, it is said, the spell-bound warriors, who\nhalf start from their rocky couches and grasp their weapons, but sink to\nsleep again.\n\nThe conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph of the wizard sachem.\nNotwithstanding all his medicine and charms, he fell in battle in\nattempting to extend his boundary line to the east so as to take in the\nlittle wild valley of the Sprain, and his grave is still shown near the\nbanks of that pastoral stream. He left, however, a great empire to his\nsuccessors, extending along the Tappan Zee, from Yonkers quite to Sleepy\nHollow; all which delectable region, if every one had his right, would\nstill acknowledge allegiance to the lord of the Roost--whoever he might\nbe. [Footnote: In recording the contest for the sovereignty of Sleepy\nHollow, I have called one sachem by the modern name of his castle or\nstrong-hold, viz.: Sing-Sing. This, I would observe for the sake\nof historical exactness, is a corruption of the old Indian name,\nO-sin-sing, or rather O-sin-song; that is to say, a place where any\nthing may be had for a song--a great recommendation for a market town.\nThe modern and melodious alteration of the name to Sing-Sing is said to\nhave been made in compliment to an eminent Methodist singing-master, who\nfirst introduced into the neighborhood the art of singing through the\nnose. D. K.]\n\nThe wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs, of whom nothing\nremarkable remains on record. The last who makes any figure in history\nis the one who ruled here at the time of the discovery of the country by\nthe white man. This sachem is said to have been a renowned trencherman,\nwho maintained almost as potent a sway by dint of good feeding as his\nwarlike predecessor had done by hard fighting. He diligently cultivated\nthe growth of oysters along the aquatic borders of his territories, and\nfounded those great oyster-beds which yet exist along the shores of the\nTappan Zee. Did any dispute occur between him and a neighboring sachem,\nhe invited him and all his principal sages and fighting-men to a solemn\nbanquet, and seldom failed of feeding them into terms. Enormous heaps of\noyster-shells, which encumber the lofty banks of the river, remain as\nmonuments of his gastronomical victories, and have been occasionally\nadduced through mistake by amateur geologists from town, as additional\nproofs of the deluge. Modern investigators, who are making such\nindefatigable researches into our early history, have even affirmed that\nthis sachem was the very individual on whom Master Hendrick Hudson and\nhis mate, Robert Juet, made that sage and astounding experiment so\ngravely recorded by the latter in his narrative of the voyage: \"Our\nmaster and his mate determined to try some of the cheefe men of the\ncountry whether they had any treacherie in them. So they took them down\ninto the cabin and gave them so much wine and aqua vitae that they\nwere all very merrie; one of them had his wife with him, which sate so\nmodestly as any of our countrywomen would do in a strange place. In the\nend one of them was drunke; and that was strange to them, for they\ncould not tell how to take it.\" [Footnote: See Juet's Journal, Purchas\nPilgrim.]\n\nHow far Master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy mate carried their\nexperiment with the sachem's wife is not recorded, neither does the\ncurious Robert Juet make any mention of the after-consequences of this\ngrand moral test; tradition, however, affirms that the sachem on landing\ngave his modest spouse a hearty rib-roasting, according to the connubial\ndiscipline of the aboriginals; it farther affirms that he remained a\nhard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all his lands, acre\nby acre, for aqua vitae; by which means the Roost and all its domains,\nfrom Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, came, in the regular course of trade and\nby right of purchase, into the possession of the Dutchmen.\n\nNever has a territorial right in these new countries been more\nlegitimately and tradefully established; yet, I grieve to say, the\nworthy government of the New Netherlands was not suffered to enjoy this\ngrand acquisition unmolested; for, in the year 1654, the local Yankees\nof Connecticut--those swapping, bargaining, squatting enemies of the\nManhattoes--made a daring inroad into this neighborhood and founded a\ncolony called Westchester, or, as the ancient Dutch records term it,\nVest Dorp, in the right of one Thomas Pell, who pretended to have\npurchased the whole surrounding country of the Indians, and stood ready\nto argue their claims before any tribunal of Christendom.\n\nThis happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter Stuyvesant, and it\nroused the ire of that gunpowder old hero; who, without waiting to\ndiscuss claims and titles, pounced at once upon the nest of nefarious\nsquatters, carried off twenty-five of them in chains to the Manhattoes,\nnor did he stay his hand, nor give rest to his wooden leg, until he had\ndriven every Yankee back into the bounds of Connecticut, or obliged\nhim to acknowledge allegiance to their High Mightinesses. He then\nestablished certain out-posts, far in the Indian country, to keep an eye\nover these debateable lands; one of these border-holds was the Roost,\nbeing accessible from New Amsterdam by water, and easily kept supplied.\nThe Yankees, however, had too great a hankering after this delectable\nregion to give it up entirely. Some remained and swore allegiance to the\nManhattoes; but, while they kept this open semblance of fealty, they\nwent to work secretly and vigorously to intermarry and multiply, and by\nthese nefarious means, artfully propagated themselves into possession of\na wide tract of those open, arable parts of Westchester county, lying\nalong the Sound, where their descendants may be found at the present\nday; while the mountainous regions along the Hudson, with the valleys\nof the Neperan and the Pocantico, are tenaciously held by the lineal\ndescendants of the Copperheads.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe chronicle of the venerable Diedrich here goes on to relate how that,\nshortly after the above-mentioned events, the whole province of the New\nNetherlands 'was subjugated by the British; how that Wolfert Acker, one\nof the wrangling councillors of Peter Stuyvesant, retired in dudgeon to\nthis fastness in the wilderness, determining to enjoy \"lust in rust\" for\nthe remainder of his days, whence the place first received its name of\nWolfert's Roost. As these and sundry other matters have been laid before\nthe public in a preceding article, I shall pass them over, and resume\nthe chronicle where it treats of matters not hitherto recorded:\n\nLike many men who retire from a worrying world, says DIEDRICH\nKNICKERBOCKER, to enjoy quiet in the country, Wolfert Acker soon found\nhimself up to the ears in trouble. He had a termagant wife at home,\nand there was what is profanely called \"the deuce to pay,\" abroad. The\nrecent irruption of the Yankees into the bounds of the New Netherlands,\nhad left behind it a doleful pestilence, such as is apt to follow the\nsteps of invading armies. This was the deadly plague of witchcraft,\nwhich had long been prevalent to the eastward. The malady broke out at\nVest Dorp, and threatened to spread throughout the country. The Dutch\nburghers along the Hudson, from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, hastened to\nnail horseshoes to their doors, which have ever been found of sovereign\nvirtue to repel this awful visitation. This is the origin of the\nhorse-shoes which may still be seen nailed to the doors of barns and\nfarmhouses, in various parts of this sage and sober-thoughted region.\n\nThe evil, however, bore hard upon the Roost; partly, perhaps, from its\nhaving in old times been subject to supernatural influences, during the\nsway of the Wizard Sachem; but it has always, in fact, been considered a\nfated mansion. The unlucky Wolfert had no rest day nor night. When the\nweather was quiet all over the country, the wind would howl and whistle\nround his roof; witches would ride and whirl upon his weathercocks, and\nscream down his chimneys. His cows gave bloody milk, and his horses\nbroke bounds, and scampered into the woods. There were not wanting evil\ntongues to whisper that Wolfert's termagant wife had some tampering\nwith the enemy; and that she even attended a witches' Sabbath in Sleepy\nHollow; nay, a neighbor, who lived hard by, declared that he saw her\nharnessing a rampant broom-stick, and about to ride to the meeting;\nthough others presume it was merely flourished in the course of one of\nher curtain lectures, to give energy and emphasis to a period. Certain\nit is, that Wolfert Acker nailed a horse-shoe to the front door, during\none of her nocturnal excursions, to prevent her return; but as she\nre-entered the house without any difficulty, it is probable she was\nnot so much of a witch as she was represented. [Footnote: HISTORICAL\nNOTE.--The annexed extracts from the early colonial records, relate to\nthe irruption of witchcraft into Westchester county, as mentioned in the\nchronicle:\n\n\"JULY 7, 1670.--Katharine Harryson, accused of witchcraft on complaint of\nThomas Hunt and Edward Waters, in behalf of the town, who pray that she\nmay be driven from the town of Westchester. The woman appears before\nthe council.... She was a native of England, and had lived a year in\nWeathersfield, Connecticut, where she had been tried for witchcraft,\nfound guilty by the jury, acquitted by the bench, and released out of\nprison, upon condition she would remove. Affair adjourned.\n\n\"AUGUST 24.--Affair taken up again, when, being heard at large, it was\nreferred to the general court of assize. Woman ordered to give security\nfor good behavior,\" etc.\n\nIn another place is the following entry:\n\n\"Order given for Katharine Harryson, charged with witchcraft, to leave\nWestchester, as the inhabitants are uneasy at her residing there, and\nshe is ordered to go off.\"]\n\nAfter the time of Wolfert Acker, a long interval elapses, about which\nbut little is known. It is hoped, however, that the antiquarian\nresearches so diligently making in every part of this new country, may\nyet throw some light upon what may be termed the Dark Ages of the Roost.\n\nThe next period at which we find this venerable and eventful pile rising\nto importance, and resuming its old belligerent character, is during the\nrevolutionary war. It was at that time owned by Jacob Van Tassel, or Van\nTexel, as the name was originally spelled, after the place in Holland\nwhich gave birth to this heroic line. He was strong-built, long-limbed,\nand as stout in soul as in body; a fit successor to the warrior sachem\nof yore, and, like him, delighting in extravagant enterprises and hardy\ndeeds of arms. But, before I enter upon the exploits of this worthy cock\nof the Boost, it is fitting I should throw some light upon the state of\nthe mansion, and of the surrounding country, at the time.\n\nThe situation of the Roost is in the very heart of what was the\ndebateable ground between the American and British lines, during the\nwar. The British held possession of the city of New York, and the island\nof Manhattan on which it stands. The Americans drew up toward the\nHighlands, holding their headquarters at Peekskill. The intervening\ncountry, from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek, was the debateable\nland, subject to be harried by friend and foe, like the Scottish borders\nof yore. It is a rugged country, with a line of rocky hills extending\nthrough it, like a back bone, sending ribs on either side; but among\nthese rude hills are beautiful winding valleys, like those watered by\nthe Pocantico and the Neperan. In the fastnesses of these hills,\nand along these valleys, exist a race of hard-headed, hard-handed,\nstout-hearted Dutchmen, descendants of the primitive Nederlanders. Most\nof these were strong whigs throughout the war, and have ever remained\nobstinately attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought\nout of their paternal acres. Others were tories, and adherents to the\nold kingly rule; some of whom took refuge within the British lines,\njoined the royal bands of refugees, a name odious to the American ear,\nand occasionally returned to harass their ancient neighbors.\n\nIn a little while, this debateable land was overrun by predatory bands\nfrom either side; sacking hen-roosts, plundering farm-houses, and\ndriving off cattle. Hence arose those two great orders of border\nchivalry, the Skinners and the Cowboys, famous in the heroic annals of\nWestchester county. The former fought, or rather marauded, under the\nAmerican, the latter under the British banner; but both, in the hurry of\ntheir military ardor, were apt to err on the safe side, and rob friend\nas well as foe. Neither of them stopped to ask the politics of horse or\ncow, which they drove into captivity; nor, when they wrung the neck of\na rooster, did they trouble their heads to ascertain whether he were\ncrowing for Congress or King George.\n\nWhile this marauding system prevailed on shore, the Great Tappan Sea,\nwhich washes this belligerent region, was domineered over by British\nfrigates and other vessels of war, anchored here and there, to keep an\neye upon the river, and maintain a communication between the various\nmilitary posts. Stout galleys, also, armed with eighteen-pounders, and\nnavigated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks, ready to pounce\nupon their prey.\n\nAll these were eyed with bitter hostility by the Dutch yeomanry along\nshore, who were indignant at seeing their great Mediterranean ploughed\nby hostile prows; and would occasionally throw up a mud breast-work on a\npoint or promontory, mount an old iron field-piece, and fire away at the\nenemy, though the greatest harm was apt to happen to themselves from the\nbursting of their ordnance; nay, there was scarce a Dutchman along the\nriver that would hesitate to fire with his long duck gun at any British\ncruiser that came within reach, as he had been accustomed to fire at\nwater-fowl.\n\nI have been thus particular in my account of the times and neighborhood,\nthat the reader might the more readily comprehend the surrounding\ndangers in this the Heroic Age of the Roost.\n\nIt was commanded at the time, as I have already observed, by the stout\nJacob Van Tassel. As I wish to be extremely accurate in this part of\nmy chronicle, I beg that this Jacob Van Tassel of the Roost may not be\nconfounded with another Jacob Van Tassel, commonly known in border story\nby the name of \"Clump-footed Jake,\" a noted tory, and one of the refugee\nband of Spiting Devil. On the contrary, he of the Roost was a patriot of\nthe first water, and, if we may take his own word for granted, a thorn\nin the side of the enemy. As the Roost, from its lonely situation on the\nwater's edge, might be liable to attack, he took measures for defence.\nOn a row of hooks above his fire-place, reposed his great piece of\nordnance, ready charged and primed for action. This was a duck, or\nrather goose-gun, of unparalleled longitude, with which it was said he\ncould kill a wild goose, though half-way across the Tappan Sea. Indeed,\nthere are as many wonders told of this renowned gun, as of the enchanted\nweapons of the heroes of classic story.\n\nIn different parts of the stone walls of his mansion, he had made\nloop-holes, through which he might fire upon an assailant. His wife was\nstout-hearted as himself, and could load as fast as he could fire; and\nthen he had an ancient and redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, a\nmatch, as he said, for the stoutest man in the country. Thus garrisoned,\nthe little Roost was fit to stand a siege, and Jacob Van Tassel was the\nman to defend it to the last charge of powder.\n\nHe was, as I have already hinted, of pugnacious propensities; and, not\ncontent with being a patriot at home, and fighting for the security of\nhis own fireside, he extended his thoughts abroad, and entered into a\nconfederacy with certain of the bold, hard-riding lads of Tarrytown,\nPetticoat Lane, and Sleepy Hollow, who formed a kind of Holy\nBrotherhood, scouring the country to clear it of Skinner and Cow-boy,\nand all other border vermin. The Roost was one of their rallying points.\nDid a band of marauders from Manhattan island come sweeping through the\nneighborhood, and driving off cattle, the stout Jacob and his compeers\nwere soon clattering at their heels, and fortunate did the rogues esteem\nthemselves if they could but get a part of their booty across the lines,\nor escape themselves without a rough handling. Should the mosstroopers\nsucceed in passing with their cavalcade, with thundering tramp and dusty\nwhirlwind, across Kingsbridge, the Holy Brotherhood of the Roost would\nrein up at that perilous pass, and, wheeling about, would indemnify\nthemselves by foraging the refugee region of Morrisania.\n\nWhen at home at the Roost, the stout Jacob was not idle; but was prone\nto carry on a petty warfare of his own, for his private recreation and\nrefreshment. Did he ever chance to espy, from his look-out place, a\nhostile ship or galley anchored or becalmed near shore, he would take\ndown his long goose-gun from the hooks over the fire-place, sally\nout alone, and lurk along shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, and\nwatching for hours together, like a veteran mouser intent on a rat-hole.\nSo sure as a boat put off for shore, and came within shot, bang! went\nthe great goose-gun; a shower of slugs and buck-shot whistled about the\nears of the enemy, and before the boat could reach the shore, Jacob had\nscuttled up some woody ravine, and left no trace behind. About this\ntime, the Roost experienced a vast accession of warlike importance, in\nbeing made one of the stations of the water-guard. This was a kind of\naquatic corps of observation, composed of long, sharp, canoe-shaped\nboats, technically called whale-boats, that lay lightly on the water,\nand could be rowed with great rapidity. They were manned by resolute\nfellows, skilled at pulling an oar, or handling a musket. These lurked\nabout in nooks and bays, and behind those long promontories which run\nout into the Tappan Sea, keeping a look-out, to give notice of the\napproach or movements of hostile ships. They roved about in pairs;\nsometimes at night, with muffled oars, gliding like spectres about\nfrigates and guard-ships riding at anchor, cutting off any boats that\nmade for shore, and keeping the enemy in constant uneasiness. These\nmosquito-cruisers generally kept aloof by day, so that their harboring\nplaces might not be discovered, but would pull quietly along, under\nshadow of the shore, at night, to take up their quarters at the Roost.\nHither, at such time, would also repair the hard-riding lads of the\nhills, to hold secret councils of war with the \"ocean chivalry;\" and in\nthese nocturnal meetings were concerted many of those daring forays, by\nland and water, that resounded throughout the border.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe chronicle here goes on to recount divers wonderful stories of the\nwars of the Roost, from which it would seem, that this little warrior\nnest carried the terror of its arms into every sea, from Spiting Devil\nCreek to Antony's Nose; that it even bearded the stout island of\nManhattan, invading it at night, penetrating to its centre, and burning\ndown the famous Delancey house, the conflagration of which makes such a\nblaze in revolutionary history. Nay more, in their extravagant daring,\nthese cocks of the Roost meditated a nocturnal descent upon New York\nitself, to swoop upon the British commanders, Howe and Clinton, by\nsurprise, bear them off captive, and perhaps put a triumphant close to\nthe war!\n\nAll these and many similar exploits are recorded by the worthy Diedrich,\nwith his usual minuteness and enthusiasm, whenever the deeds in arms of\nhis kindred Dutchmen are in question; but though most of these warlike\nstories rest upon the best of all authority, that of the warriors\nthemselves, and though many of them are still current among the\nrevolutionary patriarchs of this heroic neighborhood, yet I dare not\nexpose them to the incredulity of a tamer and less chivalric age,\nSuffice it to say, the frequent gatherings at the Roost, and the hardy\nprojects set on foot there, at length drew on it the fiery indignation\nof the enemy; and this was quickened by the conduct of the stout Jacob\nVan Tassel; with whose valorous achievements we resume the course of the\nchronicle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHIS doughty Dutchman, continues the sage DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, was\nnot content with taking a share in all the magnanimous enterprises\nconcocted at the Roost, but still continued his petty warfare along\nshore. A series of exploits at length raised his confidence in his\nprowess to such a height, that he began to think himself and his\ngoose-gun a match for any thing. Unluckily, in the course of one of his\nprowlings, he descried a British transport aground, not far from shore,\nwith her stern swung toward the land, within point-blank shot. The\ntemptation was too great to be resisted; bang! as usual, went the great\ngoose-gun, shivering the cabin windows, and driving all hands forward.\nBang! bang! the shots were repeated. The reports brought several\nsharp-shooters of the neighborhood to the spot; before the transport\ncould bring a gun to bear, or land a boat, to take revenge, she was\nsoundly peppered, and the coast evacuated. This was the last of Jacob's\ntriumphs. He fared like some heroic spider, that has unwittingly\nensnared a hornet, to his immortal glory, perhaps, but to the utter ruin\nof his web.\n\nIt was not long after this, during the absence of Jacob Van Tassel on\none of his forays, and when no one was in garrison but his stout-hearted\nspouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, and a strapping negro\nwench, called Dinah, that an armed vessel came to anchor off the Roost,\nand a boat full of men pulled to shore. The garrison flew to arms, that\nis to say, to mops, broom-sticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of\ndomestic weapons; for, unluckily, the great piece of ordnance, the\ngoose-gun, was absent with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence was\nmade with that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never did\ninvaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all in vain. The\nhouse was sacked and plundered, fire was set to each corner, and in a\nfew moments its blaze shed a baleful light far over the Tappan Sea. The\ninvaders then pounced upon the blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of\nthe Roost, and endeavored to bear her off to the boat. But here was the\nreal tug of war. The mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench,\nall flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to the very water's\nedge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered the spoilers\nto let go their hold; they relinquished their prize, jumped into their\nboats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a mere\nrumpling of the feathers.\n\nThe fear of tiring my readers, who may not take such an interest as\nmyself in these heroic themes, induces me to close here my extracts from\nthis precious chronicle of the venerable Diedrich. Suffice it briefly to\nsay, that shortly after the catastrophe of the Roost, Jacob Van Tassel,\nin the course of one of his forays, fell into the hands of the British;\nwas sent prisoner to New York, and was detained in captivity for\nthe greater part of the war. In the mean time, the Roost remained a\nmelancholy ruin; its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing,\nblackened by fire, and the resort of bats and owlets. It was not until\nthe return of peace, when this belligerent neighborhood once more\nresumed its quiet agricultural pursuits, that the stout Jacob sought the\nscene of his triumphs and disasters; rebuilt the Roost, and reared again\non high its glittering weather-cocks.\n\nDoes any one want further particulars of the fortunes of this eventful\nlittle pile? Let him go to the fountain-head, and drink deep of historic\ntruth. Reader! the stout Jacob Van Tassel still lives, a venerable,\ngray-headed patriarch of the revolution, now in his ninety-fifth year!\nHe sits by his fireside, in the ancient city of the Manhattoes, and\npasses the long winter evenings, surrounded by his children, and\ngrand-children, and great-grand-children, all listening to his tales of\nthe border wars, and the heroic days of the Roost. His great goose-gun,\ntoo, is still in existence, having been preserved for many years in a\nhollow tree, and passed from hand to hand among the Dutch burghers, as a\nprecious relique of the revolution. It is now actually in possession of\na contemporary of the stout Jacob, one almost his equal in years, who\ntreasures it up at his house in the Bowerie of New-Amsterdam, hard by\nthe ancient rural retreat of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant. I am not\nwithout hopes of one day seeing this formidable piece of ordinance\nrestored to its proper station in the arsenal of the Roost. Before\nclosing this historic document, I cannot but advert to certain notions\nand traditions concerning the venerable pile in question. Old-time\nedifices are apt to gather odd fancies and superstitions about them, as\nthey do moss and weather-stains; and this is in a neighborhood a little\ngiven to old-fashioned notions, and who look upon the Roost as somewhat\nof a fated mansion. A lonely, rambling, down-hill lane leads to it,\noverhung with trees, with a wild brook dashing along, and crossing\nand re-crossing it. This lane I found some of the good people of the\nneighborhood shy of treading at night; why, I could not for a long time\nascertain; until I learned that one or two of the rovers of the Tappan\nSea, shot by the stout Jacob during the war, had been buried hereabout,\nin unconsecrated ground.\n\nAnother local superstition is of a less gloomy kind, and one which I\nconfess I am somewhat disposed to cherish. The Tappan Sea, in front of\nthe Roost, is about three miles wide, bordered by a lofty line of waving\nand rocky hills. Often, in the still twilight of a summer evening, when\nthe sea is like glass, with the opposite hills throwing their purple\nshadows half across it, a low sound is heard, as of the steady, vigorous\npull of oars, far out in the middle of the stream, though not a boat\nis to be descried. This I should have been apt to ascribe to some boat\nrowed along under the shadows of the western shore, for sounds are\nconveyed to a great distance by water, at such quiet hours, and I can\ndistinctly hear the baying of the watch-dogs at night, from the farms on\nthe sides of the opposite mountains. The ancient traditionists of the\nneighborhood, however, religiously ascribed these sounds to a judgment\nupon one Rumbout Van Dam, of Spiting Devil, who danced and drank late\none Saturday night, at a Dutch quilting frolic, at Kakiat, and set off\nalone for home in his boat, on the verge of Sunday morning; swearing he\nwould not land till he reached Spiting Devil, if it took him a month of\nSundays. He was never seen afterward, but is often heard plying his oars\nacross the Tappan Sea, a Flying Dutchman on a small scale, suited to\nthe size of his cruising-ground; being doomed to ply between Kakiat and\nSpiting Devil till the day of judgment, but never to reach the land.\n\nThere is one room in the mansion which almost overhangs the river, and\nis reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a young lady who died of love\nand green apples. I have been awakened at night by the sound of oars and\nthe tinkling of guitars beneath the window; and seeing a boat loitering\nin the moonlight, have been tempted to believe it the Flying Dutchman of\nSpiting Devil, and to try whether a silver bullet might not put an end\nto his unhappy cruisings; but, happening to recollect that there was a\nliving young lady in the haunted room, who might be terrified by the\nreport of fire-arms, I have refrained from pulling trigger.\n\nAs to the enchanted fountain, said to have been gifted by the wizard\nsachem with supernatural powers, it still wells up at the foot of the\nbank, on the margin of the river, and goes by the name of the Indian\nspring; but I have my doubts as to its rejuvenating powers, for though\nI have drank oft and copiously of it, I cannot boast that I find myself\ngrowing younger.\n\nGEOFFREY CRAYON.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSLEEPY HOLLOW.\n\nBY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.\n\nHAVING pitched my tent, probably for the remainder of my days, in the\nneighborhood of Sleepy Hollow, I am tempted to give some few particulars\nconcerning that spell-bound region; especially as it has risen to\nhistoric importance under the pen of my revered friend and master, the\nsage historian of the New Netherlands. Beside, I find the very existence\nof the place has been held in question by many; who, judging from its\nodd name and from the odd stories current among the vulgar concerning\nit, have rashly deemed the whole to be a fanciful creation, like the\nLubber Land of mariners. I must confess there is some apparent cause for\ndoubt, in consequence of the coloring given by the worthy Diedrich to\nhis descriptions of the Hollow; who, in this instance, has departed\na little from his usually sober if not severe style; beguiled, very\nprobably, by his predilection for the haunts of his youth, and by a\ncertain lurking taint of romance whenever any thing connected with the\nDutch was to be described. I shall endeavor to make up for this amiable\nerror on the part of my venerable and venerated friend by presenting the\nreader with a more precise and statistical account of the Hollow; though\nI am not sure that I shall not be prone to lapse in the end into the\nvery error I am speaking of, so potent is the witchery of the theme.\n\nI believe it was the very peculiarity of its name and the idea of\nsomething mystic and dreamy connected with it that first led me in my\nboyish ramblings into Sleepy Hollow. The character of the valley seemed\nto answer to the name; the slumber of past ages apparently reigned over\nit; it had not awakened to the stir of improvement which had put all the\nrest of the world in a bustle. Here reigned good, old long-forgotten\nfashions; the men were in home-spun garbs, evidently the product of\ntheir own farms and the manufacture of their own wives; the women were\nin primitive short gowns and petticoats, with the venerable sun-bonnets\nof Holland origin. The lower part of the valley was cut up into small\nfarms, each consisting of a little meadow and corn-field; an orchard\nof sprawling, gnarled apple-trees, and a garden, where the rose, the\nmarigold, and the hollyhock were permitted to skirt the domains of the\ncapacious cabbage, the aspiring pea, and the portly pumpkin. Each had\nits prolific little mansion teeming with children; with an old hat\nnailed against the wall for the housekeeping wren; a motherly hen, under\na coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep around her a brood of vagrant\nchickens; a cool, stone well, with the moss-covered bucket suspended\nto the long balancing-pole, according to the antediluvian idea of\nhydraulics; and its spinning-wheel humming within doors, the patriarchal\nmusic of home manufacture.\n\nThe Hollow at that time was inhabited by families which had existed\nthere from the earliest times, and which, by frequent intermarriage, had\nbecome so interwoven, as to make a kind of natural commonwealth. As\nthe families had grown larger the farms had grown smaller; every new\ngeneration requiring a new subdivision, and few thinking of swarming\nfrom the native hive. In this way that happy golden mean had been\nproduced, so much extolled by the poets, in which there was no gold and\nvery little silver. One thing which doubtless contributed to keep up\nthis amiable mean was a general repugnance to sordid labor. The sage\ninhabitants of Sleepy Hollow had read in their Bible, which was the only\nbook they studied, that labor was originally inflicted upon man as a\npunishment of sin; they regarded it, therefore, with pious abhorrence,\nand never humiliated themselves to it but in cases of extremity. There\nseemed, in fact, to be a league and covenant against it throughout\nthe Hollow as against a common enemy. Was any one compelled by dire\nnecessity to repair his house, mend his fences, build a barn, or get in\na harvest, he considered it a great evil that entitled him to call in\nthe assistance or his friend? He accordingly proclaimed a 'bee' or\nrustic gathering, whereupon all his neighbors hurried to his aid like\nfaithful allies; attacked the task with the desperate energy of lazy men\neager to overcome a job; and, when it was accomplished, fell to eating\nand drinking, fiddling and dancing for very joy that so great an amount\nof labor had been vanquished with so little sweating of the brow.\n\nYet, let it not be supposed that this worthy community was without its\nperiods of arduous activity. Let but a flock of wild pigeons fly across\nthe valley and all Sleepy Hollow was wide awake in an instant.\nThe pigeon season had arrived. Every gun and net was forthwith in\nrequisition. The flail was thrown down on the barn floor; the spade\nrusted in the garden; the plough stood idle in the furrow; every one was\nto the hillside and stubble-field at daybreak to shoot or entrap the\npigeons in their periodical migrations.\n\nSo, likewise, let but the word be given that the shad were ascending the\nHudson, and the worthies of the Hollow were to be seen launched in boats\nupon the river setting great stakes, and stretching their nets like\ngigantic spider-webs half across the stream to the great annoyance\nof navigators. Such are the wise provisions of Nature, by which she\nequalizes rural affairs. A laggard at the plough is often extremely\nindustrious with the fowling-piece and fishing-net; and, whenever a man\nis an indifferent farmer, he is apt to be a first-rate sportsman. For\ncatching shad and wild pigeons there were none throughout the country to\ncompare with the lads of Sleepy Hollow.\n\nAs I have observed, it was the dreamy nature of the name that first\nbeguiled me in the holiday rovings of boyhood into this sequestered\nregion. I shunned, however, the populous parts of the Hollow, and sought\nits retired haunts far in the foldings of the hills, where the Pocantico\n\"winds its wizard stream\" sometimes silently and darkly through solemn\nwoodlands; sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in fresh, green\nmeadows; sometimes stealing along the feet of rugged heights under\nthe balancing sprays of beech and chestnut trees. A thousand crystal\nsprings, with which this neighborhood abounds, sent down from the\nhill-sides their whimpering rills, as if to pay tribute to the\nPocantico. In this stream I first essayed my unskilful hand at angling.\nI loved to loiter along it with rod in hand, watching my float as it\nwhirled amid the eddies or drifted into dark holes under twisted roots\nand sunken logs, where the largest fish are apt to lurk. I delighted\nto follow it into the brown accesses of the woods; to throw by my\nfishing-gear and sit upon rocks beneath towering oaks and clambering\ngrape-vines; bathe my feet in the cool current, and listen to the summer\nbreeze playing among the tree-tops. My boyish fancy clothed all nature\naround me with ideal charms, and peopled it with the fairy beings I\nhad read of in poetry and fable. Here it was I gave full scope to my\nincipient habit of day dreaming, and to a certain propensity, to weave\nup and tint sober realities with my own whims and imaginings, which has\nsometimes made life a little too much like an Arabian tale to me, and\nthis \"working-day world\" rather like a region of romance.\n\nThe great gathering-place of Sleepy Hollow in those days was the church.\nIt stood outside of the Hollow, near the great highway, on a green bank\nshaded by trees, with the Pocantico sweeping round it and emptying\nitself into a spacious mill-pond. At that time the Sleepy Hollow\nchurch was the only place of worship for a wide neighborhood. It was\na venerable edifice, partly of stone and partly of brick, the latter\nhaving been brought from Holland in the early days of the province,\nbefore the arts in the New Netherlands could aspire to such a\nfabrication. On a stone above the porch were inscribed the names of the\nfounders, Frederick Filipsen, a mighty patroon of the olden time, who\nreigned over a wide extent of this neighborhood and held his seat of\npower at Yonkers; and his wife, Katrina Van Courtlandt, of the no less\npotent line of the Van Courtlandts of Croton, who lorded it over a great\npart of the Highlands.\n\nThe capacious pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding-board, were\nlikewise early importations from Holland; as also the communion-table,\nof massive form and curious fabric. The same might be said of a\nweather-cock perched on top of the belfry, and which was considered\northodox in all windy matters, until a small pragmatical rival was set\nup on the other end of the church above the chancel. This latter bore,\nand still bears, the initials of Frederick Filipsen, and assumed great\nairs in consequence. The usual contradiction ensued that always exists\namong church weather-cocks, which can never be brought to agree as to\nthe point from which the wind blows, having doubtless acquired, from\ntheir position, the Christian propensity to schism and controversy.\n\nBehind the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, was its capacious\nburying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of this rural\nneighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest sculpture; on which\nwere inscribed, in Dutch, the names and virtues of many of the first\nsettlers, with their portraitures curiously carved in similitude of\ncherubs. Long rows of grave-stones, side by side, of similar names,\nbut various dates, showed that generation after generation of the same\nfamilies had followed each other and been garnered together in this last\ngathering-place of kindred.\n\nLet me speak of this quiet grave-yard with all due reverence, for I owe\nit amends for the heedlessness of my boyish days. I blush to acknowledge\nthe thoughtless frolic with which, in company with other whipsters, I\nhave sported within its sacred bounds during the intervals of worship;\nchasing butterflies, plucking wild flowers, or vying with each other\nwho could leap over the tallest tomb-stones, until checked by the stern\nvoice of the sexton.\n\nThe congregation was, in those days, of a really rural character. City\nfashions were as yet unknown, or unregarded, by the country people\nof the neighborhood. Steam-boats had not as yet confounded town with\ncountry. A weekly market-boat from Tarry town, the \"Farmers' Daughter,\"\nnavigated by the worthy Gabriel Requa, was the only communication\nbetween all these parts and the metropolis. A rustic belle in those days\nconsidered a visit to the city in much the same light as one of our\nmodern fashionable ladies regards a visit to Europe; an event that may\npossibly take place once in the course of a lifetime, but to be hoped\nfor, rather than expected. Hence the array of the congregation was\nchiefly after the primitive fashions existing in Sleepy Hollow; or if,\nby chance, there was a departure from the Dutch sun-bonnet, or the\napparition of a bright gown of flowered calico, it caused quite a\nsensation throughout the church. As the dominie generally preached by\nthe hour, a bucket of water was providently placed on a bench near the\ndoor, in summer, with a tin cup beside it, for the solace of those who\nmight be athirst, either from the heat of the weather, or the drouth of\nthe sermon.\n\nAround the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat the elders of the\nchurch, reverend, gray-headed, leathern-visaged men, whom I regarded\nwith awe, as so many apostles. They were stern in their sanctity, kept\na vigilant eye upon my giggling companions and myself, and shook a\nrebuking finger at any boyish device to relieve the tediousness of\ncompulsory devotion. Vain, however, were all their efforts at vigilance.\nScarcely had the preacher held forth for half an hour, on one of his\ninterminable sermons, than it seemed as if the drowsy influence of\nSleepy Hollow breathed into the place; one by one the congregation sank\ninto slumber; the sanctified elders leaned back in their pews, spreading\ntheir handkerchiefs over their faces, as if to keep off the flies; while\nthe locusts in the neighboring trees would spin out their sultry summer\nnotes, as if in imitation of the sleep-provoking tones of the dominie.\n\nI have thus endeavored to give an idea of Sleepy Hollow and its church,\nas I recollect them to have been in the days of my boyhood. It was in\nmy stripling days, when a few years had passed over my head, that I\nrevisited them, in company with the venerable Diedrich. I shall never\nforget the antiquarian reverence with which that sage and excellent man\ncontemplated the church. It seemed as if all his pious enthusiasm for\nthe ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his bosom at the sight.\nThe tears stood in his eyes, as he regarded the pulpit and the\ncommunion-table; even the very bricks that had come from the mother\ncountry, seemed to touch a filial chord within his bosom. He almost\nbowed in deference to the stone above the porch, containing the names\nof Frederick Filipsen and Katrina Van Courtlandt, regarding it as the\nlinking together of those patronymic names, once so famous along the\nbanks of the Hudson; or rather as a key-stone, binding that mighty Dutch\nfamily connexion of yore, one foot of which rested on Yonkers, and the\nother on the Groton. Nor did he forbear to notice with admiration, the\nwindy contest which had been carried on, since time immemorial, and with\nreal Dutch perseverance, between the two weather-cocks; though I could\neasily perceive he coincided with the one which had come from Holland.\n\nTogether we paced the ample church-yard. With deep veneration would\nhe turn down the weeds and brambles that obscured the modest brown\ngrave-stones, half sunk in earth, on which were recorded, in Dutch, the\nnames of the patriarchs of ancient days, the Ackers, the Van Tassels,\nand the Van Warts. As we sat on one of the tomb-stones, he recounted to\nme the exploits of many of these worthies; and my heart smote me, when I\nheard of their great doings in days of yore, to think how heedlessly I\nhad once sported over their graves.\n\nFrom the church, the venerable Diedrich proceeded in his researches up\nthe Hollow. The genius of the place seemed to hail its future historian.\nAll nature was alive with gratulation. The quail whistled a greeting\nfrom the corn-field; the robin carolled a song of praise from the\norchard; the loquacious catbird flew from bush to bush, with restless\nwing, proclaiming his approach in every variety of note, and anon would\nwhisk about, and perk inquisitively into his face, as if to get a\nknowledge of his physiognomy; the wood-pecker, also, tapped a tattoo on\nthe hollow apple-tree, and then peered knowingly round the trunk, to\nsee how the great Diedrich relished his salutation; while the\nground-squirrel scampered along the fence, and occasionally whisked his\ntail over his head, by way of a huzza!\n\nThe worthy Diedrich pursued his researches in the valley with\ncharacteristic devotion; entering familiarly into the various cottages,\nand gossiping with the simple folk, in the style of their own\nsimplicity. I confess my heart yearned with admiration, to see so great\na man, in his eager quest after knowledge, humbly demeaning himself\nto curry favor with the humblest; sitting patiently on a three-legged\nstool, patting the children, and taking a purring grimalkin on his lap,\nwhile he conciliated the good-will of the old Dutch housewife, and drew\nfrom her long ghost stories, spun out to the humming accompaniment of\nher wheel.\n\nHis greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was discovered in an\nold goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks and waterfalls, with\nclanking wheels, and rushing streams, and all kinds of uncouth noises.\nA horse-shoe, nailed to the door to keep off witches and evil spirits,\nshowed that this mill was subject to awful visitations. As we approached\nit, an old negro thrust his head, all dabbled with flour, out of a hole\nabove the water-wheel, and grinned, and rolled his eyes, and looked like\nthe very hobgoblin of the place. The illustrious Diedrich fixed upon\nhim, at once, as the very one to give him that invaluable kind of\ninformation never to be acquired from books. He beckoned him from his\nnest, sat with him by the hour on a broken mill-stone, by the side of\nthe waterfall, heedless of the noise of the water, and the clatter\nof the mill; and I verily believe it was to his conference with this\nAfrican sage, and the precious revelations of the good dame of the\nspinning-wheel, that we are indebted for the surprising though true\nhistory of Ichabod Crane and the headless horseman, which has since\nastounded and edified the world.\n\nBut I have said enough of the good old times of my youthful days; let me\nspeak of the Hollow as I found it, after an absence of many years,\nwhen it was kindly given me once more to revisit the haunts of my\nboyhood. It was a genial day, as I approached that fated region. The\nwarm sunshine was tempered by a slight haze, so as to give a dreamy\neffect to the landscape. Not a breath of air shook the foliage. The\nbroad Tappan Sea was without a ripple, and the sloops, with drooping\nsails, slept on its grassy bosom. Columns of smoke, from burning\nbrush-wood, rose lazily from the folds of the hills, on the opposite\nside of the river, and slowly expanded in mid-air. The distant lowing\nof a cow, or the noontide crowing of a cock, coming faintly to the ear,\nseemed to illustrate, rather than disturb, the drowsy quiet of the\nscene.\n\nI entered the hollow with a beating heart. Contrary to my apprehensions,\nI found it but little changed. The march of intellect, which had\nmade such rapid strides along every river and highway, had not yet,\napparently, turned down into this favored valley. Perhaps the wizard\nspell of ancient days still reigned over the place, binding up the\nfaculties of the inhabitants in happy contentment with things as they\nhad been handed down to them from yore. There were the same little farms\nand farmhouses, with their old hats for the housekeeping wren; their\nstone wells, moss-covered buckets, and long balancing poles. There were\nthe same little rills, whimpering down to pay their tributes to the\nPocantico; while that wizard stream still kept on its course, as of old,\nthrough solemn woodlands and fresh green meadows: nor were there wanting\njoyous holiday boys to loiter along its banks, as I have done; throw\ntheir pin-hooks in the stream, or launch their mimic barks. I watched\nthem with a kind of melancholy pleasure, wondering whether they were\nunder the same spell of the fancy that once rendered this valley a fairy\nland to me. Alas! alas! to me every thing now stood revealed in its\nsimple reality. The echoes no longer answered with wizard tongues; the\ndream of youth was at an end; the spell of Sleepy Hollow was broken!\n\nI sought the ancient church on the following Sunday. There it stood, on\nits green bank, among the trees; the Pocantico swept by it in a deep\ndark stream, where I had so often angled; there expanded the mill-pond,\nas of old, with the cows under the willows on its margin, knee-deep in\nwater, chewing the cud, and lashing the flies from their sides with\ntheir tails. The hand of improvement, however, had been busy with the\nvenerable pile. The pulpit, fabricated in Holland, had been superseded\nby one of modern construction, and the front of the semi-Gothic\nedifice was decorated by a semi-Grecian portico. Fortunately, the two\nweather-cocks remained undisturbed on their perches at each end of the\nchurch, and still kept up a diametrical opposition to each other on all\npoints of windy doctrine.\n\nOn entering the church the changes of time continued to be apparent. The\nelders round the pulpit were men whom I had left in the gamesome frolic\nof their youth, but who had succeeded to the sanctity of station of\nwhich they once had stood so much in awe. What most struck my eye was\nthe change in the female part of the congregation. Instead of the\nprimitive garbs of homespun manufacture and antique Dutch fashion,\nI beheld French sleeves, French capes, and French collars, and a\nfearful-fluttering of French ribbands.\n\nWhen the service was ended I sought the church-yard, in which I had\nsported in my unthinking days of boyhood. Several of the modest brown\nstones, on which were recorded in Dutch the names and virtues of the\npatriarchs, had disappeared, and had been succeeded by others of white\nmarble, with urns and wreaths, and scraps of English tomb-stone poetry,\nmarking the intrusion of taste and literature and the English language\nin this once unsophisticated Dutch neighborhood.\n\nAs I was stumbling about among these silent yet eloquent memorials of\nthe dead, I came upon names familiar to me; of those who had paid\nthe debt of nature during the long interval of my absence. Some, I\nremembered, my companions in boyhood, who had sported with me on the\nvery sod under which they were now mouldering; others who in those days\nhad been the flower of the yeomanry, figuring in Sunday finery on the\nchurch green; others, the white-haired elders of the sanctuary, once\narrayed in awful sanctity around the pulpit, and ever ready to rebuke\nthe ill-timed mirth of the wanton stripling who, now a man, sobered by\nyears and schooled by vicissitudes, looked down pensively upon their\ngraves. \"Our fathers,\" thought I, \"where are they!--and the prophets,\ncan they live for ever!\"\n\nI was disturbed in my meditations by the noise of a troop of idle\nurchins, who came gambolling about the place where I had so often\ngambolled. They were checked, as I and my playmates had often been, by\nthe voice of the sexton, a man staid in years and demeanor. I looked\nwistfully in his face; had I met him any where else, I should probably\nhave passed him by without remark; but here I was alive to the traces of\nformer times, and detected in the demure features of this guardian of\nthe sanctuary the lurking lineaments of one of the very playmates I have\nalluded to. We renewed our acquaintance. He sat down beside me, on one\nof the tomb-stones over which we had leaped in our juvenile sports, and\nwe talked together about our boyish days, and held edifying discourse\non the instability of all sublunary things, as instanced in the scene\naround us. He was rich in historic lore, as to the events of the last\nthirty years and the circumference of thirty miles, and from him I\nlearned the appalling revolution that was taking place throughout the\nneighborhood. All this I clearly perceived he attributed to the boasted\nmarch of intellect, or rather to the all-pervading influence of steam.\nHe bewailed the times when the only communication with town was by the\nweekly market-boat, the \"Farmers' Daughter,\" which, under the pilotage\nof the worthy Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the Tappan Sea. Alas!\nGabriel and the \"Farmer's Daughter\" slept in peace. Two steamboats now\nsplashed and paddled up daily to the little rural port of Tarrytown. The\nspirit of speculation and improvement had seized even upon that once\nquiet and unambitious little dorp. The whole neighborhood was laid out\ninto town lots. Instead of the little tavern below the hill, where\nthe farmers used to loiter on market days and indulge in cider and\ngingerbread, an ambitious hotel, with cupola and verandas, now crested\nthe summit, among churches built in the Grecian and Gothic styles,\nshowing the great increase of piety and polite taste in the\nneighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun-bonnets, they were no longer\ntolerated, or even thought of; not a farmer's daughter but now went to\ntown for the fashions; nay, a city milliner had recently set up in the\nvillage, who threatened to reform the heads of the whole neighborhood.\n\nI had heard enough! I thanked my old playmate for his intelligence, and\ndeparted from the Sleepy Hollow church with the sad conviction that I\nhad beheld the last lingerings of the good old Dutch times in this once\nfavored region. If any thing were wanting to confirm this impression,\nit would be the intelligence which has just reached me, that a bank is\nabout to be established in the aspiring little port just mentioned. The\nfate of the neighborhood is therefore sealed. I see no hope of averting\nit. The golden mean is at an end, The country is suddenly to be deluged\nwith wealth. The late simple farmers are to become bank directors and\ndrink claret and champagne; and their wives and daughters to figure in\nFrench hats and feathers; for French wines and French fashions commonly\nkeep pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow can\nescape the general inundation? In a little while, I fear the slumber of\nages will be at end--the strum of the piano will succeed to the hum of\nthe spinning-wheel; the trill of the Italian opera to the nasal quaver\nof Ichabod Crane; and the antiquarian visitor to the Hollow, in the\npetulance of his disappointment, may pronounce all that I have recorded\nof that once favored region a fable.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE BIRDS OF SPRING.\n\nBY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.\n\nMy quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, politics, and the\nmoney market, leaves me rather at a loss for important occupation, and\ndrives me to the study of nature, and other low pursuits. Having few\nneighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch, and exercise my habits of\nobservation, I am fain to amuse myself with prying into the domestic\nconcerns and peculiarities of the animals around me; and, during the\npresent season, have derived considerable entertainment from certain\nsociable little birds, almost the only visitors we have, during this\nearly part of the year.\n\nThose who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible of the\ndelightful influences that accompany the earliest indications of spring;\nand of these, none are more delightful than the first notes of the\nbirds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird, much resembling a\nwren, which came about the house just on the skirts of winter, when not\na blade of grass was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm days\nhad given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in the\ndawning, long before sun-rise, and late in the evening, just before the\nclosing in of night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sang\noccasionally throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song was\nmore remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, and\nwarbled forth his notes, free and simple, but singularly sweet, with\nsomething of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect. The first\nmorning that he was heard, was a joyous one among the young folks of my\nhousehold. The long, deathlike sleep of winter was at an end; nature\nwas once more awakening; they now promised themselves the immediate\nappearance of buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossed\ncrew of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birds\ncame singing round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing them\nwith the belief of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return of\nwinter almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity of\nthe household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive\nnotes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine\nbetween wintry clouds.\n\nI have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out the name\nof this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor and favor far\nbeyond his modest pretensions. He comes like the lowly violet, the most\nunpretending, but welcomest of flowers, breathing the sweet promise of\nthe early year.\n\nAnother of our feathered visitors, who follows close upon the steps of\nwinter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phoebe-bird; for he is called by\neach of these names, from a fancied resemblance to the sound of his\nmonotonous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks the habitation\nof man. A pair of them have built beneath my porch, and have reared\nseveral broods there for two years past, their nest being never\ndisturbed. They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus and\nthe snow-drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladness\nthrough the house. \"The Phoebe-birds have come!\" is heard on all sides;\nthey are welcomed back like members of the family, and speculations are\nmade upon where they have been, and what countries they have seen\nduring their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it is\npronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the country, the sure sign\nthat the severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resume\nhis labors with confidence.\n\nAbout this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet truly\ndescribed by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole landscape.\nYou hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably approaches your\nhabitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. But why should\nI attempt to describe him, when I have Wilson's own graphic verses to\nplace him before the reader?\n\n  When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,\n  Green meadows and brown furrowed fields re-appearing:\n  The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,\n  And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;\n  When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,\n  When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,\n  O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,\n  And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.\n\n  The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;\n  Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm glows the weather;\n  The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,\n  And spice-wood and sassafras budding together;\n  O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,\n  Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;\n  The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,\n  That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.\n\n  He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,\n  The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;\n  He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be,\n  And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;\n  He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,\n  The worms from the webs where they riot and welter;\n  His song and his services freely are ours,\n  And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter.\n\n  The ploughman is pleased when he gleams in his train,\n  Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;\n  The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,\n  And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.\n  The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,\n  While gazing intent, as he warbles before them,\n  In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,\n  That each little loiterer seems to adore him.\n\nThe happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the\nEuropean lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he is\ncommonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which,\nin this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, so\noften given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May,\nand lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is\napt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of\nthe year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and\ndissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, nature is in\nall her freshness and fragrance: \"the rains are over and gone, the\nflowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come,\nand the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.\" The trees are now in\ntheir fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the\nclustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-briar\nand the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms; while\nthe young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry\nto glow, among the green leaves.\n\nThis is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He comes amidst the\npomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility and\nenjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms\nof the freshest and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when the\nclover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on\nsome long flaunting weed; and as he rises and sinks with the breeze,\npours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one upon\nanother, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the\nsame rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a\ntree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters\ntremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own\nmusic. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour; always in full\nsong, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same\nappearance of intoxication and delight.\n\nOf all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was the envy of\nmy boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest\nseason of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural\nfeeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed\nto be mewed up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a\nschool-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew\nby in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how\nI envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no hateful school; nothing but\nholiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then more\nversed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words of Logan to\nthe cuckoo:\n\n  Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,\n  Thy sky is ever clear;\n  Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,\n  No winter in thy year.\n\n  Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;\n  We'd make, on joyful wing,\n  Our annual visit round the globe,\n  Companions of the spring!\n\nFarther observation and experience have given me a different idea of\nthis little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart, for\nthe benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the same\nunqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. I have shown him\nonly as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his\ncareer, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits\nand enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and\nsensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from\ninjury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the\nmerest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark the\ndifference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, and\nthe spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate on the ear. He\ngradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical and\nprofessional suit of black, assumes a russet or rather dusty garb, and\nenters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes a\nbon-vivant, a mere gourmand; thinking of nothing but good cheer, and\ngormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he lately swung,\nand chaunted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like \"the\njoys of the table,\" if I may be allowed to apply that convivial phrase\nto his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-day\nfare, and sets out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreign\nluxuries. He is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Delaware,\nbanqueting on their seeds; grows corpulent with good feeding, and soon\nacquires the unlucky renown of the ortolan. Whereever he goes, pop! pop!\npop! the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side;\nhe sees his companions falling by the thousands around him; he is\nthe _reed-bird_, the much-sought-for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian\nepicure.\n\nDoes he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight still\nfarther south, in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging\nhimself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost to\nbursting; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career,\nwe hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of the\ngourmand, the most vaunted of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of the\nCarolinas.\n\nSuch is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensual\nand persecuted Boblink. It contains a moral, worthy the attention of all\nlittle birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refined\nand intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch of\npopularity, during the early part of his career; but to eschew all\ntendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence, which brought this\nmistaken little bird to an untimely end.\n\nWhich is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and little\nbirds,\n\nGEOFFREY CRAYON.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.\n\nDuring a summer's residence in the old Moorish palace of the Alhambra,\nof which I have already given numerous anecdotes to the public, I used\nto pass much of my time in the beautiful hall of the Abencerrages,\nbeside the fountain celebrated in the tragic story of that devoted\nrace. Here it was, that thirty-six cavaliers of that heroic line were\ntreacherously sacrificed, to appease the jealousy or allay the fears of\na tyrant. The fountain which now throws up its sparkling jet, and sheds\na dewy freshness around, ran red with the noblest blood of Granada,\nand a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed out, by the\ncicerones of the pile, as a sanguinary record of the massacre. I have\nregarded it with the same determined faith with which I have regarded\nthe traditional stains of Rizzio's blood on the floor of the chamber of\nthe unfortunate Mary, at Holyrood. I thank no one for endeavoring to\nenlighten my credulity, on such points of popular belief. It is like\nbreaking up the shrine of the pilgrim; it is robbing a poor traveller of\nhalf the reward of his toils; for, strip travelling of its historical\nillusions, and what a mere fag you make of it!\n\nFor my part, I gave myself up, during my sojourn in the Alhambra, to all\nthe romantic and fabulous traditions connected with the pile. I lived in\nthe midst of an Arabian tale, and shut my eyes, as much as possible, to\nevery thing that called me back to every-day life; and if there is any\ncountry in Europe where one can do so, it is in poor, wild, legendary,\nproud-spirited, romantic Spain; where the old magnificent barbaric\nspirit still contends against the utilitarianism of modern civilization.\n\nIn the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra; surrounded with the\ninsignia of regal sway, and the still vivid, though dilapidated traces\nof oriental voluptuousness, I was in the strong-hold of Moorish story,\nand every thing spoke and breathed of the glorious days of Granada,\nwhen under the dominion of the crescent. When I sat in the hall of the\nAbencerrages, I suffered my mind to conjure up all that I had read of\nthat illustrious line. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, the\nAbencerrages were the soul of every thing noble and chivalrous. The\nveterans of the family, who sat in the royal council, were the foremost\nto devise those heroic enterprises, which carried dismay into the\nterritories of the Christians; and what the sages of the family devised,\nthe young men of the name were the foremost to execute. In all services\nof hazard; in all adventurous forays, and hair-breadth hazards; the\nAbencerrages were sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noble\nrecreations, too, which bear so close an affinity to war; in the tilt\nand tourney, the riding at the ring, and the daring bull-fight; still\nthe Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them for the\nsplendor of their array, the gallantry of their devices; for their noble\nbearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed munificence made\nthem the idols of the populace, while their lofty magnanimity, and\nperfect faith, gained them golden opinions from the generous and\nhigh-minded. Never were they known to decry the merits of a rival, or to\nbetray the confidings of a friend; and the \"word of an Abencerrage\" was\na guarantee that never admitted of a doubt.\n\nAnd then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish beauty consider\nthe fame of her charms established, until she had an Abencerrage for a\nlover; and never did an Abencerrage prove recreant to his vows. Lovely\nGranada! City of delights! Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more\nproudly on their casques, or championed them more gallantly in the\nchivalrous tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-lit\nbalconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons, and\npomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?\n\nI speak with enthusiasm on this theme; for it is connected with the\nrecollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes that\never I enjoyed in Spain. One of the greatest pleasures of the Spaniards\nis, to sit in the beautiful summer evenings, and listen to traditional\nballads, and tales about the wars of the Moors and Christians, and the\n\"buenas andanzas\" and \"grandes hechos,\" the \"good fortunes\" and \"great\nexploits\" of the hardy warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, also,\nthat many of these songs, or romances, as they are called, celebrate\nthe prowess and magnanimity in war, and the tenderness and, fidelity in\nlove, of the Moorish cavaliers, once their most formidable and hated\nfoes. But centuries have elapsed, to extinguish the bigotry of the\nzealot; and the once detested warriors of Granada are now held up by\nSpanish poets, as the mirrors of chivalric virtue.\n\nSuch was the amusement of the evening in question. A number of us were\nseated in the Hall of the Abencerrages, listening to one of the most\ngifted and fascinating beings that I had ever met with in my wanderings.\nShe was young and beautiful; and light and ethereal; full of fire, and\nspirit, and pure enthusiasm. She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress;\ntouched the guitar with speaking eloquence; improvised with wonderful\nfacility; and, as she became excited by her theme, or by the rapt\nattention of her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest and\nmost melodious strains, a succession of couplets, full of striking\ndescription, or stirring narration, and composed, as I was assured, at\nthe moment. Most of these were suggested by the place, and related to\nthe ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry. The\nAbencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a woman's admiration of\ntheir gallant courtesy, and high-souled honor; and it was touching and\ninspiring to hear the praises of that generous but devoted race, chanted\nin this fated hall of their calamity, by the lips of Spanish beauty.\n\nAmong the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Moslem honor, and\nold-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a strong impression on me.\nShe disclaimed all merit of invention, however, and said she had merely\ndilated into verse a popular tradition; and, indeed, I have since found\nthe main facts inserted at the end of Conde's History of the Domination\nof the Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode in\nthe Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn it forth, and\nendeavored to shape it according to my recollection of the version of\nthe beautiful minstrel; but, alas! what can supply the want of that\nvoice, that look, that form, that action, which gave magical effect to\nher chant, and held every one rapt in breathless admiration! Should this\nmere travestie of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, in her stately\nabode at Granada, may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to her\nbenignant nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her bosom\none kind recollection of the lonely stranger and sojourner, for\nwhose gratification she did not think it beneath her to exert those\nfascinating powers which were the delight of brilliant circles; and who\nwill ever recall with enthusiasm the happy evening passed in listening\nto her strains, in the moon-lit halls of the Alhambra.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGEOFFREY CRAYON.\n\nTHE ABENCERRAGE.\n\nA SPANISH TALE.\n\nOn the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the mountains of Ronda, stands\nthe castle of Allora, now a mere ruin, infested by bats and owlets, but\nin old times one of the strong border holds of the Christians, to keep\nwatch upon the frontiers of the warlike kingdom of Granada, and to hold\nthe Moors in check. It was a post always confided to some well-tried\ncommander; and, at the time of which we treat, was held by Rodrigo de\nNarvaez, a veteran, famed, both among Moors and Christians, not only for\nhis hardy feats of arms, but also for that magnanimous courtesy which\nshould ever be entwined with the sterner virtues of the soldier.\n\nThe castle of Allora was a mere part of his command; he was Alcayde, or\nmilitary governor of Antiquera, but he passed most of his time at this\nfrontier post, because its situation on the borders gave more frequent\nopportunity for those adventurous exploits which were the delight of the\nSpanish chivalry. His garrison consisted of fifty chosen cavaliers, all\nwell mounted and well appointed: with these he kept vigilant watch\nupon the Moslems; patrolling the roads, and paths, and defiles of the\nmountains, so that nothing could escape his eye; and now and then\nsignalizing himself by some dashing foray into the very Vega of Granada.\n\nOn a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the freshness of the\nevening breeze had tempered the heat of day, the worthy Alcayde sallied\nforth, with nine of his cavaliers, to patrol the neighborhood, and\nseek adventures. They rode quietly and cautiously, lest they should be\noverheard by Moorish scout or traveller; and kept along ravines and\nhollow ways, lest they should be betrayed by the glittering of the full\nmoon upon their armor. Coming to where the road divided, the Alcayde\ndirected five of his cavaliers to take one of the branches, while he,\nwith the remaining four, would take the other. Should either party be in\ndanger, the blast of a horn was to be the signal to bring their comrades\nto their aid.\n\nThe party of five had not proceeded far, when, in passing through a\ndefile, overhung with trees, they heard the voice of a man, singing.\nThey immediately concealed themselves in a grove, on the brow of a\ndeclivity, up which the stranger would have to ascend. The moonlight,\nwhich left the grove in deep shadow, lit up the whole person of the\nwayfarer, as he advanced, and enabled them to distinguish his dress and\nappearance with perfect accuracy. He was a Moorish cavalier, and his\nnoble demeanor, graceful carriage, and splendid attire showed him to\nbe of lofty rank. He was superbly mounted, on a dapple-gray steed, of\npowerful frame, and generous spirit, and magnificently caparisoned.\nHis dress was a marlota, or tunic, and an Albernoz of crimson damask,\nfringed with gold. His Tunisian turban, of many folds, was of silk and\ncotton, striped, and bordered with golden fringe. At his girdle hung a\nscimitar of Damascus steel, with loops and tassels of silk and gold. On\nhis left arm he bore an ample target, and his right hand grasped a long\ndouble-pointed lance. Thus equipped, he sat negligently on his steed, as\none who dreamed of no danger, gazing on the moon, and singing, with a\nsweet and manly voice, a Moorish love ditty.\n\nJust opposite the place where the Spanish cavaliers were concealed, was\na small fountain in the rock, beside the road, to which the horse turned\nto drink; the rider threw the reins on his neck, and continued his song.\n\nThe Spanish cavaliers conferred together; they were all so pleased with\nthe gallant and gentle appearance of the Moor, that they resolved not to\nharm, but to capture him, which, in his negligent mood, promised to be\nan easy task; rushing, therefore, from their concealment, they thought\nto surround and seize him. Never were men more mistaken. To gather up\nhis reins, wheel round his steed, brace his buckler, and couch his\nlance, was the work of an instant; and there he sat, fixed like a castle\nin his saddle, beside the fountain.\n\nThe Christian cavaliers checked their steeds and reconnoitered him\nwarily, loth to come to an encounter, which must end in his destruction.\n\nThe Moor now held a parley: \"If you be true knights,\" said he, \"and seek\nfor honorable fame, come on, singly, and I am ready to meet each in\nsuccession; but if you be mere lurkers of the road, intent on spoil,\ncome all at once, and do your worst!\"\n\nThe cavaliers communed for a moment apart, when one, advancing singly,\nexclaimed: \"Although no law of chivalry obliges us to risk the loss of a\nprize, when clearly in our power, yet we willingly grant, as a courtesy,\nwhat we might refuse as a right. Valiant Moor! defend thyself!\" So\nsaying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched his lance, and putting\nspurs to his horse, made at the stranger. The latter met him in mid\ncareer, transpierced him with his lance, and threw him headlong from his\nsaddle. A second and a third succeeded, but were unhorsed with equal\nfacility, and thrown to the earth, severely wounded. The remaining\ntwo, seeing their comrades thus roughly treated, forgot all compact of\ncourtesy, and charged both at once upon the Moor. He parried the thrust\nof one, but was wounded by the other in the thigh, and, in the shock and\nconfusion, dropped his lance. Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, he\npretended to fly, and was hotly pursued. Having drawn the two cavaliers\nsome distance from the spot, he suddenly wheeled short about, with\none of those dexterous movements for which the Moorish horsemen are\nrenowned; passed swiftly between them, swung himself down from his\nsaddle, so as to catch up his lance, then, lightly replacing himself,\nturned to renew the combat.\n\nSeeing him thus fresh for the encounter, as if just issued from his\ntent, one of the cavaliers put his lips to his horn, and blew a blast,\nthat soon brought the Alcayde and his four companions to the spot.\n\nThe valiant Narvaez, seeing three of his cavaliers extended on the\nearth, and two others hotly engaged with the Moor, was struck with\nadmiration, and coveted a contest with so accomplished a warrior.\nInterfering in the fight, he called upon his followers to desist, and\naddressing the Moor, with courteous words, invited him to a more equal\ncombat. The latter readily accepted the challenge. For some time, their\ncontest was fierce and doubtful; and the Alcayde had need of all his\nskill and strength to ward off the blows of his antagonist. The Moor,\nhowever, was exhausted by previous fighting, and by loss of blood. He\nno longer sat his horse firmly, nor managed him with his wonted skill.\nCollecting all his strength for a last assault, he rose in his stirrups,\nand made a violent thrust with his lance; the Alcayde received it upon\nhis shield, and at the same time wounded the Moor in the right arm; then\nclosing, in the shock, he grasped him in his arms, dragged him from his\nsaddle, and fell with him to the earth: when putting his knee upon his\nbreast, and his dagger to his throat, \"Cavalier,\" exclaimed he, \"render\nthyself my prisoner, for thy life is in my hands!\"\n\n\"Kill me, rather,\" replied the Moor, \"for death would be less grievous\nthan loss of liberty.\" The Alcayde, however, with the clemency of the\ntruly brave, assisted the Moor to rise, ministered to his wounds with\nhis own hands, and had him conveyed with great care to the castle of\nAllora. His wounds were slight, and in a few days were nearly cured; but\nthe deepest wound had been inflicted on his spirit. He was constantly\nburied in a profound melancholy.\n\nThe Alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for him, treated him more\nas a friend than a captive, and tried in every way to cheer him, but in\nvain; he was always sad and moody, and, when on the battlements of\nthe castle, would keep his eyes turned to the south, with a fixed and\nwistful gaze.\n\n\"How is this?\" exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, \"that you, who were\nso hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all spirit in prison? If\nany secret grief preys on your heart, confide it to me, as to a friend,\nand I promise you, on the faith of a cavalier, that you shall have no\ncause to repent the disclosure.\"\n\nThe Moorish knight kissed the hand of the Alcayde. \"Noble cavalier,\"\nsaid he \"that I am cast down in spirit, is not from my wounds, which are\nslight, nor from my captivity, for your kindness has robbed it of all\ngloom; nor from my defeat, for to be conquered by so accomplished and\nrenowned a cavalier, is no disgrace. But to explain to you the cause of\nmy grief, it is necessary to give you some particulars of my story; and\nthis I am moved to do, by the great sympathy you have manifested toward\nme, and the magnanimity that shines through all your actions.\"\n\n\"Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez, and that I am of the noble but\nunfortunate line of the Abencerrages of Granada. You have doubtless\nheard of the destruction that fell upon our race. Charged with\ntreasonable designs, of which they were entirely innocent, many of\nthem were beheaded, the rest banished; so that not an Abencerrages was\npermitted to remain in Granada, excepting my father and my uncle, whose\ninnocence was proved, even to the satisfaction of their persecutors. It\nwas decreed, however, that, should they have children, the sons should\nbe educated at a distance from Granada, and the daughters should be\nmarried out of the kingdom.\n\n\"Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet an infant, to be\nreared in the fortress of Cartama, the worthy Alcayde of which was an\nancient friend of my father. He had no children, and received me into\nhis family as his own child, treating me with the kindness and affection\nof a father; and I grew up in the belief that he really was such. A few\nyears afterward, his wife gave birth to a daughter, but his tenderness\ntoward me continued undiminished. I thus grew up with Xarisa, for so\nthe infant daughter of the Alcayde was called, as her own brother, and\nthought the growing passion which I felt for her, was mere fraternal\naffection. I beheld her charms unfolding, as it were, leaf by leaf, like\nthe morning rose, each moment disclosing fresh beauty and sweetness.\n\n\"At this period, I overheard a conversation between the Alcayde and his\nconfidential domestic, and found myself to be the subject. 'It is time,'\nsaid he, 'to apprise him of his parentage, that he may adopt a career\nin life. I have deferred the communication as long as possible, through\nreluctance to inform him that he is of a proscribed and an unlucky\nrace.'\n\n\"This intelligence would have overwhelmed me at an earlier period, but\nthe intimation that Xarisa was not my sister, operated like magic, and\nin an instant transformed my brotherly affection into ardent love.\n\n\"I sought Xarisa, to impart to her the secret I had learned. I found her\nin the garden, in a bower of jessamines, arranging her beautiful hair by\nthe mirror of a crystal fountain. The radiance of her beauty dazzled\nme. I ran to her with open arms, and she received me with a sister's\nembraces. When we had seated ourselves beside the fountain, she began to\nupbraid me for leaving her so long alone.\n\n\"In reply, I informed her of the conversation I had overheard. The\nrecital shocked and distressed her. 'Alas!' cried she, 'then is our\nhappiness at an end!'\n\n\"'How!' exclaimed I; 'wilt thou cease to love me, because I am not thy\nbrother?'\n\n\"'Not so,' replied she; 'but do you not know that when it is once known\nwe are not brother and sister, we can no longer be permitted to be thus\nalways together?'\n\n\"In fact, from that moment our intercourse took a new character. We\nmet often at the fountain among the jessamines, but Xarisa no longer\nadvanced with open arms to meet me. She became reserved and silent, and\nwould blush, and cast down her eyes, when I seated myself beside her. My\nheart became a prey to the thousand doubts and fears that ever attend\nupon true love. I was restless and uneasy, and looked back with regret\nto the unreserved intercourse that had existed between us, when we\nsupposed ourselves brother and sister; yet I would not have had the\nrelationship true, for the world.\n\n\"While matters were in this state between us, an order came from the\nKing of Granada for the Alcayde to take command of the fortress of Coyn,\nwhich lies directly on the Christian frontier. He prepared to remove,\nwith all his family, but signified that I should remain at Cartama. I\nexclaimed against the separation, and declared that I could not be\nparted from Xarisa. 'That is the very cause,' said he, 'why I leave thee\nbehind. It is time, Abendaraez, that thou shouldst know the secret of\nthy birth; that thou art no son of mine, neither is Xarisa thy sister.'\n'I know it all,' exclaimed I, 'and I love her with tenfold the\naffection of a brother. You have brought us up together; you have made\nus necessary to each other's happiness; our hearts have entwined\nthemselves with our growth; do not now tear them asunder. Fill up the\nmeasure of your kindness; be indeed a father to me, by giving me Xarisa\nfor my wife.'\n\n\"The brow of the Alcayde darkened as I spoke. 'Have I then been\ndeceived?' said he. 'Have those nurtured in my very bosom, been\nconspiring against me? Is this your return for my paternal\ntenderness?--to beguile the affections of my child, and teach her to\ndeceive her father? It was cause enough to refuse thee the hand of my\ndaughter, that thou wert of a proscribed race, who can never approach\nthe walls of Granada; this, however, I might have passed over; but never\nwill I give my daughter to a man who has endeavored to win her from me\nby deception.'\n\n\"All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa were unavailing. I\nretired in anguish from his presence, and seeking Xarisa, told her of\nthis blow, which was worse than death to me. 'Xarisa,' said I, 'we\npart for ever! I shall never see thee more! Thy father will guard thee\nrigidly. Thy beauty and his wealth will soon attract some happier rival,\nand I shall be forgotten!'\n\n\"Xarisa reproached me with my want of faith, and promised me eternal\nconstancy. I still doubted and desponded, until, moved by my anguish and\ndespair, she agreed to a secret union. Our espousals made, we parted,\nwith a promise on her part to send me word from Coyn, should her\nfather absent himself from the fortress. The very day after our secret\nnuptials, I beheld the whole train of the Alcayde depart from Cartama,\nnor would he admit me to his presence, or permit me to bid farewell\nto Xarisa. I remained at Cartama, somewhat pacified in spirit by this\nsecret bond of union; but every thing around me fed my passion, and\nreminded me of Xarisa. I saw the windows at which I had so often beheld\nher. I wandered through the apartment she had inhabited; the chamber in\nwhich she had slept. I visited the bower of jessamines, and lingered\nbeside the fountain in which she had delighted. Every thing recalled her\nto my imagination, and filled my heart with tender melancholy.\n\n\"At length, a confidential servant brought me word, that her father\nwas to depart that day for Granada, on a short absence, inviting me to\nhasten to Coyn, describing a secret portal at which I should apply, and\nthe signal by which I would obtain admittance.\n\n\"If ever you have loved, most valiant Alcayde, you may judge of the\ntransport of my bosom. That very night I arrayed myself in my most\ngallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride; and arming myself against\nany casual attack, issued forth privately from Cartama. You know the\nrest, and by what sad fortune of war I found myself, instead of a happy\nbridegroom, in the nuptial bower of Coyn, vanquished, wounded, and a\nprisoner, withing the walls of Allora. The term of absence of the father\nof Xarisa is nearly expired. Within three days he will return to Coyn,\nand our meeting will no longer be possible. Judge, then, whether I\ngrieve without cause, and whether I may not well be excused for showing\nimpatience under confinement.\"\n\nDon Rodrigo de Narvaez was greatly moved by this recital; for, though\nmore used to rugged war, than scenes of amorous softness, he was of a\nkind and generous nature.\n\n\"Abendaraez,\" said he, \"I did not seek thy confidence to gratify an idle\ncuriosity. It grieves me much that the good fortune which delivered thee\ninto my hands, should have marred so fair an enterprise. Give me thy\nfaith, as a true knight, to return prisoner to my castle, within three\ndays, and I will grant thee permission to accomplish thy nuptials.\"\n\nThe Abencerrage would have thrown himself at his feet, to pour out\nprotestations of eternal gratitude, but the Alcayde prevented him.\nCalling in his cavaliers, he took the Abencerrage by the right hand, in\ntheir presence, exclaiming solemnly, \"You promise, on the faith of a\ncavalier, to return to my castle of Allora within three days, and render\nyourself my prisoner?\" And the Abencerrage said, \"I promise.\"\n\nThen said the Alcayde, \"Go! and may good fortune attend you. If\nyou require any safeguard, I and my cavaliers are ready to be your\ncompanions.\"\n\nThe Abencerrage kissed the hand of the Alcayde, in grateful\nacknowledgment. \"Give me,\" said he, \"my own armor, and my steed, and\nI require no guard. It is not likely that I shall again meet with so\nvalorous a foe.\"\n\nThe shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple-gray steed\nsounded over the drawbridge, and immediately afterward the light clatter\nof hoofs along the road, bespoke the fleetness with which the youthful\nlover hastened to his bride. It was deep night when the Moor arrived at\nthe castle of Coyn. He silently and cautiously walked his panting steed\nunder its dark walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to the\nportal denoted by Xarisa. He paused and looked around to see that he was\nnot observed, and then knocked three times with the butt of his lance.\nIn a little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the duenna of\nXarisa. \"Alas! senor,\" said she, \"what has detained you thus long? Every\nnight have I watched for you; and my lady is sick at heart with doubt\nand anxiety.\"\n\nThe Abencerrage hung his lance, and shield, and scimitar against the\nwall, and then followed the duenna, with silent steps, up a winding\nstair-case, to the apartment of Xarisa. Vain would be the attempt to\ndescribe the raptures of that meeting. Time flew too swiftly, and the\nAbencerrage had nearly forgotten, until too late, his promise to return\na prisoner to the Alcayde of Allora. The recollection of it came to him\nwith a pang, and suddenly awoke him from his dream of bliss. Xarisa\nsaw his altered looks, and heard with alarm his stifled sighs; but her\ncountenance brightened, when she heard the cause. \"Let not thy spirit be\ncast down,\" said she, throwing her white arms around him. \"I have the\nkeys of my father's treasures; send ransom more than enough to satisfy\nthe Christian, and remain with me.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Abendaraez, \"I have given my word to return in person, and\nlike a true knight, must fulfil my promise. After that, fortune must do\nwith me as it pleases.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Xarisa, \"I will accompany thee. Never shall you return a\nprisoner, and I remain at liberty.\"\n\nThe Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof of devotion\nin his beautiful bride. All preparations were speedily made for their\ndeparture. Xarisa mounted behind the Moor, on his powerful steed; they\nleft the castle walls before daybreak, nor did they pause, until they\narrived at the gate of the castle of Allora, which was flung wide to\nreceive them.\n\nAlighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported the steps of his\ntrembling bride, who remained closely veiled, into the presence of\nRodrigo de Narvaez. \"Behold, valiant Alcayde!\" said he, \"the way in\nwhich an Abencerrage keeps his word. I promised to return to thee a\nprisoner, but I deliver two captives into your power. Behold Xarisa,\nand judge whether I grieved without reason, over the loss of such a\ntreasure. Receive us as your own, for I confide my life and her honor to\nyour hands.\"\n\nThe Alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of the lady, and the\nnoble spirit of the Moor. \"I know not,\" said he, \"which of you surpasses\nthe other; but I know that my castle is graced and honored by your\npresence. Enter into it, and consider it your own, while you deign to\nreside with me.\"\n\nFor several days the lovers remained at Allora, happy in each other's\nlove, and in the friendship of the brave Alcayde. The latter wrote a\nletter, full of courtesy, to the Moorish king of Granada, relating the\nwhole event, extolling the valor and good faith of the Abencerrage, and\ncraving for him the royal countenance.\n\nThe king was moved by the story, and was pleased with an opportunity of\nshowing attention to the wishes of a gallant and chivalrous enemy; for\nthough he had often suffered from the prowess of Don Rodigro de Narvaez,\nhe admired the heroic character he had gained throughout the land.\nCalling the Alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the letter to\nread. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with rage, on the perusal.\n\"Restrain thine anger,\" said the king; \"there is nothing that the\nAlcayde of Allora could ask, that I would not grant, if in my power. Go\nthou to Allora; pardon thy children; take them to thy home. I receive\nthis Abencerrage into my favor, and it will be my delight to heap\nbenefits upon you all.\"\n\nThe kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He hastened to\nAllora; and folded his children to his bosom, who would have fallen at\nhis feet. The gallant Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty to his prisoner\nwithout ransom, demanding merely a promise of his friendship. He\naccompanied the youthful couple and their father to Coyn, where their\nnuptials were celebrated with great rejoicings. When the festivities\nwere over, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez returned to his fortress of Allora.\n\nAfter his departure, the Alcayde of Coyn addressed his children: \"To\nyour hands,\" said he, \"I confide the disposition of my wealth. One of\nthe first things I charge you, is not to forget the ransom you owe to\nthe Alcayde of Allora. His magnanimity you can never repay, but you can\nprevent it from wronging him of his just dues. Give him, moreover, your\nentire friendship, for he merits it fully, though of a different faith.\"\n\nThe Abencerrage thanked him for his generous proposition, which so truly\naccorded with his own wishes. He took a large sum of gold, and enclosed\nit in a rich coffer; and, on his own part, sent six beautiful horses,\nsuperbly caparisoned; with six shields and lances, mounted and embossed\nwith gold. The beautiful Xarisa, at the same time, wrote a letter to the\nAlcayde, filled with expressions of gratitude and friendship, and sent\nhim a box of fragrant cypress-wood, containing linen, of the finest\nquality, for his person. The valiant Alcayde disposed of the present\nin a characteristic manner. The horses and armor he shared among the\ncavaliers who had accompanied him on the night of the skirmish. The\nbox of cypress-wood and its contents he retained, for the sake of the\nbeautiful Xarisa; and sent her, by the hands of a messenger, the sum\nof gold paid as a ransom, entreating her to receive it as a wedding\npresent. This courtesy and magnanimity raised the character of the\nAlcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still higher in the estimation of the Moors,\nwho extolled him as a perfect mirror of chivalric virtue; and from that\ntime forward, there was a continual exchange of good offices between\nthem.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE ENCHANTED ISLAND.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.\n\n  Break, Phantsie, from thy cave of cloud,\n  And wave thy purple wings,\n  Now all thy figures are allowed,\n  And various shapes of things.\n  Create of airy forms a stream;\n  It must have blood and nought of phlegm;\n  And though it be a walking dream,\n  Yet let it like an odor rise\n  To all the senses here,\n  And fall like sleep upon their eyes,\n  Or music on their ear.--BEN JONSON.\n\n\"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our\nphilosophy,\" and among these may be placed that marvel and mystery of\nthe seas, the island of St. Brandan. Every school-boy can enumerate and\ncall by name the Canaries, the Fortunate Islands of the ancients; which,\naccording to some ingenious speculative minds, are mere wrecks and\nremnants of the vast island of Atalantis, mentioned by Plato, as having\nbeen swallowed up by the ocean. Whoever has read the history of those\nisles, will remember the wonders told of another island, still more\nbeautiful, seen occasionally from their shores, stretching away in the\nclear bright west, with long shadowy promontories, and high, sun-gilt\npeaks. Numerous expeditions, both in ancient and modern days, have\nlaunched forth from the Canaries in quest of that island; but, on their\napproach, mountain and promontory have gradually faded away, until\nnothing has remained but the blue sky above, and the deep blue water\nbelow. Hence it was termed by the geographers of old, Aprositus, or the\nInaccessible; while modern navigators have called its very existence in\nquestion, pronouncing it a mere optical illusion, like the Fata Morgana\nof the Straits of Messina; or classing it with those unsubstantial\nregions known to mariners as Cape Flyaway, and the Coast of Cloud Land.\n\nLet not, however, the doubts of the worldly-wise sceptics of modern days\nrob us of all the glorious realms owned by happy credulity in days of\nyore. Be assured, O reader of easy faith!--thou for whom I delight to\nlabor--be assured, that such an island does actually exist, and has,\nfrom time to time, been revealed to the gaze, and trodden by the feet,\nof favored mortals. Nay, though doubted by historians and philosophers,\nits existence is fully attested by the poets, who, being an inspired\nrace, and gifted with a kind of second sight, can see into the mysteries\nof nature, hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals. To this gifted race\nit has ever been a region of fancy and romance, teeming with all kinds\nof wonders. Here once bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the famous\ngarden of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit. Here, too, was the\nenchanted garden of Armida, in which that sorceress held the Christian\npaladin, Rinaldo, in delicious but inglorious thraldom; as is set forth\nin the immortal lay of Tasso. It was on this island, also, that Sycorax,\nthe witch, held sway, when the good Prospero, and his infant daughter\nMiranda, were wafted to its shores. The isle was then\n\n  ---\"full of noises,\n  Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.\"\n\nWho does not know the tale, as told in the magic page of Shakspeare?\n\nIn fact, the island appears to have been, at different times, under the\nsway of different powers, genii of earth, and air, and ocean; who made\nit their shadowy abode; or rather, it is the retiring place of old\nworn-out deities and dynasties, that once ruled the poetic world,\nbut are now nearly shorn of all their attributes. Here Neptune and\nAmphitrite hold a diminished court, like sovereigns in exile. Their\nocean-chariot lies bottom upward, in a cave of the island, almost a\nperfect wreck, while their pursy Tritons and haggard Nereids bask\nlistlessly, like seals about the rocks. Sometimes they assume a shadow\nof their ancient pomp, and glide in state about the glassy sea; while\nthe crew of some tall Indiaman, that lies becalmed with flapping sails,\nhear with astonishment the mellow note of the Triton's shell swelling\nupon the ear, as the invisible pageant sweeps by. Sometimes the quondam\nmonarch of the ocean is permitted to make himself visible to mortal\neyes, visiting the ships that cross the line, to exact a tribute from\nnew-comers; the only remnant of his ancient rule, and that, alas!\nperformed with tattered state, and tarnished splendor.\n\nOn the shores of this wondrous island, the mighty kraken heaves his\nbulk, and wallows many a rood; here, too, the sea-serpent lies coiled\nup, during the intervals of his much-contested revelations to the\neyes of true believers; and here it is said, even the Flying Dutchman\nfinds a port and casts his anchor, and furls his shadowy sail, and\ntakes a short repose from his eternal wanderings.\n\nHere all the treasures lost in the deep are safely garnered. The caverns\nof the shores are piled with golden ingots, hexes of pearls, rich bales\nof oriental silks; and their deep recesses sparkle with diamonds, or\nflame with carbuncles. Here, in deep bays and harbors, lies many a\nspell-bound ship, long given up as lost by the ruined merchant. Here,\ntoo, its crew, long bewailed as swallowed up in ocean, lie sleeping in\nmossy grottoes, from age to age, or wander about enchanted shores and\ngroves, in pleasing oblivion of all things.\n\nSuch are some of the marvels related of this island, and which may serve\nto throw some light on the following legend, of unquestionable truth,\nwhich I recommend to the entire belief of the reader.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES_.\n\nA LEGEND OF ST. BRANDAN.\n\nIn the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry of\nPortugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery along\nthe western coast of Africa, and the world was resounding with reports\nof golden regions on the main land, and new-found islands in the ocean,\nthere arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had\nbeen driven by tempests, he knew not whither, and who raved about an\nisland far in the deep, on which he had landed, and which he had found\npeopled with Christians, and adorned with noble cities.\n\nThe inhabitants, he said, gathered round, and regarded him with\nsurprise, having never before been visited by a ship. They told him they\nwere descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when that\ncountry was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the state\nof their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held\npossession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old\nnavigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either\nthrough lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined\ntheir invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was\nproperly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him from his anchorage,\nhurried him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island.\n\nThis strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere. Those\nversed in history, remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle,\nthat, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when\nthe blessed cross was cast down, and the crescent erected in its place,\nand when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven\nbishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the\npeninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land,\nwhere they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith\nunmolested.\n\nThe fate of these pious saints errant had hitherto remained a\nmystery, and their story had faded from memory; the report of the old\ntempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and\nit was determined by the pious and enthusiastic, that the island thus\naccidentally discovered, was the identical place of refuge, whither the\nwandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and where\nthey had folded their flocks.\n\nThis most excitable of worlds has always some darling object of\nchimerical enterprise: the \"Island of the Seven Cities\" now awakened as\nmuch interest and longing among zealous Christians, as has the renowned\ncity of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers, or the North-east\nPassage among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the\ndevout, that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family\nmight be discovered, and reunited to the great body of Christendom.\n\nNo one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal of Don\nFernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing in the Portuguese\ncourt, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recently\ncome to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds of pleasures and\nexcitements, when this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented\nitself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant subject\nof his thoughts by day and his dreams by night; it even rivalled his\npassion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to\nwhom he was betrothed. At length his imagination became so inflamed on\nthe subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his own\nexpense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not be\na cruise of any great extent; for according to the calculations of the\ntempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude of the\nCanaries; which at that time, when the new world was as yet undiscovered,\nformed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Don Fernando applied to the\ncrown for countenance and protection. As he was a favorite at court, the\nusual patronage was readily extended to him; that is to say, he received\na commission from the king, Don Ioam II., constituting him Adelantado,\nor military governor, of any country he might discover, with the single\nproviso, that he should bear all the expenses of the discovery and pay a\ntenth of the profits to the crown.\n\nDon Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector. He sold\nacre after acre of solid land, and invested the proceeds in ships, guns,\nammunition, and sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon was\nmortgaged without scruple, for \"he looked forward to a palace in one of\nthe Seven Cities of which he was to be Adelantado.\" This was the age of\nnautical romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers were\nturned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore, drew\nadventurers of every kind. The merchant promised himself new marts of\nopulent traffic; the soldier hoped to sack and plunder some one or other\nof those Seven Cities; even the fat monk shook off the sleep and sloth\nof the cloister, to join in a crusade which promised such increase to\nthe possessions of the church.\n\nOne person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contempt\nand growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the\nbeautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one of\nthose perverse, matter-of-fact old men who are prone to oppose every\nthing speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of the\nSeven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak;\nlooked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of his\nintended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the moon,\nand scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Lubberland. In fact, he had\nnever really relished the intended match, to which his consent had been\nslowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is true\nhe could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don Fernando\nwas the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel him at\nthe tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold and\ndexterous in the bull-fight; none composed more gallant madrigals in\npraise of his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the\naccompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets\nand dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirable\nqualities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to\nwin the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable\nfather. O Cupid, god of Love! why will fathers always be so\nunreasonable!\n\nThe engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstacle\nin the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed\nhim in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady; but\nhe was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How should\nhe reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious\narrangement at length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portion\nof the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the\ndiscovery of the Seven Cities!\n\nHe hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement to Don Ramiro,\nwhen the long-smothered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth in a storm\nabout his ears. He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering\nvagabonds and wild schemers, and of squandering all his real possessions\nin pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector,\nand too young a man, to listen tamely to such language. He acted with\nwhat is technically called \"becoming spirit.\" A high quarrel ensued; Don\nRamiro pronounced him a mad man, and forbade all farther intercourse\nwith his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity by\nabandoning this mad-cap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out of\nthe house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea of\ntriumphing over the incredulity of the gray-beard when he should return\nsuccessful.\n\nDon Ramiro repaired to his daughter's chamber the moment the youth had\ndeparted. He represented to her the sanguine, unsteady character of her\nlover and the chimerical nature of his schemes; showed her the propriety\nof suspending all intercourse with him until he should recover from his\npresent hallucination; folded her to his bosom with parental fondness,\nkissed the tear that stole down her cheek, and, as he left the chamber,\ngently locked the door; for although he was a fond father, and had a\nhigh opinion of the submissive temper of his child, he had a still\nhigher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock and key. Whether the\ndamsel had been in any wise shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her\nlover, and the existence of the Island of the Seven Cities, by the sage\nrepresentations of her father, tradition does not say; but it is certain\nthat she became a firm believer the moment she heard him turn the key in\nthe lock.\n\nNotwithstanding the interdict of Don Ramiro, therefore, and his\nshrewd precautions, the intercourse of the lovers continued, although\nclandestinely. Don Fernando toiled all day, hurrying forward his\nnautical enterprise, while at night he would repair, beneath the\ngrated balcony of his mistress, to carry on at equal pace the no less\ninteresting enterprise of the heart. At length the preparations for the\nexpedition were completed. Two gallant caravels lay anchored in the\nTagus, ready to sail with the morning dawn; while late at night, by the\npale light of a waning moon, Don Fernando sought the stately mansion of\nAlvarez to take a last farewell of Serafina. The customary signal of a\nfew low touches of a guitar brought her to the balcony. She was sad at\nheart and full of gloomy forebodings; but her lover strove to impart to\nher his own buoyant hope and youthful confidence. \"A few short months,\"\nsaid he, \"and I shall return in triumph. Thy father will then blush at\nhis incredulity, and will once more welcome me to his house, when\nI cross its threshold a wealthy suitor and Adelantado of the Seven\nCities.\"\n\nThe beautiful Serafina shook her head mournfully. It was not on those\npoints that she felt doubt or dismay. She believed most implicitly in\nthe Island of the Seven Cities, and trusted devoutly in the success of\nthe enterprise; but she had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and\nthe inconstancy of those who roam them. Now, let the truth be spoken,\nDon Fernando, if he had any fault in the world, it was that he was a\nlittle too inflammable; that is to say, a little too subject to take\nfire from the sparkle of every bright eye: he had been somewhat of a\nrover among the sex on shore, what might he not be on sea? Might he\nnot meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might he not behold some\npeerless beauty in one or other of those seven cities, who might efface\nthe image of Serafina from his thoughts?\n\nAt length she ventured to hint her doubts; but Don Fernando spurned at\nthe very idea. Never could his heart be false to Serafina! Never could\nanother be captivating in his eyes!--never--never! Repeatedly did he\nbend his knee, and smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon to\nwitness the sincerity of his vows. But might not Serafina, herself, be\nforgetful of her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present,\nwhile he was tossing on the sea, and, backed by the authority of her\nfather, win the treasure of her hand? Alas, how little did he know\nSerafina's heart! The more her father should oppose, the more would she\nbe fixed in her faith. Though years should pass before his return, he\nwould find her true to her vows. Even should the salt seas swallow him\nup, (and her eyes streamed with salt tears at the very thought,) never\nwould she be the wife of another--never--never! She raised her beautiful\nwhite arms between the iron bars of the balcony, and invoked the moon as\na testimonial of her faith.\n\nThus, according to immemorial usage, the lovers parted, with many a vow\nof eternal constancy. But will they keep those vows? Perish the doubt!\nHave they not called the constant moon to witness?\n\nWith the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus and put\nto sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions of\nnautical romance. Scarcely had they reached those latitudes, when a\nviolent tempest arose. Don Fernando soon lost sight of the accompanying\ncaravel, and was driven out of all reckoning by the fury of the storm.\nFor several weary days and nights he was tossed to and fro, at the mercy\nof the elements, expecting each moment to be swallowed up. At length,\none day toward evening, the storm subsided; the clouds cleared up, as\nthough a veil had suddenly been withdrawn from the face of heaven, and\nthe setting sun shone gloriously upon a fair and mountainous island,\nthat seemed close at hand. The tempest-tossed mariners rubbed their\neyes, and gazed almost incredulously upon this land, that had emerged so\nsuddenly from the murky gloom; yet there it lay, spread out in lovely\nlandscapes; enlivened by villages, and towers, and spires, while the\nlate stormy sea rolled in peaceful billows to its shores. About a league\nfrom the sea, on the banks of a river, stood a noble city, with lofty\nwalls and towers, and a protecting castle. Don Fernando anchored off\nthe mouth of the river, which appeared to form a spacious harbor. In a\nlittle while a barge was seen issuing from the river. It was evidently\na barge of ceremony, for it was richly though quaintly carved and gilt,\nand decorated with a silken awning and fluttering streamers, while a\nbanner, bearing the sacred emblem of the cross, floated to the breeze.\nThe barge advanced slowly, impelled by sixteen oars, painted of a bright\ncrimson. The oarsmen were uncouth, or rather antique, in their garb, and\nkept stroke to the regular cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Beneath the\nawning sat a cavalier, in a rich though old-fashioned doublet, with an\nenormous sombrero and feather. When the barge reached the caravel, the\ncavalier stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt, with a long, Spanish\nvisage, and lack-lustre eyes, and an air of lofty and somewhat pompous\ngravity. His mustaches were curled up to his ears, his beard was forked\nand precise; he wore gauntlets that reached to his elbows, and a Toledo\nblade that strutted out behind, while, in front, its huge basket-hilt\nmight have served for a porringer.\n\nThrusting out a long spindle leg, and taking off his sombrero with a\ngrave and stately sweep, he saluted Don Fernando by name, and welcomed\nhim, in old Castilian language, and in the style of old Castilian\ncourtesy.\n\nDon Fernando was startled at hearing himself accosted by name, by an\nutter stranger, in a strange land. As soon as he could recover from his\nsurprise, he inquired what land it was at which he had arrived.\n\n\"The Island of the Seven Cities!\"\n\nCould this be true? Had he indeed been thus tempest-driven upon the very\nland of which he was in quest? It was even so. The other caravel, from\nwhich he had been separated in the storm, had made a neighboring port of\nthe island, and announced the tidings of this expedition, which came to\nrestore the country to the great community of Christendom. The whole\nisland, he was told, was given up to rejoicings on the happy event; and\nthey only awaited his arrival to acknowledge allegiance to the crown of\nPortugal, and hail him as Adelantado of the Seven Cities. A grand f\u00eate\nwas to be solemnized that very night in the palace of the Alcayde or\ngovernor of the city; who, on beholding the most opportune arrival of\nthe caravel, had despatched his grand chamberlain, in his barge of\nstate, to conduct the future Adelantado to the ceremony.\n\nDon Fernando could scarcely believe but that this was all a dream.\nHe fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon the grand chamberlain, who, having\ndelivered his message, stood in buckram dignity, drawn up to his full\nstature, curling his whiskers, stroking his beard, and looking down upon\nhim with inexpressible loftiness through his lack-lustre eyes. There was\nno doubting the word of so grave and ceremonious a hidalgo.\n\nDon Fernando now arrayed himself in gala attire. He would have launched\nhis boat, and gone on shore with his own men, but he was informed the\nbarge of state was expressly provided for his accommodation, and, after\nthe f\u00eate, would bring him back to his ship; in which, on the following\nday, he might enter the harbor in befitting style. He accordingly\nstepped into the barge, and took his seat beneath the awning. The grand\nchamberlain seated himself on the cushion opposite. The rowers bent to\ntheir oars, and renewed their mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous, but\nunwieldy barge moved slowly and solemnly through the water.\n\nThe night closed in, before they entered the river. They swept along,\npast rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. The sentinels at\nevery post challenged them as they passed by.\n\n\"Who goes there?\"\n\n\"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.\"\n\n\"He is welcome. Pass on.\"\n\nOn entering the harbor, they rowed close along an armed galley, of the\nmost ancient form. Soldiers with cross-bows were stationed on the deck.\n\n\"Who goes there?\" was again demanded.\n\n\"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.\"\n\n\"He is welcome. Pass on.\"\n\nThey landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up, between two\nmassive towers, to the water-gate of the city, at which they knocked for\nadmission. A sentinel, in an ancient steel casque, looked over the wall.\n\"Who is there?\"\n\n\"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.\"\n\nThe gate swung slowly open, grating upon its rusty hinges. They entered\nbetween two rows of iron-clad warriors, in battered armor, with\ncross-bows, battle-axes, and ancient maces, and with faces as\nold-fashioned and rusty as their armor. They saluted Don Fernando in\nmilitary style, but with perfect silence, as he passed between their\nranks. The city was illuminated, but in such manner as to give a more\nshadowy and solemn effect to its old-time architecture. There were\nbonfires in the principal streets, with groups about them in such\nold-fashioned garbs, that they looked like the fantastic figures that\nroam the streets in carnival time. Even the stately dames who gazed from\nthe balconies, which they had hung with antique tapestry, looked more\nlike effigies dressed up for a quaint mummery, than like ladies in their\nfashionable attire. Every thing, in short, bore the stamp of former\nages, as if the world had suddenly rolled back a few centuries. Nor was\nthis to be wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been for\nseveral hundred years cut off from all communication with the rest of\nthe world, and was it not natural that the inhabitants should retain\nmany of the modes and customs brought here by their ancestors?\n\nOne thing certainly they had conserved; the old-fashioned Spanish\ngravity and stateliness. Though this was a time of public rejoicing, and\nthough Don Fernando was the object of their gratulations, every thing\nwas conducted with the most solemn ceremony, and wherever he appeared,\ninstead of acclamations, he was received with profound silence, and the\nmost formal reverences and swayings of their sombreros.\n\nArrived at the palace of the Alcayde, the usual ceremonial was repeated.\nThe chamberlain knocked for admission.\n\n\"Who is there?\" demanded the porter.\n\n\"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.\"\n\n\"He is welcome. Pass on.\"\n\nThe grand portal was thrown open. The chamberlain led the way up a vast\nbut heavily moulded marble stair-case, and so through one of those\ninterminable suites of apartments, that are the pride of Spanish\npalaces. All were furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. As they\npassed through the chambers, the title of Don Fernando was forwarded on\nby servants stationed at every door; and every where produced the most\nprofound reverences and courtesies. At length they reached a magnificent\nsaloon, blazing with tapers, in which the Alcayde, and the principal\ndignitaries of the city, were waiting to receive their illustrious\nguest. The grand chamberlain presented Don Fernando in due form, and\nfalling back among the other officers of the household, stood as usual\ncurling his whiskers and stroking his forked beard.\n\nDon Fernando was received by the Alcayde and the other dignitaries with\nthe same stately and formal courtesy that he had every where remarked.\nIn fact, there was so much form and ceremonial, that it seemed difficult\nto get at any thing social or substantial. Nothing but bows, and\ncompliments, and old-fashioned courtesies. The Alcayde and his courtiers\nresembled, in face and form, those quaint worthies to be seen in the\npictures of old illuminated manuscripts; while the cavaliers and dames\nwho thronged the saloon, might have beep taken for the antique figures\nof gobelin tapestry suddenly vivified and put in motion.\n\nThe banquet, which had been kept back until the arrival of Don Fernando,\nwas now announced; and such a feast! such unknown dishes and obsolete\ndainties; with the peacock, that bird of state and ceremony, served up\nin full plumage, in a golden dish, at the head of the table. And then,\nas Don Fernando cast his eyes over the glittering board, what a vista of\nodd heads and head-dresses, of formal bearded dignitaries, and stately\ndames, with castellated locks and towering plumes!\n\nAs fate would have it, on the other side of Don Fernando, was seated the\ndaughter of the Alcayde. She was arrayed, it is true, in a dress that\nmight have been worn before the flood; but then, she had a melting black\nAndalusian eye, that was perfectly irresistible. Her voice, too, her\nmanner, her movements, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how female\nfascination may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime,\nwithout ever losing its power, or going out of fashion. Those who know\nthe witchery of the sex, in that most amorous region of old Spain, may\njudge what must have been the fascination to which Don Fernando\nwas exposed, when seated beside one of the most captivating of its\ndescendants. He was, as has already been hinted, of an inflammable\ntemperament; with a heart ready to get in a light blaze at every\ninstant. And then he had been so wearied by pompous, tedious old\ncavaliers, with their formal bows and speeches; is it to be wondered at\nthat he turned with delight to the Alcayde's daughter, all smiles, and\ndimples, and melting looks, and melting accents? Beside, for I wish to\ngive him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitable\nmood, from the novelty of the scene before him, and his head was almost\nturned with this sudden and complete realization of all his hopes and\nfancies; and then, in the flurry of the moment, he had taken frequent\ndraughts at the wine-cup, presented him at every instant by officious\npages, and all the world knows the effect of such draughts in giving\npotency to female charms. In a word, there is no concealing the matter,\nthe banquet was not half over, before Don Fernando was making love,\noutright, to the Alcayde's daughter. It was his cold habitude,\ncontracted long before his matrimonial engagement. The young lady hung\nher head coyly; her eye rested upon a ruby heart, sparkling in a ring on\nthe hand of Don Fernando, a parting gage of love from Serafina. A blush\ncrimsoned her very temples. She darted a glance of doubt at the\nring, and then at Don Fernando. He read her doubt, and in the giddy\nintoxication of the moment, drew off the pledge of his affianced bride,\nand slipped it on the finger of the Alcayde's daughter.\n\nAt this moment the banquet broke up. The chamberlain with his lofty\ndemeanor, and his lack-lustre eyes, stood before him, and announced that\nthe barge was waiting to conduct him back to the caravel. Don Fernando\ntook a formal leave of the Alcayde and his dignitaries, and a tender\nfarewell of the Alcayde's daughter, with a promise to throw himself at\nher feet on the following day. He was rowed back to his vessel in the\nsame slow and stately manner, to the cadence of the same mournful old\nditty. He retired to his cabin, his brain whirling with all that he had\nseen, and his heart now and then giving him a twinge as he recollected\nhis temporary infidelity to the beautiful Serafina. He flung himself on\nhis bed, and soon fell into a feverish sleep. His dreams were wild and\nincoherent. How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke he found\nhimself in a strange cabin, with persons around him of whom he had no\nknowledge. He rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether he were really awake.\nIn reply to his inquiries, he was informed that he was on board of a\nPortuguese ship, bound to Lisbon; having been taken senseless from a\nwreck drifting about the ocean.\n\nDon Fernando was confounded and perplexed. He retraced every thing\ndistinctly that had happened to him in the Island of the Seven Cities,\nand until he had retired to rest on board of the caravel. Had his vessel\nbeen driven from her anchors, and wrecked during his sleep? The people\nabout him could give him no information on the subject. He talked to\nthem of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of all that had befallen him\nthere. They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in their\nhonest solicitude, administered such rough remedies, that he was fain to\ndrop the subject, and observe a cautious taciturnity.\n\nAt length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before the famous city\nof Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened to his\nancestral mansion. To his surprise, it was inhabited by strangers; and\nwhen he asked about his family, no one could give him any information\nconcerning them.\n\nHe now sought the mansion of Don Ramiro, for the temporary flame kindled\nby the bright eyes of the Alcayde's daughter had long since burnt itself\nout, and his genuine passion for Serafina had revived with all its\nfervor. He approached the balcony, beneath which he had so often\nserenaded her. Did his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself\nat the balcony. An exclamation of rapture burst from him, as he raised\nhis arms toward her. She cast upon him a look of indignation, and\nhastily retiring, closed the casement. Could she have heard of his\nflirtation with the Alcayde's daughter? He would soon dispel every doubt\nof his constancy. The door was open. He rushed up-stairs, and entering\nthe room, threw himself at her feet. She shrank back with affright, and\ntook refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier.\n\n\"What mean you, Sir,\" cried the latter, \"by this intrusion?\"\n\n\"What right have you,\" replied Don Fernando, \"to ask the question?\"\n\n\"The right of an affianced suitor!\"\n\nDon Fernando started, and turned pale. \"Oh, Serafina! Serafina!\" cried\nhe in a tone of agony, \"is this thy plighted constancy?\"\n\n\"Serafina?--what mean you by Serafina? If it be this young lady you\nintend, her name is Maria.\"\n\n\"Is not this Serafina Alvarez, and is not that her portrait?\" cried Don\nFernando, pointing to a picture of his mistress.\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" cried the young lady; \"he is talking of my\ngreat-grandmother!\"\n\nAn explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation, which\nplunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity. If he might\nbelieve his eyes, he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might\nbelieve his ears, it was merely her hereditary form and features,\nperpetuated in the person of her great-granddaughter.\n\nHis brain began to spin. He sought tho office of the Minister of Marine,\nand made a report of his expedition, and of the Island of the Seven\nCities, which he had so fortunately discovered. No body knew any thing\nof such an expedition, or such an island. He declared that he had\nundertaken the enterprise under a formal contract with the crown, and\nhad received a regular commission, constituting him Adelantado. This\nmust be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of the\ndepartment should be consulted. The wordy strife at length attracted the\nattention of an old, gray-headed clerk, who sat perched on a high stool,\nat a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on the top of a thin,\npinched nose, copying records into an enormous folio. He had wintered\nand summered in the department for a great part of a century, until he\nhad almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memory\nwas a mere index of official facts and documents, and his brain was\nlittle better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a time\nfrom his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy, he\nput his pen behind his ear, and descended. He remembered to have heard\nsomething from his predecessor about an expedition of the kind in\nquestion, but then it had sailed during the reign of Don Ioam II., and\nhe had been dead at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyond\ndispute, however, the archives of the Torve do Tombo, that sepulchre of\nold Portuguese documents, were diligently searched, and a record was\nfound of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de Ulmo, for the\ndiscovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of a commission secured\nto him as Adelantado of the country he might discover.\n\n\"There!\" cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, \"there you have proof, before\nyour own eyes, of what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo specified\nin that record. I have discovered the Island of the Seven Cities, and am\nentitled to be Adelantado, according to contract.\"\n\nThe story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced the best\nof historical foundation, documentary evidence; but when a man, in the\nbloom of youth, talked of events that had taken place above a century\npreviously, as having happened to himself, it is no wonder that he was\nset down for a mad man.\n\nThe old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles,\nshrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his lofty stool,\ntook the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his daily and eternal\ntask, copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of gigantic\nfolios. The other clerks winked at each other shrewdly, and dispersed to\ntheir several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung\nout of the office, almost driven wild by these repeated perplexities.\n\nIn the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the mansion\nof Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break the delusion under\nwhich the youth apparently labored, and to convince him that the\nSerafina about whom he raved was really dead, he was conducted to her\ntomb. There she lay, a stately matron, cut out in alabaster; and there\nlay her husband beside her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and there\nknelt, on each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving that\nshe had been a fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave proof of the\nlapse of time, for the hands of her husband, which were folded as if in\nprayer, had lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely Serafina\nwas noseless.\n\nDon Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding this\nmonumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but who could\nexpect a mistress to remain constant during a whole century of absence?\nAnd what right had he to rail about constancy, after what had passed\nbetween him and the Alcayde's daughter? The unfortunate cavalier\nperformed one pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose of\nSerafina restored by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from the\ntomb.\n\nHe could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or other, he had\nskipped over a whole century, during the night he had spent at the\nIsland of the Seven Cities; and he was now as complete a stranger in his\nnative city, as if he had never been there. A thousand times did he\nwish himself back to that wonderful island, with its antiquated banquet\nhalls, where he had been so courteously received; and now that the once\nyoung and beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother in\nmarble, with generations of descendants, a thousand times would he\nrecall the melting black eyes of the Alcayde's daughter, who doubtless,\nlike himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility, and breathe a\nsecret wish that he were seated by her side.\n\nHe would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his own\nexpense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his means were\nexhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, setting\nforth the certainty of profitable results, of which his own experience\nfurnished such unquestionable proof. Alas! no one would give faith to\nhis tale; but looked upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked\nman. He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all places and\nall companies, until he became an object of jest and jeer to the\nlight-minded, who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of\ninsanity; and the very children in the streets bantered him with the\ntitle of \"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.\"\n\nFinding all his efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he took\nshipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of his former\ncruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure. Here he\nfound ready listeners to his story; for the old pilots and mariners of\nthose parts were notorious island-hunters and devout believers in all\nthe wonders of the seas. Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a\ncommon occurrence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of\nthe head, observed, \"He has been at the Island of St. Brandan.\"\n\nThey then went on to inform him of that great marvel and enigma of\nthe ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants of their\nislands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been made\nin search of it. They took him to a promontory of the island of Palma,\nfrom whence the shadowy St. Brandan had oftenest been descried, and they\npointed out the very tract in the west where its mountains had been\nseen.\n\nDon Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer a doubt that\nthis mysterious and fugacious island must be the same with that of\nthe Seven Cities; and that there must be some supernatural influence\nconnected with it, that had operated upon himself, and made the events\nof a night occupy the space of a century.\n\nHe endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another attempt at\ndiscovery; they had given up the phantom island as indeed inaccessible.\nFernando, however, was not to be discouraged. The idea wore itself\ndeeper and deeper in his mind, until it became the engrossing subject of\nhis thoughts and object of his being. Every morning he would repair to\nthe promontory of Palma, and sit there throughout the live-long day, in\nhopes of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above the\nhorizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed man, but\nready to resume his post on the following morning.\n\nHis assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual attempt;\nand was at length found dead at his post. His grave is still shown in\nthe island of Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he used\nto sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the reappearance of the\nenchanted island.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNATIONAL NOMENCLATURE.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nSir: I am somewhat of the same way of thinking, in regard to names, with\nthat profound philosopher, Mr. Shandy, the elder, who maintained that\nsome inspired high thoughts and heroic aims, while others entailed\nirretrievable meanness and vulgarity; insomuch that a man might sink\nunder the insignificance of his name, and be absolutely \"Nicodemused\ninto nothing.\" I have ever, therefore, thought it a great hardship for a\nman to be obliged to struggle through life with some ridiculous or\nignoble _Christian_ name, as it is too often falsely called, inflicted\non him in infancy, when he could not choose for himself; and would give\nhim free liberty to change it for one more to his taste, when he had\narrived at years of discretion.\n\nI have the same notion with respect to local names. Some at once\nprepossess us in favor of a place; others repel us, by unlucky\nassociations of the mind; and I have known scenes worthy of being the\nvery haunt of poetry and romance, yet doomed to irretrievable vulgarity,\nby some ill-chosen name, which not even the magic numbers of a Halleck\nor a Bryant could elevate into poetical acceptation.\n\nThis is an evil unfortunately too prevalent throughout our country.\nNature has stamped the land with features of sublimity and beauty; but\nsome of our noblest mountains and loveliest streams are in danger of\nremaining for ever unhonored and unsung, from bearing appellations\ntotally abhorrent to the Muse. In the first place, our country is\ndeluged with names taken from places in the old world, and applied to\nplaces having no possible affinity or resemblance to their namesakes.\nThis betokens a forlorn poverty of invention, and a second-hand spirit,\ncontent to cover its nakedness with borrowed or cast-off clothes of\nEurope.\n\nThen we have a shallow affectation of scholarship: the whole catalogue\nof ancient worthies is shaken out from the back of Lempriere's Classical\nDictionary, and a wide region of wild country sprinkled over with the\nnames of the heroes, poets, and sages of antiquity, jumbled into the\nmost whimsical juxtaposition. Then we have our political god-fathers;\ntopographical engineers, perhaps, or persons employed by government to\nsurvey and lay out townships. These, forsooth, glorify the patrons that\ngive them bread; so we have the names of the great official men of the\nday scattered over the land, as if they were the real \"salt of the\nearth,\" with which it was to be seasoned. Well for us is it, when these\nofficial great men happen to have names of fair acceptation; but wo unto\nus, should a Tubbs or a Potts be in power: we are sure, in a little\nwhile, to find Tubbsvilles and Pottsylvanias springing up in every\ndirection.\n\nUnder these melancholy dispensations of taste and loyalty, therefore,\nMr. Editor, it is with a feeling of dawning hope, that I have lately\nperceived the attention of persons of intelligence beginning to be\nawakened on this subject. I trust if the matter should once be taken\nup, it will not be readily abandoned. We are yet young enough, as a\ncountry, to remedy and reform much of what has been done, and to release\nmany of our rising towns and cities, and our noble streams, from names\ncalculated to vulgarize the land.\n\nI have, on a former occasion, suggested the expediency of searching out\nthe original Indian names of places, and wherever they are striking and\neuphonious, and those by which they have been superseded are glaringly\nobjectionable, to restore them. They would have the merit of\noriginality, and of belonging to the country; and they would remain as\nreliques of the native lords of the soil, when every other vestige had\ndisappeared. Many of these names may easily be regained, by reference to\nold title deeds, and to the archives of states and counties. In my own\ncase, by examining the records of the county clerk's office, I have\ndiscovered the Indian names of various places and objects in the\nneighborhood, and have found them infinitely superior to the trite,\npoverty-stricken names which had been given by the settlers. A beautiful\npastoral stream, for instance, which winds for many a mile through one\nof the loveliest little valleys in the state, has long been known by the\ncommon-place name of the \"Saw-mill River.\" In the old Indian grants, it\nis designated as the Neperan. Another, a perfectly wizard stream, which\nwinds through the wildest recesses of Sleepy Hollow, bears the hum-drum\nname of Mill Creek: in the Indian grants, it sustains the euphonious\ntitle of the Pocantico.\n\nSimilar researches have released Long-Island from many of those paltry\nand vulgar names which fringed its beautiful shores; their Cow Bays, and\nCow Necks, and Oyster Ponds, and Mosquito Coves, which spread a spell of\nvulgarity over the whole island, and kept persons of taste and fancy at\na distance.\n\nIt would be an object worthy the attention of the historical societies,\nwhich are springing up in various parts of the Union, to have maps\nexecuted of their respective states or neighborhoods, in which all the\nIndian local names should, as far as possible, be restored. In fact,\nit appears to me that the nomenclature of the country is almost of\nsufficient importance for the foundation of a distinct society; or\nrather, a corresponding association of persons of taste and judgment, of\nall parts of the Union. Such an association, if properly constituted and\ncomposed, comprising especially all the literary talent of the country,\nthough it might not have legislative power in its enactments, yet\nwould have the all-pervading power of the press; and the changes in\nnomenclature which it might dictate, being at once adopted by elegant\nwriters in prose and poetry, and interwoven with the literature of the\ncountry, would ultimately pass into popular currency.\n\nShould such a reforming association arise, I beg to recommend to its\nattention all those mongrel names that have the adjective _New_ prefixed\nto them, and pray they may be one and all kicked out of the country.\nI am for none of these second-hand appellations, that stamp us a\nsecond-hand people, and that are to perpetuate us a new country to the\nend of time. Odds my life! Mr. Editor, I hope and trust we are to live\nto be an old nation, as well as our neighbors, and have no idea that\nour cities, when they shall have attained to venerable antiquity, shall\nstill be dubbed _New_-York, and _New_-London, and _new_ this and _new_\nthat, like the Pont-Neuf, (the New Bridge,) at Paris, which is the\noldest bridge in that capital, or like the Vicar of Wakefield's horse,\nwhich continued to be called \"the colt,\" until he died of old age.\n\nSpeaking of New-York, reminds me of some observations which I met with\nsome time since, in one of the public papers, about the name of our\nstate and city. The writer proposes to substitute for the present names,\nthose of the State of Ontario, and the CITY OF MANHATTAN. I concur in\nhis suggestion most heartily. Though born and brought up in the city of\nNew-York, and though I love every stick and stone about it, yet I do\nnot, nor ever did, relish its name. I like neither its sound nor its\nsignificance. As to its _significance_, the very adjective _new_ gives\nto our great commercial metropolis a second-hand character, as if\nreferring to some older, more dignified, and important place, of which\nit was a mere copy; though in fact, if I am rightly informed, the whole\nname commemorates a grant by Charles II. to his brother, the duke of\nYork, made in the spirit of royal munificence, of a tract of country\nwhich did not belong to him. As to the _sound_, what can you make of it,\neither in poetry or prose? New-York! Why, Sir, if it were to share the\nfate of Troy itself; to suffer a ten years' siege, and be sacked and\nplundered; no modern Homer would ever be able to elevate the name to\nepic dignity.\n\nNow, Sir, ONTARIO would be a name worthy of the empire state. It bears\nwith it the majesty of that internal sea which washes our northwestern\nshore. Or, if any objection should be made, from its not being\ncompletely embraced within our boundaries, there is the MOHEGAN, one\nof the Indian names for that glorious river, the Hudson, which would\nfurnish an excellent state appellation. So also New-York might be called\nManhatta, as it is named in some of the early records, and Manhattan\nused as the adjective. Manhattan, however, stands well as a substantive,\nand \"Manhattanese,\" which I observe Mr. COOPER has adopted in some of\nhis writings, would be a very good appellation for a citizen of the\ncommercial metropolis.\n\nA word or two more, Mr. Editor, and I have done. We want a NATIONAL\nNAME. We want it poetically, and we want it politically. With the\npoetical necessity of the case I shall not trouble myself. I leave it to\nour poets to tell how they manage to steer that collocation of words,\n\"The United States of North America,\" down the swelling tide of song,\nand to float the whole raft out upon the sea of heroic poesy. I am now\nspeaking of the mere purposes of common life. How is a citizen of this\nrepublic to designate himself? As an American? There are two Americas,\neach subdivided into various empires, rapidly rising in importance. As a\ncitizen of the United States? It is a clumsy, lumbering title, yet still\nit is not distinctive; for we have now the United States of Central\nAmerica; and heaven knows how many \"United States\" may spring up under\nthe Proteus changes of Spanish America.\n\nThis may appear matter of small concernment; but any one that has\ntravelled in foreign countries must be conscious of the embarrassment\nand circumlocution sometimes occasioned by the want of a perfectly\ndistinct and explicit national appellation. In France, when I have\nannounced myself as an American, I have been supposed to belong to one\nof the French colonies; in Spain, to be from Mexico, or Peru, or some\nother Spanish-American country. Repeatedly have I found myself involved\nin a long geographical and political definition of my national identity.\n\nNow, Sir, meaning no disrespect to any of our co-heirs of this great\nquarter of the world, I am for none of this coparceny in a name that is\nto mingle us up with the riff-raff colonies and off-sets of every nation\nof Europe. The title of American may serve to tell the quarter of the\nworld to which I belong, the same as a Frenchman or an Englishman may\ncall himself a European; but I want my own peculiar national name to\nrally under. I want an appellation that shall tell at once, and in a\nway not to be mistaken, that I belong to this very portion of America,\ngeographical and political, to which it is my pride and happiness to\nbelong; that I am of the Anglo-Saxon race which founded this Anglo-Saxon\nempire in the wilderness; and that I have no part or parcel with any\nother race or empire, Spanish, French, or Portuguese, in either of the\nAmericas. Such an appellation, Sir, would have magic in it. It would\nbind every part of the confederacy together as with a keystone; it would\nbe a passport to the citizen of our republic throughout the world.\n\nWe have it in our power to furnish ourselves with such a national\nappellation, from one of the grand and eternal features of our country;\nfrom that noble chain of mountains which formed its back-bone, and ran\nthrough the \"old confederacy,\" when it first declared our national\nindependence. I allude to the Appalachian or Alleghany mountains. We\nmight do this without any very inconvenient change in our present\ntitles. We might still use the phrase, \"The United States,\" substituting\nAppalachia, or Alleghania, (I should prefer the latter,) in place of\nAmerica. The title of Appalachian, or Alleghanian, would still announce\nus as Americans, but would specify us as citizens of the Great Republic.\nEven our old national cypher of U. S. A. might remain unaltered,\ndesignating the United States of Alleghania.\n\nThese are crude ideas, Mr. Editor, hastily thrown out to elicit the\nideas of others, and to call attention to a subject of more national\nimportance than may at first be supposed.\n\nVery respectfully yours,\n\nGeoffrey Crayon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM.\n\n\"Let a man write never so well, there are now-a-days a sort of persons\nthey call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many\nhobby-horses: but they'll laugh at you, Sir, and find fault, and censure\nthings, that, egad, I'm sure they are not able to do themselves; a sort\nof envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and\nthink to build their fame by calumniation of persons that, egad, to my\nknowledge, of all persons in the world, are in nature the persons that\ndo as much despise all that, as--a--In fine, I'll say no more of 'em!\"\n-REHEARSAL.\n\nAll the world knows the story of the tempest-tossed voyager, who, coming\nupon a strange coast, and seeing a man hanging in chains, hailed it with\njoy, as the sign of a civilized country. In like manner we may hail, as\na proof of the rapid advancement of civilization and refinement in\nthis country, the increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbeted\nfor the edification of the public.\n\nIn this respect, as in every other, we are \"going ahead\" with\naccelerated velocity, and promising to outstrip the superannuated\ncountries of Europe. It is really astonishing to see the number of\ntribunals incessantly springing up for the trial of literary offences.\nIndependent of the high courts of Oyer and Terminer, the great quarterly\nreviews, we have innumerable minor tribunals, monthly and weekly, down\nto the Pie-poudre courts in the daily papers; insomuch that no culprit\nstands so little chance of escaping castigation, as an unlucky author,\nguilty of an unsuccessful attempt to please the public.\n\nSeriously speaking, however, it is questionable whether our national\nliterature is sufficiently advanced, to bear this excess of criticism;\nand whether it would not thrive better, if allowed to spring up, for\nsome time longer, in the freshness and vigor of native vegetation. When\nthe worthy Judge Coulter, of Virginia, opened court for the first time\nin one of the upper counties, he was for enforcing all the rules and\nregulations that had grown into use in the old, long-settled counties.\n\"This is all very well,\" said a shrewd old farmer; \"but let me tell you,\nJudge Coulter, you set your coulter too deep for a new soil.\"\n\nFor my part, I doubt whether either writer or reader is benefited by\nwhat is commonly called criticism. The former is rendered cautious and\ndistrustful; he fears to give way to those kindling emotions, and brave\nsallies of thought, which bear him up to excellence; the latter is made\nfastidious and cynical; or rather, he surrenders his own independent\ntaste and judgment, and learns to like and dislike at second hand.\n\nLet us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing called\ncriticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary world. The pronoun\nwe, used by critics, has a most imposing and delusive sound. The reader\npictures to himself a conclave of learned men, deliberating gravely and\nscrupulously on the merits of the book in question; examining it page by\npage, comparing and balancing their opinions, and when they have united\nin a conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit of the world:\nwhereas the criticism is generally the crude and hasty production of\nan individual, scribbling to while away an idle hour, to oblige a\nbook-seller, or to defray current expenses. How often is it the\npassing notion of the hour, affected by accidental circumstances; by\nindisposition, by peevishness, by vapors or indigestion; by personal\nprejudice, or party feeling. Sometimes a work is sacrificed, because\nthe reviewer wishes a satirical article; sometimes because he wants\na humorous one; and sometimes because the author reviewed has become\noffensively celebrated, and offers high game to the literary marksman.\n\nHow often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man, reverse his\nopinion, had he time to revise it in a more sunny moment; but the press\nis waiting, the printer's devil is at his elbow; the article is wanted\nto make the requisite variety for the number of the review, or the\nauthor has pressing occasion for the sum he is to receive for the\narticle, so it is sent off, all blotted and blurred; with a shrug of\nthe shoulders, and the consolatory ejaculation: \"Pshaw! curse it! it's\nnothing but a review!\"\n\nThe critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is perhaps\nsome dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were he to speak by\nword of mouth, would be disregarded, if not scoffed at; but such is the\nmagic of types; such the mystic operation of anonymous writing; such the\npotential effect of the pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminated\nthrough the press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinions\nof the world, and give or destroy reputation.\n\nMany readers have grown timorous in their judgments since the\nall-pervading currency of criticism. They fear to express a revised,\nfrank opinion about any new work, and to relish it honestly and\nheartily, lest it should be condemned in the next review, and they stand\nconvicted of bad taste. Hence they hedge their opinions, like a gambler\nhis bets, and leave an opening to retract, and retreat, and qualify,\nand neutralise every unguarded expression of delight, until their very\npraise declines into a faintness that is damning.\n\nWere every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and speak his\nmind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more true criticism in the\nworld than at present. Whenever a person is pleased with a work, he may\nbe assured that it has good qualities. An author who pleases a variety\nof readers, must possess substantial powers of pleasing; or, in other\nwords, intrinsic merits; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect, and\ndeny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer himself to be\nreadily shaken from the conviction of his own feelings, by the sweeping\ncensures of pseudo critics. The author he has admired, may be chargeable\nwith a thousand faults; but it is nevertheless beauties and excellencies\nthat have excited his admiration; and he should recollect that taste\nand judgment are as much evinced in the perception of beauties among\ndefects, as in a detection of defects among beauties. For my part, I\nhonor the blessed and blessing spirit that is quick to discover and\nextol all that is pleasing and meritorious. Give me the honest bee, that\nextracts honey from the humblest weed, but save me from the ingenuity\nof the spider, which traces its venom, even in the midst of a\nflower-garden.\n\nIf the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imperfections is to\ncondemn an author, who is to escape? The greatest writers of antiquity\nhave, in this way, been obnoxious to criticism. Aristotle himself has\nbeen accused of ignorance; Aristophanes of impiety and buffoonery;\nVirgil of plagiarism, and a want of invention; Horace of obscurity;\nCicero has been, said to want vigor and connexion, and Demosthenes to\nbe deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have all\nsurvived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a glorious\nimmortality. Every now and then the world is startled by some new\ndoctrines in matters of taste, some levelling attacks on established\ncreeds; some sweeping denunciations of whole generations, or schools of\nwriters, as they are called, who had seemed to be embalmed and canonized\nin public opinion. Such has been the case, for instance, with Pope, and\nDryden, and Addison, who for a time have almost been shaken from their\npedestals, and treated as false idols.\n\nIt is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with respect\nto its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and prepares the way\nfor dislike. The public is always for positive sentiments, and new\nsensations. When wearied of admiring, it delights to censure; thus\ncoining a double set of enjoyments out of the same subject. Scott and\nByron are scarce cold in their graves, and already we find criticism\nbeginning to call in question those powers which held the world in magic\nthraldom. Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses has\nhad some rough passages with the censors of the press; and instantly\ncriticism begins to unsay all that it has repeatedly said in his praise;\nand the public are almost led to believe that the pen which has so often\ndelighted them, is absolutely destitute of the power to delight!\n\nIf, then, such reverses in opinion as to matters of taste can be so\nreadily brought about, when may an author feel himself secure? Where is\nthe anchoring-ground of popularity, when he may thus be driven from his\nmoorings, and foundered even in harbor? The reader, too, when he is to\nconsider himself safe in admiring, when he sees long-established altars\noverthrown, and his household deities dashed to the ground!\n\nThere is one consolatory reflection. Every abuse carries with it its\nown remedy or palliation. Thus the excess of crude and hasty criticism,\nwhich has of late prevailed throughout the literary world, and\nthreatened to overrun our country, begins to produce its own antidote.\nWhere there is a multiplicity of contradictory paths, a man must make\nhis choice; in so doing, he has to exercise his judgment, and that is\none great step to mental independence. He begins to doubt all, where all\ndiffer, and but one can be in the right. He is driven to trust to his\nown discernment, and his natural feelings; and here he is most likely\nto be safe. The author, too, finding that what is condemned at one\ntribunal, is applauded at another, though perplexed for a time, gives\nway at length to the spontaneous impulse of his genius, and the dictates\nof his taste, and writes in the way most natural to himself. It is thus\nthat criticism, which by its severity may have held the little world of\nwriters in check, may, by its very excess, disarm itself of its terrors,\nand the hardihood of talent become restored.\n\nG.C.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSPANISH ROMANCE.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nSir: I have already given you a legend or two drawn from ancient Spanish\nsources, and may occasionally give you a few more. I love these old\nSpanish themes, especially when they have a dash of the Morisco in them,\nand treat of the times when the Moslems maintained a foot-hold in the\npeninsula. They have a high, spicy, oriental flavor, not to be found in\nany other themes that are merely European. In fact, Spain is a country\nthat stands alone in the midst of Europe; severed in habits, manners,\nand modes of thinking, from all its continental neighbors. It is a\nromantic country; but its romance has none of the sentimentality of\nmodern European romance: it is chiefly derived from the brilliant\nregions of the East, and from the high-minded school of Saracenic\nchivalry.\n\nThe Arab invasion and conquest brought a higher civilization and\na nobler style of thinking into Gothic Spain. The Arabs were a\nquick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical people, and were\nimbued with oriental science and literature. Wherever they established a\nseat of power, it became a rallying place for the learned and ingenious;\nand they softened and refined the people whom they conquered. By\ndegrees, occupancy seemed to give them a hereditary right to their\nfoothold in the land; they ceased to be looked upon as invaders, and\nwere regarded as rival neighbors. The peninsula, broken up into a\nvariety of states, both Christian and Moslem, became for centuries\na great campaigning ground, where the art of war seemed to be the\nprincipal business of man, and was carried to the highest pitch of\nromantic chivalry. The original ground of hostility, a difference of\nfaith, gradually lost its rancor. Neighboring states, of opposite\ncreeds, were occasionally linked together in alliances, offensive and\ndefensive; so that the cross and crescent were to be seen side by side\nfighting against some common enemy. In times of peace, too, the noble\nyouth of either faith resorted to the same cities, Christian or Moslem,\nto school themselves in military science. Even in the temporary truces\nof sanguinary wars, the warriors who had recently striven together in\nthe deadly conflicts of the field, laid aside their animosity, met at\ntournaments, jousts, and other military festivities, and exchanged the\ncourtesies of gentle and generous spirits. Thus the opposite races\nbecame frequently mingled together in peaceful intercourse, or if any\nrivalry took place, it was in those high courtesies and nobler acts\nwhich bespeak the accomplished cavalier. Warriors of opposite creeds\nbecame ambitious of transcending each other in magnanimity as well as\nvalor. Indeed, the chivalric virtues were refined upon to a degree\nsometimes fastidious and constrained; but at other times, inexpressibly\nnoble and affecting. The annals of the times teem with illustrious\ninstances of high-wrought courtesy, romantic generosity, lofty\ndisinterestedness, and punctilious honor, that warm the very soul to\nread them. These have furnished themes for national plays and poems, or\nhave been celebrated in those all-pervading ballads which are as the\nlife-breath of the people, and thus have continued to exercise an\ninfluence on the national character which centuries of vicissitude and\ndecline have not been able to destroy; so that, with all their faults,\nand they are many, the Spaniards, even at the present day, are on many\npoints the most high-minded and proud-spirited people of Europe.\nIt is true, the romance of feeling derived from the sources I have\nmentioned, has, like all other romance, its affectations and extremes.\nIt renders the Spaniard at times pompous and grandiloquent; prone to\ncarry the \"pundonor,\" or point of honor, beyond the bounds of sober\nsense and sound morality; disposed, in the midst of poverty, to affect\nthe \"grande caballero,\" and to look down with sovereign disdain upon\n\"arts mechanical,\" and all the gainful pursuits of plebeian life; but\nthis very inflation of spirit, while it fills his brain with vapors,\nlifts him above a thousand meannesses; and though it often keeps him in\nindigence, ever protects him from vulgarity.\n\nIn the present day, when popular literature is running into the low\nlevels of life and luxuriating on the vices and follies of mankind, and\nwhen the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early growth\nof poetic feeling and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I question\nwhether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally to turn\nto these records of prouder times and loftier modes of thinking, and to\nsteep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance.\n\nFor my own part, I have a shelf or two of venerable, parchment-bound\ntomes, picked up here and there about the peninsula, and filled with\nchronicles, plays, and ballads, about Moors and Christians, which I keep\nby me as mental tonics, in the same way that a provident housewife has\nher cupboard of cordials. Whenever I find my mind brought below par by\nthe commonplace of every-day life, or jarred by the sordid collisions\nof the world, or put out of tune by the shrewd selfishness of modern\nutilitarianism, I resort to these venerable tomes, as did the worthy\nhero of La Mancha to his books of chivalry, and refresh and tone up my\nspirit by a deep draught of their contents. They have some such effect\nupon me as Falstaff ascribes to a good Sherris sack, \"warming the blood\nand filling the brain with fiery and delectable shapes.\"\n\nI here subjoin, Mr. Editor, a small specimen of the cordials I have\nmentioned, just drawn from my Spanish cupboard, which I recommend to\nyour palate. If you find it to your taste, you may pass it on to your\nreaders.\n\n  Your correspondent and well-wisher,\n  GEOFFREY CRAYON.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.\n\nIn the cloisters of the ancient Benedictine convent of San Domingo, at\nSilos, in Castile, are the mouldering yet magnificent monuments of the\nonce powerful and chivalrous family of Hinojosa. Among these, reclines\nthe marble figure of a knight, in complete armor, with the hands pressed\ntogether, as if in prayer. On one side of his tomb is sculptured in\nrelief a band of Christian cavaliers, capturing a cavalcade of male and\nfemale Moors; on the other side, the same cavaliers are represented\nkneeling before an altar. The tomb, like most of the neighboring\nmonuments, is almost in ruins, and the sculpture is nearly\nunintelligible, excepting to the keen eye of the antiquary. The story\nconnected with the sepulchre, however, is still preserved in the old\nSpanish chronicles, and is to the following purport.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn old times, several hundred years ago, there was a noble Castilian\ncavalier, named Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, lord of a border castle,\nwhich had stood the brunt of many a Moorish foray. He had seventy\nhorsemen as his household troops, all of the ancient Castilian proof;\nstark warriors, hard riders, and men of iron; with these he scoured the\nMoorish lands, and made his name terrible throughout the borders. His\ncastle hall was covered with banners, and scimitars, and Moslem helms,\nthe trophies of his prowess. Don Munio was, moreover, a keen huntsman;\nand rejoiced in hounds of all kinds, steeds for the chase, and hawks for\nthe towering sport of falconry. When not engaged in warfare, his delight\nwas to beat up the neighboring forests; and scarcely ever did he ride\nforth, without hound and horn, a boar-spear in his hand, or a hawk upon\nhis fist, and an attendant train of huntsmen.\n\nHis wife, Donna Maria Palacin, was of a gentle and timid nature, little\nfitted to be the spouse of so hardy and adventurous a knight; and many\na tear did the poor lady shed, when he sallied forth upon his daring\nenterprises, and many a prayer did she offer up for his safety.\n\nAs this doughty cavalier was one day hunting, he stationed himself in a\nthicket, on the borders of a green glade of the forest, and dispersed\nhis followers to rouse the game, and drive it toward his stand. He had\nnot been here long, when a cavalcade of Moors, of both sexes, came\nprankling over the forest lawn. They were unarmed, and magnificently\ndressed in robes of tissue and embroidery, rich shawls of India,\nbracelets and anklets of gold, and jewels that sparkled in the sun.\n\nAt the head of this gay cavalcade, rode a youthful cavalier, superior\nto the rest in dignity and loftiness of demeanor, and in splendor of\nattire; beside him was a damsel, whose veil, blown aside by the breeze,\ndisplayed a face of surpassing beauty, and eyes cast down in maiden\nmodesty, yet beaming with tenderness and joy.\n\nDon Munio thanked his stars for sending him such a prize, and exulted at\nthe thought of bearing home to his wife the glittering spoils of these\ninfidels. Putting his hunting-horn to his lips, he gave a blast that\nrung through the forest. His huntsmen came running from all quarters,\nand the astonished Moors were surrounded and made captives.\n\nThe beautiful Moor wrung her hands in despair, and her female attendants\nuttered the most piercing cries. The young Moorish cavalier alone\nretained self-possession. He inquired the name of the Christian knight,\nwho commanded this troop of horsemen. When told that it was Don Munio\nSancho de Hinojosa, his countenance lighted up. Approaching that\ncavalier, and kissing his hand, \"Don Munio Sancho,\" said he, \"I have\nheard of your fame as a true and valiant knight, terrible in arms, but\nschooled in the noble virtues of chivalry. Such do I trust to find you.\nIn me you behold Abadil, son of a Moorish Alcayde. I am on the way to\ncelebrate my nuptials with this lady; chance has thrown us in your\npower, but I confide in your magnanimity. Take all our treasure and\njewels; demand what ransom you think proper for our person, but suffer\nus not to be insulted or dishonored.\"\n\nWhen the good knight heard this appeal, and beheld the beauty of the\nyouthful pair, his heart was touched with tenderness and courtesy.\n\"God forbid,\" said he, \"that I should disturb such happy nuptials. My\nprisoners in troth shall ye be, for fifteen days, and immured within\nmy castle, where I claim, as conqueror, the right of celebrating your\nespousals.\"\n\nSo saying, he despatched one of his fleetest horsemen in advance, to\nnotify Donna Maria Palacin of the coming of this bridal party; while he\nand his huntsmen escorted the cavalcade, not as captors, but as a guard\nof honor. As they drew near to the castle, the banners were hung out,\nand the trumpets sounded from the battlements; and on their nearer\napproach, the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria came forth\nto meet them, attended by her ladies and knights, her pages and her\nminstrels. She took the young bride, Allifra, in her arms, kissed her\nwith the tenderness of a sister, and conducted her into the castle. In\nthe mean time, Don Munio sent forth missives in every direction, and had\nviands and dainties of all kinds collected from the country round; and\nthe wedding of the Moorish lovers was celebrated with all possible state\nand festivity. For fifteen days, the castle was given up to joy and\nrevelry. There were tiltings and jousts at the ring, and bullfights, and\nbanquets, and dances to the sound of minstrelsy. When the fifteen days\nwere at an end, he made the bride and bridegroom magnificent presents,\nand conducted them and their attendants safely beyond the borders. Such,\nin old times, were the courtesy and generosity of a Spanish cavalier.\n\nSeveral years after this event, the King of Castile summoned his nobles\nto assist him in a campaign against the Moors. Don Munio Sancho was\namong the first to answer to the call, with seventy horsemen, all\nstaunch and well-tried warriors. His wife, Donna Maria, hung about his\nneck. \"Alas, my lord!\" exclaimed she, \"how often wilt thou tempt thy\nfate, and when will thy thirst for glory be appeased?\"\n\n\"One battle more,\" replied Don Munio, \"one battle more, for the honor of\nCastile, and I here make a vow, that when this is over, I will lay by my\nsword, and repair with my cavaliers in pilgrimage to the sepulchre of\nour Lord at Jerusalem.\" The cavaliers all joined with him in the vow,\nand Donna Maria felt in some degree soothed in spirit: still, she saw\nwith a heavy heart the departure of her husband, and watched his banner\nwith wistful eyes, until it disappeared among the trees of the forest,\n\nThe King of Castile led his army to the plains of Almanara, where they\nencountered the Moorish host, near to Ucles. The battle was long and\nbloody; the Christians repeatedly wavered, and were as often rallied by\nthe energy of their commanders. Don Munio was covered with wounds, but\nrefused to leave the field. The Christians at length gave way, and the\nking was hardly pressed, and in danger of being captured.\n\nDon Munio called upon his cavaliers to follow him to the rescue. \"Now is\nthe time,\" cried he, \"to prove your loyalty. Fall to, like brave men!\nWe fight for the true faith, and if we lose our lives here, we gain a\nbetter life hereafter.\"\n\nRushing with his men between the king and his pursuers, they checked the\nlatter in their career, and gave time for their monarch to escape; but\nthey fell victims to their loyalty. They all fought to the last gasp.\nDon Munio was singled out by a powerful Moorish knight, but having been\nwounded in the right arm, he fought to disadvantage, and was slain. The\nbattle being over, the Moor paused to possess himself of the spoils of\nthis redoubtable Christian warrior. When he unlaced the helmet, however,\nand beheld the countenance of Don Munio, he gave a great cry, and smote\nhis breast. \"Woe is me!\" cried he: \"I have slain my benefactor! The\nflower of knightly virtue! the most magnanimous of cavaliers!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhile the battle had been raging on the plain of Salmanara, Donna Maria\nPalacin remained in her castle, a prey to the keenest anxiety. Her eyes\nwere ever fixed on the road that led from the country of the Moors, and\noften she asked the watchman of the tower, \"What seest thou?\"\n\nOne evening, at the shadowy hour of twilight, the warden sounded his\nhorn. \"I see,\" cried he, \"a numerous train winding up the valley. There\nare mingled Moors and Christians. The banner of my lord is in the\nadvance. Joyful tidings!\" exclaimed the old seneschal: \"my lord returns\nin triumph, and brings captives!\" Then the castle courts rang with\nshouts of joy; and the standard was displayed, and the trumpets were\nsounded, and the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria went forth\nwith her ladies, and her knights, and her pages, and her minstrels, to\nwelcome her lord from the wars. But as the train drew nigh, she beheld a\nsumptuous bier, covered with black velvet, and on it lay a warrior, as\nif taking his repose: he lay in his armor, with his helmet on his head,\nand his sword in his hand, as one who had never been conquered, and\naround the bier were the escutcheons of the house of Hinojosa.\n\nA number of Moorish cavaliers attended the bier, with emblems of\nmourning, and with dejected countenances: and their leader cast himself\nat the feet of Donna Maria, and hid his face in his hands. She beheld in\nhim the gallant Abadil, whom she had once welcomed with his bride to\nher castle, but who now came with the body of her lord, whom he had\nunknowingly slain in battle!\n\nThe sepulchre erected in the cloisters of the Convent of San Domingo was\nachieved at the expense of the Moor Abadil, as a feeble testimony of his\ngrief for the death of the good knight Don Munio, and his reverence for\nhis memory. The tender and faithful Donna Maria soon followed her lord\nto the tomb. On one of the stones of a small arch, beside his sepulchre,\nis the following simple inscription: \"_Hic jacet Maria Palacin, uxor\nMunonis Sancij de Finojosa_:\" Here lies Maria Palacin, wife of Munio\nSancho de Hinojosa.\n\nThe legend of Don Munio Sancho does not conclude with his death. On the\nsame day on which the battle took place on the plain of Salmanara, a\nchaplain of the Holy Temple at Jerusalem, while standing at the outer\ngate, beheld a train of Christian cavaliers advancing, as if in\npilgrimage. The chaplain was a native of Spain, and as the pilgrims\napproached, he knew the foremost to be Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa,\nwith whom he had been well acquainted in former times. Hastening to the\npatriarch, he told him of the honorable rank of the pilgrims at the\ngate. The patriarch, therefore, went forth with a grand procession of\npriests and monks, and received the pilgrims with all due honor. There\nwere seventy cavaliers, beside their leader, all stark and lofty\nwarriors. They carried their helmets in their hands, and their faces\nwere deadly pale. They greeted no one, nor looked either to the right or\nto the left, but entered the chapel, and kneeling before the Sepulchre\nof our Saviour, performed their orisons in silence. When they had\nconcluded, they rose as if to depart, and the patriarch and his\nattendants advanced to speak to them, but they were no more to be seen.\nEvery one marvelled what could be the meaning of this prodigy. The\npatriarch carefully noted down the day, and sent to Castile to learn\ntidings of Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa. He received for reply, that\non the very day specified, that worthy knight, with seventy of his\nfollowers, had been slain in battle. These, therefore, must have been\nthe blessed spirits of those Christian warriors, come to fulfil their\nvow of a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. Such was\nCastilian faith, in the olden time, which kept its word, even beyond the\ngrave.\n\nIf any one should doubt of the miraculous apparition of these phantom\nknights, let him consult the History of the Kings of Castile and Leon,\nby the learned and pious Fray Prudencio de Sandoval, Bishop of Pamplona,\nwhere he will find it recorded in the History of the King Don Alonzo\nVI., on the hundred and second page. It is too precious a legend to be\nlightly abandoned to the doubter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCOMMUNIPAW.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nSir: I observe, with pleasure, that you are performing from time to time\na pious duty, imposed upon you, I may say, by the name you have adopted\nas your titular standard, in following in the footsteps of the venerable\nKNICKERBOCKER, and gleaning every fact concerning the early times of the\nManhattoes which may have escaped his hand. I trust, therefore, a few\nparticulars, legendary and statistical, concerning a place which\nfigures conspicuously in the early pages of his history, will not be\nunacceptable. I allude, Sir, to the ancient and renowned village of\nCommunipaw, which, according to the veracious Diedrich, and to equally\nveracious tradition, was the first spot where our ever-to-be-lamented\nDutch progenitors planted their standard and cast the seeds of empire,\nand from whence subsequently sailed the memorable expedition under\nOloffe the Dreamer, which landed on the opposite island of Manhatta,\nand founded the present city of New-York, the city of dreams and\nspeculations.\n\nCommunipaw, therefore, may truly be called the parent of New-York; yet\nit is an astonishing fact, that though immediately opposite to the great\ncity it has produced, from whence its red roofs and tin weather-cocks\ncan actually be descried peering above the surrounding apple orchards,\nit should be almost as rarely visited, and as little known by the\ninhabitants of the metropolis, as if it had been locked up among the\nRocky Mountains. Sir, I think there is something unnatural in this,\nespecially in these times of ramble and research, when our citizens are\nantiquity-hunting in every part of the world. Curiosity, like charity,\nshould begin at home; and I would enjoin it on our worthy burghers,\nespecially those of the real Knickerbocker breed, before they send their\nsons abroad to wonder and grow wise among the remains of Greece and\nRome, to let them make a tour of ancient Pavonia, from Weehawk even\nto the Kills, and meditate, with filial reverence, on the moss-grown\nmansions of Communipaw. Sir, I regard this much neglected village as one\nof the most remarkable places in the country. The intelligent traveller,\nas he looks down upon it from the Bergen Heights, modestly nestled among\nits cabbage-gardens, while the great flaunting city it has begotten is\nstretching far and wide on the opposite side of the bay, the intelligent\ntraveller, I say, will be filled with astonishment; not, Sir, at the\nvillage of Communipaw, which in truth is a very small village, but at\nthe almost incredible fact that so small a village should have produced\nso great a city. It looks to him, indeed, like some squat little\ndame, with a tall grenadier of a son strutting by her side; or some\nsimple-hearted hen that has unwittingly hatched out a long-legged\nturkey.\n\nBut this is not all for which Communipaw is remarkable. Sir, it is\ninteresting on another account. It is to the ancient province of\nthe New-Netherlands and the classic era of the Dutch dynasty, what\nHerculaneum and Pompeii are to ancient Rome and the glorious days of the\nempire. Here every thing remains in statu quo, as it was in the days of\nOloffe the Dreamer, Walter the Doubter, and the other worthies of the\ngolden age; the same broad-brimmed hats and broad-bottomed breeches;\nthe same knee-buckles and shoe-buckles; the same close-quilled caps\nand linsey-woolsey short-gowns and petticoats; the same implements and\nutensils and forms and fashions; in a word, Communipaw at the present\nday is a picture of what New-Amsterdam was before the conquest. The\n\"intelligent traveller\" aforesaid, as he treads its streets, is struck\nwith the primitive character of every thing around him. Instead of\nGrecian temples for dwelling-houses, with a great column of pine boards\nin the way of every window, he beholds high peaked roofs, gable ends\nto the street, with weather-cocks at top, and windows of all sorts and\nsizes; large ones for the grown-up members of the family, and little\nones for the little folk. Instead of cold marble porches, with\nclose-locked doors and brass knockers, he sees the doors hospitably\nopen; the worthy burgher smoking his pipe on the old-fashioned stoop in\nfront, with his \"vrouw\" knitting beside him; and the cat and her kittens\nat their feet sleeping in the sunshine.\n\nAstonished at the obsolete and \"old world\" air of every thing around\nhim, the intelligent traveller demands how all this has come to pass.\nHerculaneum and Pompeii remain, it is true, unaffected by the varying\nfashions of centuries; but they were buried by a volcano and preserved\nin ashes. What charmed spell has kept this wonderful little place\nunchanged, though in sight of the most changeful city in the universe?\nHas it, too, been buried under its cabbage-gardens, and only dug out\nin modern days for the wonder and edification of the world? The reply\ninvolves a point of history, worthy of notice and record, and reflecting\nimmortal honor on Communipaw.\n\nAt the time when New-Amsterdam was invaded and conquered by British\nfoes, as has been related in the history of the venerable Diedrich, a\ngreat dispersion took place among the Dutch inhabitants. Many, like the\nillustrious Peter Stuyvesant, buried themselves in rural retreats in the\nBowerie; others, like Wolfert Acker, took refuge in various remote\nparts of the Hudson; but there was one staunch, unconquerable band that\ndetermined to keep together, and preserve themselves, like seed corn,\nfor the future fructification and perpetuity of the Knickerbocker race.\nThese were headed by one Garret Van Horne, a gigantic Dutchman, the\nPelayo of the New-Netherlands. Under his guidance, they retreated across\nthe bay and buried themselves among the marshes of ancient Pavonia, as\ndid the followers of Pelayo among the mountains of Asturias, when Spain\nwas overrun by its Arabian invaders.\n\nThe gallant Van Horne set up his standard at Communipaw, and invited\nall those to rally under it, who were true Nederlanders at heart, and\ndetermined to resist all foreign intermixture or encroachment. A strict\nnon-intercourse was observed with the captured city; not a boat ever\ncrossed to it from Communipaw, and the English language was rigorously\ntabooed throughout the village and its dependencies. Every man was sworn\nto wear his hat, cut his coat, build his house, and harness his horses,\nexactly as his father had done before him; and to permit nothing but the\nDutch language to be spoken in his household.\n\nAs a citadel of the place, and a strong-hold for the preservation and\ndefence of every thing Dutch, the gallant Van Horne erected a lordly\nmansion, with a chimney perched at every corner, which thence derived\nthe aristocratical name of \"The House of the Four Chimneys.\" Hither he\ntransferred many of the precious reliques of New-Amsterdam; the great\nround-crowned hat that once covered the capacious head of Walter the\nDoubter, and the identical shoe with which Peter the Headstrong kicked\nhis pusillanimous councillors down-stairs. St. Nicholas, it is said,\ntook this loyal house under his especial protection; and a Dutch\nsoothsayer predicted, that as long as it should stand, Communipaw would\nbe safe from the intrusion either of Briton or Yankee.\n\nIn this house would the gallant Van Home and his compeers hold frequent\ncouncils of war, as to the possibility of re-conquering the province\nfrom the British; and here would they sit for hours, nay, days, together\nsmoking their pipes and keeping watch upon the growing city of New-York;\ngroaning in spirit whenever they saw a new house erected or ship\nlaunched, and persuading themselves that Admiral Van Tromp would one\nday or other arrive to sweep out the invaders with the broom which he\ncarried at his mast-head.\n\nYears rolled by, but Van Tromp never arrived. The British strengthened\nthemselves in the land, and the captured city flourished under their\ndomination. Still, the worthies of Communipaw would not despair;\nsomething or other, they were sure, would turn up to restore the power\nof the Hogen Mogens, the Lord States-General; so they kept smoking and\nsmoking, and watching and watching, and turning the same few thoughts\nover and over in a perpetual circle, which is commonly called\ndeliberating. In the mean time, being hemmed up within a narrow compass,\nbetween the broad bay and the Bergen hills, they grew poorer and poorer,\nuntil they had scarce the wherewithal to maintain their pipes in fuel\nduring their endless deliberations.\n\nAnd now must I relate a circumstance which will call for a little\nexertion of faith on the part of the reader; but I can only say that if\nhe doubts it, he had better not utter his doubts in Communipaw, as it is\namong the religious beliefs of the place. It is, in fact, nothing more\nnor less than a miracle, worked by the blessed St. Nicholas, for the\nrelief and sustenance of this loyal community.\n\nIt so happened, in this time of extremity, that in the course of\ncleaning the House of the Four Chimneys, by an ignorant housewife who\nknew nothing of the historic value of the reliques it contained, the old\nhat of Walter the Doubter and the executive shoe of Peter the Headstrong\nwere thrown out of doors as rubbish. But mark the consequence. The good\nSt. Nicholas kept watch over these precious reliques, and wrought out of\nthem a wonderful providence.\n\nThe hat of Walter the Doubter falling on a stercoraceous heap of\ncompost, in the rear of the house, began forthwith to vegetate. Its\nbroad brim, spread forth grandly and exfoliated, and its round crown\nswelled and crimped and consolidated until the whole became a prodigious\ncabbage, rivalling in magnitude the capacious head of the Doubter. In a\nword, it was the origin of that renowned species of cabbage known, by\nall Dutch epicures, by the name of the Governor's Head, and which is to\nthis day the glory of Communipaw.\n\nOn the other hand, the shoe of Peter Stuyvesant being thrown into the\nriver, in front of the house, gradually hardened and concreted, and\nbecame covered with barnacles, and at length turned into a gigantic\noyster; being the progenitor of that illustrious species known\nthroughout the gastronomical world by the name of the Governor's Foot.\n\nThese miracles were the salvation of Communipaw. The sages of the place\nimmediately saw in them the hand of St. Nicholas, and understood their\nmystic signification. They set to work with all diligence to cultivate\nand multiply these great blessings; and so abundantly did the\ngubernatorial hat and shoe fructify and increase, that in a little time\ngreat patches of cabbages were to be seen extending from the village of\nCommunipaw quite to the Bergen Hills; while the whole bottom of the\nbay in front became a vast bed of oysters. Ever since that time this\nexcellent community has been divided into two great classes: those who\ncultivate the land and those who cultivate the water. The former have\ndevoted themselves to the nurture and edification of cabbages, rearing\nthem in all their varieties; while the latter have formed parks and\nplantations, under water, to which juvenile oysters are transplanted\nfrom foreign parts, to finish their education.\n\nAs these great sources of profit multiplied upon their hands, the worthy\ninhabitants of Communipaw began to long for a market at which to\ndispose of their superabundance. This gradually produced once more an\nintercourse with New-York; but it was always carried on by the old\npeople and the negroes; never would they permit the young folks, of\neither sex, to visit the city, lest they should get tainted with foreign\nmanners and bring home foreign fashions. Even to this day, if you see an\nold burgher in the market, with hat and garb of antique Dutch fashion,\nyou may be sure he is one of the old unconquered race of the \"bitter\nblood,\" who maintain their strong-hold at Communipaw.\n\nIn modern days, the hereditary bitterness against the English has lost\nmuch of its asperity, or rather has become merged in a new source of\njealousy and apprehension: I allude to the incessant and wide-spreading\nirruptions from New-England. Word has been continually brought back to\nCommunipaw, by those of the community who return from their trading\nvoyages in cabbages and oysters, of the alarming power which the Yankees\nare gaining in the ancient city of New-Amsterdam; elbowing the genuine\nKnickerbockers out of all civic posts of honor and profit; bargaining\nthem out of their hereditary homesteads; pulling down the venerable\nhouses, with crow-step gables, which have stood since the time of the\nDutch rule, and erecting, instead, granite stores, and marble banks; in\na word, evincing a deadly determination to obliterate every vestige of\nthe good old Dutch times.\n\nIn consequence of the jealousy thus awakened, the worthy traders from\nCommunipaw confine their dealings, as much as possible, to the genuine\nDutch families. If they furnish the Yankees at all, it is with inferior\narticles. Never can the latter procure a real \"Governor's Head,\" or\n\"Governor's Foot,\" though they have offered extravagant prices for the\nsame, to grace their table on the annual festival of the New-England\nSociety.\n\nBut what has carried this hostility to the Yankees to the highest pitch,\nwas an attempt made by that all-pervading race to get possession of\nCommunipaw itself. Yes, Sir; during the late mania for land speculation,\na daring company of Yankee projectors landed before the village; stopped\nthe honest burghers on the public highway, and endeavored to bargain\nthem out of their hereditary acres; displayed lithographic maps,\nin which their cabbage-gardens were laid out into town lots: their\noyster-parks into docks and quays; and even the House of the Four\nChimneys metamorphosed into a bank, which was to enrich the whole\nneighborhood with paper money.\n\nFortunately, the gallant Van Hornes came to the rescue, just as some of\nthe worthy burghers were on the point of capitulating. The Yankees were\nput to the rout, with signal confusion, and have never since dared to\nshow their faces in the place. The good people continue to cultivate\ntheir cabbages, and rear their oysters; they know nothing of banks, nor\njoint stock companies, but treasure up their money in stocking-feet, at\nthe bottom of the family chest, or bury it in iron pots, as did their\nfathers and grandfathers before them.\n\nAs to the House of the Four Chimneys, it still remains in the great and\ntall family of the Van Hornes. Here are to be seen ancient Dutch corner\ncupboards, chests of drawers, and massive clothes-presses, quaintly\ncarved, and carefully waxed and polished; together with divers thick,\nblack-letter volumes, with brass clasps, printed of yore in Leydon and\nAmsterdam, and handed down from generation to generation, in the family,\nbut never read. They are preserved in the archives, among sundry old\nparchment deeds, in Dutch and English, bearing the seals of the early\ngovernors of the province.\n\nIn this house, the primitive Dutch holidays of Paas and Pinxter\nare faithfully kept up; and New-Year celebrated with cookies and\ncherry-bounce; nor is the festival of the blessed St. Nicholas\nforgotten, when all the children are sure to hang up their stockings,\nand to have them filled according to their deserts; though, it is said,\nthe good saint is occasionally perplexed in his nocturnal visits, which\nchimney to descend.\n\nOf late, this portentous mansion has begun to give signs of dilapidation\nand decay. Some have attributed this to the visits made by the young\npeople to the city, and their bringing thence various modern fashions;\nand to their neglect of the Dutch language, which is gradually becoming\nconfined to the older persons in the community. The house, too, was\ngreatly shaken by high winds, during the prevalence of the speculation\nmania, especially at the time of the landing of the Yankees. Seeing how\nmysteriously the fate of Communipaw is identified with this venerable\nmansion, we cannot wonder that the older and wiser heads of the\ncommunity should be filled with dismay, whenever a brick is toppled\ndown from one of the chimneys, or a weather-cock is blown off from a\ngable-end.\n\nThe present lord of this historic pile, I am happy to say, is calculated\nto maintain it in all its integrity. He is of patriarchal age, and is\nworthy of the days of the patriarchs. He has done his utmost to increase\nand multiply the true race in the land. His wife has not been inferior\nto him in zeal, and they are surrounded by a goodly progeny of children,\nand grand-children, and great-grand-children, who promise to perpetuate\nthe name of Van Horne, until time shall be no more. So be it! Long may\nthe horn of the Van Hornes continue to be exalted in the land! Tall as\nthey are, may their shadows never be less! May the House of the Four\nChimneys remain for ages, the citadel of Communipaw, and the smoke of\nits chimneys continue to ascend, a sweet-smelling incense in the hose of\nSt. Nicholas!\n\nWith great respect, Mr. Editor,\n\nYour ob't servant,\n\nHERMANUS VANDERDONK.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nSir: I have read with great satisfaction the valuable paper of your\ncorrespondent, Mr. HERMANUS VANDERDONK, (who, I take it, is a descendant\nof the learned Adrian Vanderdonk, one of the early historians of the\nNieuw-Nederlands,) giving sundry particulars, legendary and statistical,\ntouching the venerable village of Communipaw and its fate-bound citadel,\nthe House of the Four Chimneys. It goes to prove what I have repeatedly\nmaintained, that we live in the midst of history and mystery and\nromance; and that there is no spot in the world more rich in themes for\nthe writer of historic novels, heroic melodramas, and rough-shod epics,\nthan this same business-looking city of the Manhattoes and its environs.\nHe who would find these elements, however, must not seek them among the\nmodern improvements and modern people of this moneyed metropolis, but\nmust dig for them, as for Kidd the pirate's treasures, in out-of-the-way\nplaces, and among the ruins of the past.\n\nPoetry and romance received a fatal blow at the overthrow of the ancient\nDutch dynasty, and have ever since been gradually withering under the\ngrowing domination of the Yankees. They abandoned our hearths when the\nold Dutch tiles were superseded by marble chimney-pieces; when brass\nandirons made way for polished grates, and the crackling and blazing\nfire of nut-wood gave place to the smoke and stench of Liverpool coal;\nand on the downfall of the last gable-end house, their requiem was\ntolled from the tower of the Dutch church in Nassau-street by the old\nbell that came from Holland. But poetry and romance still live unseen\namong us, or seen only by the enlightened few, who are able to\ncontemplate this city and its environs through the medium of tradition,\nand clothed with the associations of foregone ages.\n\nWould you seek these elements in the country, Mr. Editor, avoid all\nturnpikes, rail-roads, and steamboats, those abominable inventions by\nwhich the usurping Yankees are strengthening themselves in the land, and\nsubduing every thing to utility and common-place. Avoid all towns and\ncities of white clapboard palaces and Grecian temples, studded with\n\"Academics,\" \"Seminaries,\" and \"Institutes,\" which glisten along our\nbays and rivers; these are the strong-holds of Yankee usurpation; but if\nhaply you light upon some rough, rambling road, winding between stone\nfences, gray with moss, and overgrown with elder, poke-berry, mullein,\nand sweet-briar, with here and there a low, red-roofed, whitewashed\nfarm-house, cowering among apple and cherry trees; an old stone church,\nwith elms, willows, and button-woods, as old-looking as itself, and\ntombstones almost buried in their own graves; and, peradventure, a small\nlog school-house at a cross-road, where the English is still taught with\na thickness of the tongue, instead of a twang of the nose; should you,\nI say, light upon such a neighborhood, Mr. Editor, you may thank your\nstars that you have found one of the lingering haunts of poetry and\nromance.\n\nYour correspondent, Sir, has touched upon that sublime and affecting\nfeature in the history of Communipaw, the retreat of the patriotic band\nof Nederlanders, led by Van Horne, whom he justly terms the Pelayo of\nthe New-Netherlands. He has given you a picture of the manner in which\nthey ensconced themselves in the House of the Four Chimneys, and awaited\nwith heroic patience and perseverance the day that should see the flag\nof the Hogen Mogens once more floating on the fort of New-Amsterdam.\n\nYour correspondent, Sir, has but given you a glimpse over the threshold;\nI will now let you into the heart of the mystery of this most mysterious\nand eventful village.\n\n  Yes, sir, I will now--\"unclasp a secret book;\n  And to your quick conceiving discontents,\n  I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,\n  As full of peril and adventurous spirit,\n  As to o'er walk a current, roaring loud,\n  On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.\"\n\nSir, it is one of the most beautiful and interesting facts connected\nwith the history of Communipaw, that the early feeling of resistance to\nforeign rule, alluded to by your correspondent, is still kept up. Yes,\nsir, a settled, secret, and determined conspiracy has been going on\nfor generations among this indomitable people, the descendants of the\nrefugees from New-Amsterdam; the object of which is to redeem their\nancient seat of empire, and to drive the losel Yankees out of the land.\n\nCommunipaw, it is true, has the glory of originating this conspiracy;\nand it was hatched and reared in the House of the Four Chimneys; but it\nhas spread far and wide over ancient Pavonia, surmounted the heights of\nBergen, Hoboken, and Weehawk, crept up along the banks of the Passaic\nand the Hackensack, until it pervades the whole chivalry of the country\nfrom Tappan Slote in the north to Piscataway in the south, including the\npugnacious village of Rahway, more heroically denominated Spank-town.\n\nThroughout all these regions a great \"in-and-in confederacy\" prevails,\nthat is to say, a confederacy among the Dutch families, by dint of\ndiligent and exclusive intermarriage, to keep the race pure and to\nmultiply. If ever, Mr. Editor, in the course of your travels between\nSpank-town and Tappan Slote, you should see a cosey, low-eaved\nfarm-house, teeming with sturdy, broad-built little urchins, you may set\nit down as one of the breeding places of this grand secret confederacy,\nstocked with the embryo deliverers of New-Amsterdam.\n\nAnother step in the progress of this patriotic conspiracy, is the\nestablishment, in various places within the ancient boundaries of the\nNieuw-Nederlands, of secret, or rather mysterious associations, composed\nof the genuine sons of the Nederlanders, with the ostensible object of\nkeeping up the memory of old times and customs, but with the real object\nof promoting the views of this dark and mighty plot, and extending its\nramifications throughout the land.\n\nSir, I am descended from a long line of genuine Nederlanders, who,\nthough they remained in the city of New-Amsterdam after the conquest,\nand throughout the usurpation, have never in their hearts been able to\ntolerate the yoke imposed upon them. My worthy father, who was one of\nthe last of the cocked hats, had a little knot of cronies, of his own\nstamp, who used to meet in our wainscoted parlor, round a nut-wood fire,\ntalk over old times, when the city was ruled by its native burgomasters,\nand groan over the monopoly of all places of power and profit by the\nYankees. I well recollect the effect upon this worthy little conclave,\nwhen the Yankees first instituted then New-England Society, held their\n\"national festival,\" toasted their \"father land,\" and sang their foreign\nsongs of triumph within the very precincts of our ancient metropolis.\nSir, from that day, my father held the smell of codfish and potatoes,\nand the sight of pumpkin pie, in utter abomination; and whenever the\nannual dinner of the New-England Society came round, it was a sore\nanniversary for his children. He got up in an ill humor, grumbled and\ngrowled throughout the day, and not one of us went to bed that night,\nwithout having had his jacket well trounced, to the tune of \"The Pilgrim\nFathers.\"\n\nYou may judge, then, Mr. Editor, of the exaltation of all true patriots\nof this stamp, when the Society of Saint Nicholas was set up among us,\nand intrepidly established, cheek by jole, alongside of the society of\nthe invaders. Never shall I forget the effect upon my father and his\nlittle knot of brother groaners, when tidings were brought them that the\nancient banner of the Manhattoes was actually floating from the window\nof the City Hotel. Sir, they nearly jumped out of their silver-buckled\nshoes for joy. They took down their cocked hats from the pegs on which\nthey had hanged them, as the Israelites of yore hung their harps upon\nthe willows, in token of bondage, clapped them resolutely once more upon\ntheir heads, and cocked them in the face of every Yankee they met on the\nway to the banqueting-room.\n\nThe institution of this society was hailed with transport throughout the\nwhole extent of the New-Netherlands; being considered a secret foothold\ngained in New-Amsterdam, and a flattering presage of future triumph.\nWhenever that society holds its annual feast, a sympathetic hilarity\nprevails throughout the land; ancient Pavonia sends over its\ncontributions of cabbages and oysters; the House of the Four Chimneys is\nsplendidly illuminated, and the traditional song of St. Nicholas, the\nmystic bond of union and conspiracy, is chaunted with closed doors, in\nevery genuine Dutch family.\n\nI have thus, I trust, Mr. Editor, opened your eyes to some of the grand\nmoral, poetical, and political phenomena with which you are surrounded.\nYou will now be able to read the \"signs of the times.\" You will\nnow understand what is meant by those \"Knickerbocker Halls,\" and\n\"Knickerbocker Hotels,\" and \"Knickerbocker Lunches,\" that are daily\nspringing up in our city and what all these \"Knickerbocker Omnibuses\"\nare driving at. You will see in them so many clouds before a storm; so\nmany mysterious but sublime intimations of the gathering vengeance of a\ngreat though oppressed people. Above all, you will now contemplate\nour bay and its portentous borders, with proper feelings of awe and\nadmiration. Talk of the Bay of Naples, and its volcanic mountains! Why,\nSir, little Communipaw, sleeping among its cabbage gardens, \"quiet as\ngunpowder,\" yet with this tremendous conspiracy brewing in its bosom is\nan object ten times as sublime (in a moral point of view, mark me) as\nVesuvius in repose, though charged with lava and brimstone, and ready\nfor an eruption.\n\nLet me advert to a circumstance connected with this theme, which\ncannot but be appreciated by every heart of sensibility. You must have\nremarked, Mr. Editor, on summer evenings, and on Sunday afternoons,\ncertain grave, primitive-looking personages, walking the Battery, in\nclose confabulation, with their canes behind their backs, and ever and\nanon turning a wistful gaze toward the Jersey shore. These, Sir, are the\nsons of Saint Nicholas, the genuine Nederlanders; who regard Communipaw\nwith pious reverence, not merely as the progenitor, but the destined\nregenerator, of this great metropolis. Yes, Sir; they are looking with\nlonging eyes to the green marshes of ancient Pavonia, as did the poor\nconquered Spaniards of yore toward the stern mountains of Asturias,\nwondering whether the day of deliverance is at hand. Many is the time,\nwhen, in my boyhood, I have walked with my father and his confidential\ncompeers on the Battery, and listened to their calculations and\nconjectures, and observed the points of their sharp cocked hats evermore\nturned toward Pavonia. Nay, Sir, I am convinced that at this moment, if\nI were to take down the cocked hat of my lamented father from the peg on\nwhich it has hung for years, and were to carry it to the Battery, its\ncentre point, true as the needle to the pole, would turn to Communipaw.\n\nMr. Editor, the great historic drama of New-Amsterdam, is but half\nacted. The reigns of Walter the Doubter, William the Testy, and Peter\nthe Headstrong, with the rise, progress, and decline of the Dutch\ndynasty, are but so many parts of the main action, the triumphant\ncatastrophe of which is yet to come. Yes, Sir! the deliverance of\nthe New-Nederlands from Yankee domination will eclipse the far-famed\nredemption of Spain from the Moors, and the oft-sung conquest of Granada\nwill fade before the chivalrous triumph of New-Amsterdam. Would that\nPeter Stuyvesant could rise from his grave to witness that day!\n\nYour humble servant,\n\nROLOFF VAN RIPPER.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nP. S. Just as I had concluded the foregoing epistle, I received a piece\nof intelligence, which makes me tremble for the fate of Communipaw.\nI fear, Mr. Editor, the grand conspiracy is in danger of being\ncountermined and counteracted, by those all-pervading and\nindefatigable Yankees. Would you think it, Sir! one of them has actually\neffected an entry in the place by covered way; or in other words, under\ncover of the petticoats. Finding every other mode ineffectual, he\nsecretly laid siege to a Dutch heiress, who owns a great cabbage-garden\nin her own right. Being a smooth-tongued varlet, he easily prevailed on\nher to elope with him, and they were privately married at Spank-town!\nThe first notice the good people of Communipaw had of this awful event,\nwas a lithographed map of the cabbage garden laid out in town lots, and\nadvertised for sale! On the night of the wedding, the main weather-cock\nof the House of the Four Chimneys was carried away in a whirlwind! The\ngreatest consternation reigns throughout the village!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.\n\nSir: I observed in your last month's periodical, a communication from\na Mr. VANDERDONK, giving some information concerning Communipaw. I\nherewith send you, Mr. Editor, a legend connected with that place; and\nam much surprised it should have escaped the researches of your very\nauthentic correspondent, as it relates to an edifice scarcely less fated\nthan the House of the Four Chimneys. I give you the legend in its crude\nand simple state, as I heard it related; it is capable, however, of\nbeing dilated, inflated, and dressed up into very imposing shape and\ndimensions. Should any of your ingenious contributors in this line feel\ninclined to take it in hand, they will find ample materials, collateral\nand illustrative, among the papers of the late Reinier Skaats, many\nyears since crier of the court, and keeper of the City Hall, in the\ncity of the Manhattoes; or in the library of that important and utterly\nrenowned functionary, Mr. Jacob Hays, long time high constable, who,\nin the course of his extensive researches, has amassed an amount of\nvaluable facts, to be rivalled only by that great historical collection,\n\"The Newgate Calendar.\"\n\nYour humble servant,\n\nBARENT VAN SCHAICK.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_GUESTS FROM GIBBET-ISLAND_.\n\nA LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.\n\nWhoever has visited the ancient and renowned village of Communipaw,\nmay have noticed an old stone building, of most ruinous and sinister\nappearance. The doors and window-shutters are ready to drop from their\nhinges; old clothes are stuffed in the broken panes of glass, while\nlegions of half-starved dogs prowl about the premises, and rush out and\nbark at every passer-by; for your beggarly house in a village is most\napt to swarm with profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. What adds to the\nsinister appearance of this mansion, is a tall frame in front, not\na little resembling a gallows, and which looks as if waiting to\naccommodate some of the inhabitants with a well-merited airing. It is\nnot a gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post; for this dwelling, in\nthe golden days of Communipaw, was one of the most orderly and peaceful\nof village taverns, where all the public affairs of Communipaw were\ntalked and smoked over. In fact, it was in this very building that\nOloffe the Dreamer, and his companions, concerted that great voyage of\ndiscovery and colonization, in which they explored Buttermilk Channel,\nwere nearly shipwrecked in the strait of Hell-gate, and finally landed\non the Island of Manhattan, and founded the great city of New-Amsterdam.\n\nEven after the province had been cruelly wrested from the sway of their\nHigh Mightinesses, by the combined forces of the British and Yankees,\nthis tavern continued its ancient loyalty. It is true, the head of the\nPrince of Orange disappeared from the sign; a strange bird being painted\nover it, with the explanatory legend of \"DIE WILDE GANS,\" or The Wild\nGoose; but this all the world knew to be a sly riddle of the landlord,\nthe worthy Teunis Van Gieson, a knowing man in a small way, who laid\nhis finger beside his nose and winked, when any one studied the\nsignification of his sign, and observed that his goose was hatching, but\nwould join the flock whenever they flew over the water; an enigma which\nwas the perpetual recreation and delight of the loyal but fat-headed\nburghers of Communipaw.\n\nUnder the sway of this patriotic, though discreet and quiet publican,\nthe tavern continued to flourish in primeval tranquillity, and was\nthe resort of all true-hearted Nederlanders, from all parts of Pavonia;\nwho met here quietly and secretly, to smoke and drink the downfall of\nBriton and Yankee, and success to Admiral Van Tromp.\n\nThe only drawback on the comfort of the establishment, was a nephew of\nmine host, a sister's son, Yan Yost Vanderscamp by name, and a real\nscamp by nature. This unlucky whipster showed an early propensity to\nmischief, which he gratified in a small way, by playing tricks upon the\nfrequenters of the Wild Goose; putting gunpowder in their pipes, or\nsquibs in their pockets, and astonishing them with an explosion, while\nthey sat nodding round the fire-place in the bar-room; and if perchance\na worthy burgher from some distant part of Pavonia had lingered until\ndark over his potation, it was odds but that young Vanderscamp would\nslip a briar under his horse's tail, as he mounted, and send him\nclattering along the road, in neck-or-nothing style, to his infinite\nastonishment and discomfiture.\n\nIt may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild Goose did not turn\nsuch a graceless varlet out of doors; but Teunis Van Gieson was an\neasy-tempered man, and, having no child of his own, looked upon his\nnephew with almost parental indulgence. His patience and good-nature\nwere doomed to be tried by another inmate of his mansion. This was a\ncross-grained curmudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, who was a kind of\nenigma in Communipaw. Where he came from, nobody knew. He was found one\nmorning, after a storm, cast like a sea-monster on the strand, in front\nof the Wild Goose, and lay there, more dead than alive. The neighbors\ngathered round, and speculated on this production of the deep; whether\nit were fish or flesh, or a compound of both, commonly yclept a merman.\nThe kind-hearted Teunis Van Gieson, seeing that he wore the human form,\ntook him into his house, and warmed him into life. By degrees, he showed\nsigns of intelligence, and even uttered sounds very much like language,\nbut which no one in Communipaw could understand. Some thought him a\nnegro just from Guinea, who had either fallen overboard, or escaped from\na slave-ship. Nothing, however, could ever draw from him any account\nof his origin. When questioned on the subject, he merely pointed to\nGibbet-Island, a small rocky islet, which lies in the open bay, just\nopposite to Communipaw, as if that were his native place, though every\nbody knew it had never been inhabited.\n\nIn the process of time, he acquired something of the Dutch language,\nthat is to say, he learnt all its vocabulary of oaths and maledictions,\nwith just words sufficient to string them together. \"Donder en\nblicksen!\" (thunder and lightning,) was the gentlest of his\nejaculations. For years he kept about the Wild Goose, more like one of\nthose familiar spirits, or household goblins, that we read of, than\nlike a human being. He acknowledged allegiance to no one, but performed\nvarious domestic offices, when it suited his humor; waiting occasionally\non the guests; grooming the horses, cutting wood, drawing water; and all\nthis without being ordered. Lay any command on him, and the stubborn\nsea-urchin was sure to rebel. He was never so much at home, however,\nas when on the water, plying about in skiff or canoe, entirely alone,\nfishing, crabbing, or grabbing for oysters, and would bring home\nquantities for the larder of the Wild Goose, which he would throw down\nat the kitchen door, with a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him from\nlaunching forth on his favorite element: indeed, the wilder the weather,\nthe more he seemed to enjoy it. If a storm was brewing, he was sure to\nput off from shore; and would be seen far out in the bay, his light\nskiff dancing like a feather on the waves, when sea and sky were all\nin a turmoil, and the stoutest ships were fain to lower their sails.\nSometimes, on such occasions, he would be absent for days together. How\nhe weathered the tempest, and how and where he subsisted, no one\ncould divine, nor did any one venture to ask, for all had an almost\nsuperstitious awe of him. Some of the Communipaw oystermen declared that\nthey had more than once seen him suddenly disappear, canoe and all, as\nif they plunged beneath the waves, and after a while come up again, in\nquite a different part of the bay; whence they concluded that he could\nlive under water like that notable species of wild duck, commonly called\nthe Hell-diver. All began to consider him in the light of a foul-weather\nbird, like the Mother Carey's Chicken, or Stormy Petrel; and whenever\nthey saw him putting far out in his skiff, in cloudy weather, made up\ntheir minds for a storm.\n\nThe only being for whom he seemed to have any liking, was Yan Yost\nVanderscamp, and him he liked for his very wickedness. He in a manner\ntook the boy under his tutelage, prompted him to all kinds of mischief,\naided him in every wild, harum-scarum freak, until the lad became the\ncomplete scapegrace of the village; a pest to his uncle, and to every\none else. Nor were his pranks confined to the land; he soon learned to\naccompany old Pluto on the water. Together these worthies would cruise\nabout the broad bay, and all the neighboring straits and rivers; poking\naround in skiffs and canoes; robbing the set-nets of the fishermen;\nlanding on remote coasts, and laying waste orchards and water-melon\npatches; in short, carrying on a complete system of piracy, on a small\nscale, Piloted by Pluto, the youthful Vanderscamp soon became acquainted\nwith all the bays, rivers, creeks, and inlets of the watery world around\nhim; could navigate from the Hook to Spiting-devil on the darkest night,\nand learned to set even the terrors of Hell-gate at defiance.\n\nAt length, negro and boy suddenly disappeared, and days and weeks\nelapsed, but without tidings of them. Some said they must have run away\nand gone to sea; others jocosely hinted, that old Pluto, being no other\nthan his namesake in disguise, had spirited away the boy to the nether\nregions. All, however, agreed in one thing, that the village was well\nrid of them.\n\nIn the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson slept with his\nfathers, and the tavern remained shut up, waiting for a claimant, for\nthe next heir was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and he had not been heard of for\nyears. At length, one day, a boat was seen pulling for the shore, from a\nlong, black, rakish-looking schooner, that lay at anchor in the bay. The\nboat's crew seemed worthy of the craft from which they debarked. Never\nhad such a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering varlets landed in\npeaceful Communipaw. They were outlandish in garb and demeanor, and were\nheaded by a rough, burly, bully ruffian, with fiery whiskers, a copper\nnose, a scar across his face, and a great Flaunderish beaver slouched on\none side of his head, in whom, to their dismay, the quiet inhabitants\nwere made to recognize their early pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. The rear\nof this hopeful gang was brought up by old Pluto, who had lost an\neye, grown grizzly-headed, and looked more like a devil than ever.\nVanderscamp renewed his acquaintance with the old burghers, much against\ntheir will, and in a manner not at all to their taste. He slapped them\nfamiliarly on the back, gave them an iron grip of the hand, and was hail\nfellow well met. According to his own account, he had been all the world\nover; had made money by bags full; had ships in every sea, and now meant\nto turn the Wild Goose into a country seat, where he and his comrades,\nall rich merchants from foreign parts, might enjoy themselves in the\ninterval of their voyages. Sure enough, in a little while there was a\ncomplete metamorphose of the Wild Goose. From being a quiet, peaceful\nDutch public house, it became a most riotous, uproarious private\ndwelling; a complete rendezvous for boisterous men of the seas, who came\nhere to have what they called a \"blow out\" on dry land, and might be\nseen at all hours, lounging about the door, or lolling out of the\nwindows; swearing among themselves, and cracking rough jokes on every\npasser-by. The house was fitted up, too, in so strange a manner:\nhammocks slung to the walls, instead of bedsteads; odd kinds of\nfurniture, of foreign fashion; bamboo couches, Spanish chairs; pistols,\ncutlasses, and blunderbusses, suspended on every peg; silver crucifixes\non the mantel-pieces, silver candle-sticks and porringers on the\ntables, contrasting oddly with the pewter and Delf ware of the original\nestablishment. And then the strange amusements of these sea-monsters!\nPitching Spanish dollars, instead of quoits; firing blunderbusses out of\nthe window; shooting at a mark, or at any unhappy dog, or cat, or pig,\nor barn-door fowl, that might happen to come within reach.\n\nThe only being who seemed to relish their rough waggery, was old Pluto;\nand yet he led but a dog's life of it; for they practised all kinds of\nmanual jokes upon him; kicked him about like a foot-ball; shook him by\nhis grizzly mop of wool, and never spoke to him without coupling a curse\nby way of adjective to his name, and consigning him to the infernal\nregions. The old fellow, however, seemed to like them the better, the\nmore they cursed him, though his utmost expression of pleasure never\namounted to more than the growl of a petted bear, when his ears are\nrubbed.\n\nOld Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of the Wild Goose;\nand such orgies as took place there! Such drinking, singing, whooping,\nswearing; with an occasional interlude of quarrelling and fighting. The\nnoisier grew the revel, the more old Pluto plied the potations, until\nthe guests would become frantic in their merriment, smashing every thing\nto pieces, and throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, after a\ndrinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured the village, to the dismay\nof the worthy burghers, who gathered their women within doors, and would\nhave shut up the house. Vanderscamp, however, was not to be rebuffed.\nHe insisted on renewing acquaintance with his old neighbors, and on\nintroducing his friends, the merchants, to their families; swore he was\non the look-out for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to find\nhusbands for all their daughters. So, will-ye, nil-ye, sociable he was;\nswaggered about their best parlors, with his hat on one side of his\nhead; sat on the good wife's nicely-waxed mahogany table, kicking his\nheels against the carved and polished legs; kissed and tousled the young\nvrouws; and, if they frowned and pouted, gave them a gold rosary, or a\nsparkling cross, to put them in good humor again.\n\nSometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must have some of his old\nneighbors to dinner at the Wild Goose. There was no refusing him, for\nhe had got the complete upper-hand of the community, and the peaceful\nburghers all stood in awe of him. But what a time would the quiet,\nworthy men have, among these rake-hells, who would delight to astound\nthem with the most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered with all\nkinds of foreign oaths; clink the can with them; pledge them in deep\npotations; bawl drinking songs in their ears; and occasionally fire\npistols over their heads, or under the table, and then laugh in their\nfaces, and ask them how they liked the smell of gunpowder.\n\nThus was the little village of Communipaw for a time like the\nunfortunate wight possessed with devils; until Vanderscamp and his\nbrother merchants would sail on another trading voyage, when the Wild\nGoose would be shut up, and every thing relapse into quiet, only to be\ndisturbed by his next visitation.\n\nThe mystery of all these proceedings gradually dawned upon the tardy\nintellects of Communipaw. These were the times of the notorious\nCaptain Kidd, when the American harbors were the resorts of piratical\nadventurers of all kinds, who, under pretext of mercantile voyages,\nscoured the West Indies, made plundering descents upon the Spanish Main,\nvisited even the remote Indian Seas, and then came to dispose of their\nbooty, have their revels, and fit out new expeditions, in the English\ncolonies.\n\nVanderscamp had served in this hopeful school, and having risen to\nimportance among the bucaniers, had pitched upon his native village and\nearly home, as a quiet, out-of-the-way, unsuspected place, where he and\nhis comrades, while anchored at New York, might have their feasts, and\nconcert their plans, without molestation.\n\nAt length the attention of the British government was called to these\npiratical enterprises, that were becoming so frequent and outrageous.\nVigorous measures were taken to check and punish them. Several of\nthe most noted freebooters were caught and executed, and three of\nVanderscamp's chosen comrades, the most riotous swash-bucklers of the\nWild Goose, were hanged in chains on Gibbet-Island, in full sight of\ntheir favorite resort. As to Vanderscamp himself, he and his man Pluto\nagain disappeared, and it was hoped by the people of Communipaw that he\nhad fallen in some foreign brawl, or been swung on some foreign gallows.\n\nFor a time, therefore, the tranquillity of the village was restored;\nthe worthy Dutchmen once more smoked their pipes in peace, eying, with\npeculiar complacency, their old pests and terrors, the pirates, dangling\nand drying in the sun, on Gibbet-Island.\n\nThis perfect calm was doomed at length to be ruffled. The fiery\npersecution of the pirates gradually subsided. Justice was satisfied\nwith the examples that had been made, and there was no more talk of\nKidd, and the other heroes of like kidney. On a calm summer evening, a\nboat, somewhat heavily laden, was seen pulling into Communipaw. What\nwas the surprise and disquiet of the inhabitants, to see Yan Yost\nVanderscamp seated at the helm, and his man Pluto tugging at the oars!\nVanderscamp, however, was apparently an altered man. He brought home\nwith him a wife, who seemed to be a shrew, and to have the upper-hand of\nhim. He no longer was the swaggering, bully ruffian, but affected the\nregular merchant, and talked of retiring from business, and settling\ndown quietly, to pass the rest of his days in his native place.\n\nThe Wild Goose mansion was again opened, but with diminished splendor,\nand no riot. It is true, Vanderscamp had frequent nautical visitors, and\nthe sound of revelry was occasionally overheard in his house; but every\nthing seemed to be done under the rose; and old Pluto was the only\nservant that officiated at these orgies. The visitors, indeed, were\nby no means of the turbulent stamp of their predecessors; but quiet,\nmysterious traders, full of nods, and winks, and hieroglyphic signs,\nwith whom, to use their cant phrase, \"every thing was smug.\" Their ships\ncame to anchor at night in the lower bay; and, on a private signal,\nVanderscamp would launch his boat, and accompanied solely by his man\nPluto, would make them mysterious visits. Sometimes boats pulled in at\nnight, in front of the Wild Goose, and various articles of merchandise\nwere landed in the dark, and spirited away, nobody knew whither. One of\nthe more curious of the inhabitants kept watch, and caught a glimpse of\nthe features of some of these night visitors, by the casual glance of\na lantern, and declared that he recognized more than one of the\nfreebooting frequenters of the Wild Goose, in former times; from whence\nhe concluded that Vanderscamp was at his old game, and that this\nmysterious merchandise was nothing more nor less than piratical plunder.\nThe more charitable opinion, however, was, that Vanderscamp and his\ncomrades, having been driven from their old line of business, by the\n\"oppressions of government,\" had resorted to smuggling to make both ends\nmeet.\n\nBe that as it may: I come now to the extraordinary fact, which is the\nbutt-end of this story. It happened late one night, that Yan Yost\nVanderscamp was returning across the broad bay, in his light skiff,\nrowed by his man Pluto. He had been carousing on board of a vessel,\nnewly arrived, and was somewhat obfuscated in intellect, by the liquor\nhe had imbibed. It was a still, sultry night; a heavy mass of lurid\nclouds was rising in the west, with the low muttering of distant\nthunder. Vanderscamp called on Pluto to pull lustily, that they might\nget home before the gathering storm. The old negro made no reply, but\nshaped his course so as to skirt the rocky shores of Gibbet-Island. A\nfaint creaking overhead caused Vanderscamp to cast up his eyes, when,\nto his horror, he beheld the bodies of his three pot companions and\nbrothers in iniquity dangling in the moonlight, their rags fluttering,\nand their chains creaking, as they were slowly swung backward and\nforward by the rising breeze.\n\n\"What do you mean, you blockhead!\" cried Vanderscamp, \"by pulling so\nclose to the island?\"\n\n\"I thought you'd be glad to see your old friends once more,\" growled the\nnegro; \"you were never afraid of a living man, what do you fear from the\ndead?\"\n\n\"Who's afraid?\" hiccupped Vanderscamp, partly heated by liquor, partly\nnettled by the jeer of the negro; \"who's afraid! Hang me, but I would be\nglad to see them once more, alive or dead, at the Wild Goose. Come, my\nlads in the wind!\" continued he, taking a draught, and flourishing the\nbottle above his head, \"here's fair weather to you in the other world;\nand if you should be walking the rounds to-night, odds fish! but I'll be\nhappy if you will drop in to supper.\"\n\nA dismal creaking was the only reply. The wind blew loud and shrill, and\nas it whistled round the gallows, and among the bones, sounded as if\nthere were laughing and gibbering in the air. Old Pluto chuckled to\nhimself, and now pulled for home. The storm burst over the voyagers,\nwhile they were yet far from shore. The rain fell in torrents, the\nthunder crashed and pealed, and the lightning kept up an incessant\nblaze. It was stark midnight, before they landed at Communipaw.\n\nDripping and shivering, Vanderscamp crawled homeward. He was completely\nsobered by the storm; the water soaked from without, having diluted and\ncooled the liquor within. Arrived at the Wild Goose, he knocked timidly\nand dubiously at the door, for he dreaded the reception he was to\nexperience from his wife. He had reason to do so. She met him at the\nthreshold, in a precious ill humor.\n\n\"Is this a time,\" said she, \"to keep people out of their beds, and to\nbring home company, to turn the house upside down?\"\n\n\"Company?\" said Vanderscamp, meekly; \"I have brought no company with me,\nwife.\"\n\n\"No, indeed! they have got here before you, but by your invitation; and\nblessed-looking company they are, truly!\"\n\nVanderscamp's knees smote together. \"For the love of heaven, where are\nthey, wife?\"\n\n\"Where?--why, in the blue-room, up-stairs, making themselves as much at\nhome as if the house were their own.\"\n\nVanderscamp made a desperate effort, scrambled up to the room, and threw\nopen the door. Sure enough, there at a table, on which burned a light as\nblue as brimstone, sat the three guests from Gibbet-Island, with halters\nround their necks, and bobbing their cups together, as if they were\nhob-or-nobbing, and trolling the old Dutch freebooter's glee, since\ntranslated into English:\n\n \"For three merry lads be we,\n  And three merry lads be we;\n  I on the land, and thou on the sand,\n  And Jack on the gallows-tree.\"\n\nVanderscamp saw and heard no more. Starting back with horror, he missed\nhis footing on the landing-place, and fell from the top of the stairs to\nthe bottom. He was taken up speechless, and, either from the fall or the\nfright, was buried in the yard of the little Dutch church at Bergen, on\nthe following Sunday.\n\nFrom that day forward, the fate of the Wild Goose was sealed. It was\npronounced a _haunted house_, and avoided accordingly. No one inhabited\nit but Vanderscamp's shrew of a widow, and old Pluto, and they were\nconsidered but little better than its hobgoblin visitors. Pluto grew\nmore and more haggard and morose, and looked more like an imp of\ndarkness than a human being. He spoke to no one, but went about\nmuttering to himself; or, as some hinted, talking with the devil, who,\nthough unseen, was ever at his elbow. Now and then he was seen pulling\nabout the bay alone, in his skiff, in dark weather, or at the approach\nof night-fall; nobody could tell why, unless on an errand to invite more\nguests from the gallows. Indeed it was affirmed that the Wild Goose\nstill continued to be a house of entertainment for such guests, and that\non stormy nights, the blue chamber was occasionally illuminated, and\nsounds of diabolical merriment were overheard, mingling with the howling\nof the tempest. Some treated these as idle stories, until on one such\nnight, it was about the time of the equinox, there was a horrible uproar\nin the Wild Goose, that could not be mistaken. It was not so much\nthe sound of revelry, however, as strife, with two or three piercing\nshrieks, that pervaded every part of the village. Nevertheless, no one\nthought of hastening to the spot. On the contrary, the honest burghers\nof Communipaw drew their night-caps over their ears, and buried their\nheads under the bed-clothes, at the thoughts of Vanderscamp and his\ngallows companions.\n\nThe next morning, some of the bolder and more curious undertook to\nreconnoitre. All was quiet and lifeless at the Wild Goose. The door\nyawned wide open, and had evidently been open all night, for the storm\nhad beaten into the house. Gathering more courage from the silence and\napparent desertion, they gradually ventured over the threshold. The\nhouse had indeed the air of having been possessed by devils. Every thing\nwas topsy-turvy; trunks had been broken open, and chests of drawers and\ncorner cupboards turned inside out, as in a time of general sack and\npillage; but the most woful sight was the widow of Yan Yost Vanderscamp,\nextended a corpse on the floor of the blue-chamber, with the marks of a\ndeadly gripe on the wind-pipe.\n\nAll now was conjecture and dismay at Communipaw; and the disappearance\nof old Pluto, who was no where to be found, gave rise to all kinds of\nwild surmises. Some suggested that the negro had betrayed the house to\nsome of Vanderscamp's bucaniering associates, and that they had decamped\ntogether with the booty; others surmised that the negro was nothing more\nnor less than a devil incarnate, who had now accomplished his ends, and\nmade off with his dues. Events, however, vindicated the negro from this\nlast imputation. His skiff was picked up, drifting about the bay, bottom\nupward, as if wrecked in a tempest; and his body was found, shortly\nafterward, by some Communipaw fishermen, stranded among the rocks of\nGibbet-Island, near the foot of the pirates' gallows. The fishermen\nshook their heads, and observed that old Pluto had ventured once too\noften to invite Guests from Gibbet-Island.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE BERMUDAS.\n\nA SHAKSPERIAN RESEARCH: BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCHBOOK.\n\n\"Who did not think, till within these foure yeares, but that these\nislands had been rather a habitation for Divells, than fit for men to\ndwell in? Who did not hate the name, when hee was on land, and shun the\nplace when he was on the seas? But behold the misprision and conceits of\nthe world! For true and large experience hath now told us, it is one of\nthe sweetest paradises that be upon earth.\"--\"A PLAINE DESCRIPT. OF THE\nBARMUDAS:\" 1613.\n\nIn the course of a voyage home from England, our ship had been\nstruggling, for two or three weeks, with perverse headwinds, and a\nstormy sea. It was in the month of May, yet the weather had at times\na wintry sharpness, and it was apprehended that we were in the\nneighborhood of floating islands of ice, which at that season of the\nyear drift out of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, and sometimes occasion the\nwreck of noble ships.\n\nWearied out by the continued opposition of the elements, our captain at\nlength bore away to the south, in hopes of catching the expiring breath\nof the trade-winds, and making what is called the southern passage. A\nfew days wrought, as it were, a magical \"sea change\" in every thing\naround us. We seemed to emerge into a different world. The late dark and\nangry sea, lashed up into roaring and swashing surges, became calm and\nsunny; the rude winds died away; and gradually a light breeze sprang up\ndirectly aft, filling out every sail, and wafting us smoothly along on\nan even keel. The air softened into a bland and delightful temperature.\nDolphins began to play about us; the nautilus came floating by, like a\nfairy ship, with its mimic sail and rainbow tints; and flying-fish, from\ntime to time, made their short excursive flights, and occasionally fell\nupon the deck. The cloaks and overcoats in which we had hitherto wrapped\nourselves, and moped about the vessel, were thrown aside; for a summer\nwarmth had succeeded to the late wintry chills. Sails were stretched as\nawnings over the quarter-deck, to protect us from the mid-day sun. Under\nthese we lounged away the day, in luxurious indolence, musing, with\nhalf-shut eyes, upon the quiet ocean. The night was scarcely less\nbeautiful than the day. The rising moon sent a quivering column of\nsilver along the undulating surface of the deep, and, gradually climbing\nthe heaven, lit up our towering top-sails and swelling main-sails, and\nspread a pale, mysterious light around. As our ship made her whispering\nway through this dreamy world of waters, every boisterous sound on board\nwas charmed to silence; and the low whistle, or drowsy song of a sailor\nfrom the forecastle, or the tinkling of a guitar, and the soft warbling\nof a female voice from the quarter-deck, seemed to derive a witching\nmelody from the scene and hour. I was reminded of Oberon's exquisite\ndescription of music and moonlight on the ocean:\n\n --\"Thou rememberest\n  Since once I sat upon a promontory,\n  And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back,\n  Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,\n  That the rude sea grew civil at her song?\n  And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,\n  To hear the sea-maid's music.\"\n\nIndeed, I was in the very mood to conjure up all the imaginary beings\nwith which poetry has peopled old ocean, and almost ready to fancy\nI heard the distant song of the mermaid, or the mellow shell of the\ntriton, and to picture to myself Neptune and Amphitrite with all their\npageant sweeping along the dim horizon.\n\nA day or two of such fanciful voyaging brought us in sight of the\nBermudas, which first looked like mere summer clouds, peering above the\nquiet ocean. All day we glided along in sight of them, with just wind\nenough to fill our sails; and never did land appear more lovely. They\nwere clad in emerald verdure, beneath the serenest of skies: not an\nangry wave broke upon their quiet shores, and small fishing craft,\nriding on the crystal waves, seemed as if hung in air. It was such a\nscene that Fletcher pictured to himself, when he extolled the halcyon\nlot of the fisherman:\n\n  Ah! would thou knewest how much it better were\n  To bide among the simple fisher-swains:\n  No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here,\n  Nor is our simple pleasure mixed with pains.\n  Our sports begin with the beginning year;\n  In calms, to pull the leaping fish to land,\n  In roughs, to sing and dance along the yellow sand.\n\nIn contemplating these beautiful islands, and the peaceful sea\naround them, I could hardly realize that these were the \"still vexed\nBermoothes\" of Shakspeare, once the dread of mariners, and infamous in\nthe narratives of the early discoverers, for the dangers and disasters\nwhich beset them. Such, however, was the case; and the islands derived\nadditional interest in my eyes, from fancying that I could trace in\ntheir early history, and in the superstitious notions connected with\nthem, some of the elements of Shakspeare's wild and beautiful drama of\nthe Tempest. I shall take the liberty of citing a few historical facts,\nin support of this idea, which may claim some additional attention from\nthe American reader, as being connected with the first settlement of\nVirginia.\n\nAt the time when Shakspeare was in the fulness of his talent, and\nseizing upon everything that could furnish aliment to his imagination,\nthe colonization of Virginia was a favorite object of enterprise among\npeople of condition in England, and several of the courtiers of the\ncourt of Queen Elizabeth were personally engaged in it. In the year\n1609 a noble armament of nine ships and five hundred men sailed for the\nrelief of the colony. It was commanded by Sir George Somers, as admiral,\na gallant and generous gentleman, above sixty years of age, and\npossessed of an ample fortune, yet still bent upon hardy enterprise, and\nambitious of signalizing himself in the service of his country.\n\nOn board of his flag-ship, the Sea-Vulture, sailed also Sir Thomas\nGates, lieutenant-general of the colony. The voyage was long and\nboisterous. On the twenty-fifth of July, the admiral's ship was\nseparated from the rest, in a hurricane. For several days she was driven\nabout at the mercy of the elements, and so strained and racked, that her\nseams yawned open, and her hold was half filled with water. The storm\nsubsided, but left her a mere foundering wreck. The crew stood in the\nhold to their waists in water, vainly endeavoring to bail her with\nkettles, buckets, and other vessels. The leaks rapidly gained on them,\nwhile their strength was as rapidly declining. They lost all hope of\nkeeping the ship afloat, until they should reach the American coast; and\nwearied with fruitless toil, determined, in their despair, to give up\nall farther attempt, shut down the hatches, and abandon themselves to\nProvidence. Some, who had spirituous liquors, or \"comfortable waters,\"\nas the old record quaintly terms them, brought them forth, and shared\nthem with their comrades, and they all drank a sad farewell to one\nanother, as men who were soon to part company in this world.\n\nIn this moment of extremity, the worthy admiral, who kept sleepless\nwatch from the high stern of the vessel, gave the thrilling cry of\n\"land!\" All rushed on deck, in a frenzy of joy, and nothing now was to\nbe seen or heard on board, but the transports of men who felt as if\nrescued from the grave. It is true the land in sight would not, in\nordinary circumstances, have inspired much self-gratulation. It could be\nnothing else but the group of islands called after their discoverer, one\nJuan Bermudas, a Spaniard, but stigmatized among the mariners of those\ndays as \"the islands of devils!\" \"For the islands of the Bermudas,\" says\nthe old narrative of this voyage, \"as every man knoweth that hath heard\nor read of them, were never inhabited by any Christian or heathen\npeople, but were ever esteemed and reputed a most prodigious and\ninchanted place, affording nothing but gusts, stormes, and foul weather,\nwhich made every navigator and mariner to avoide them, as Scylla and\nCharybdis, or as they would shun the Divell himself.\" [Footnote: \"A\nPlaine Description of the Barmudas.\"]\n\nSir George Somers and his tempest-tossed comrades, however, hailed them\nwith rapture, as if they had been a terrestrial paradise. Every sail was\nspread, and every exertion made to urge the foundering ship to land.\nBefore long, she struck upon a rock. Fortunately, the late stormy winds\nhad subsided, and there was no surf. A swelling wave lifted her from off\nthe rock, and bore her to another; and thus she was borne on from rock\nto rock, until she remained wedged between two, as firmly as if set upon\nthe stocks. The boats were immediately lowered, and, though the shore\nwas above a mile distant, the whole crew were landed in safety.\n\nEvery one had now his task assigned him. Some made all haste to unload\nthe ship, before she should go to pieces; some constructed wigwams of\npalmetto leaves, and others ranged the island in quest of wood and\nwater. To their surprise and joy, they found it far different from the\ndesolate and frightful place they had been taught, by seamen's stories,\nto expect. It was well-wooded and fertile; there were birds of various\nkinds, and herds of swine roaming about, the progeny of a number that\nhad swam ashore, in former years, from a Spanish wreck. The island\nabounded with turtle, and great quantities of their eggs were to be\nfound among the rocks. The bays and inlets were full of fish; so tame,\nthat if any one stepped into the water, they would throng around him.\nSir George Somers, in a little while, caught enough with hook and line\nto furnish a meal to his whole ship's company. Some of them were so\nlarge, that two were as much as a man could carry. Crawfish, also,\nwere taken in abundance. The air was soft and salubrious, and the sky\nbeautifully serene. Waller, in his \"Summer Islands,\" has given us a\nfaithful picture of the climate:\n\n  \"For the kind spring, (which but salutes us here,)\n  Inhabits these, and courts them all the year:\n  Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live;\n  At once they promise, and at once they give:\n  So sweet the air, so moderate the clime,\n  None sickly lives, or dies before his time.\n  Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed\n  To shew how all things were created first.\"\n\nWe may imagine the feelings of the shipwrecked marines on finding\nthemselves cast by stormy seas upon so happy a coast; where abundance\nwas to be had without labor; where what in other climes constituted the\ncostly luxuries of the rich, were within every man's reach; and where\nlife promised to be a mere holiday. Many of the common sailors,\nespecially, declared they desired no better lot than to pass the rest of\ntheir lives on this favored island.\n\nThe commanders, however, were not so ready to console themselves\nwith mere physical comforts, for the severance from the enjoyment of\ncultivated life, and all the objects of honorable ambition. Despairing\nof the arrival of any chance ship on these shunned and dreaded islands,\nthey fitted out the long-boat, making a deck of the ship's hatches,\nand having manned her with eight picked men, despatched her, under\nthe command of an able and hardy mariner, named Raven, to proceed to\nVirginia, and procure shipping to be sent to their relief.\n\nWhile waiting in anxious idleness for the arrival of the looked-for\naid, dissensions arose between Sir George Somers and Sir Thomas Gates,\noriginating, very probably, in jealousy of the lead which the nautical\nexperience and professional station of the admiral gave him in the\npresent emergency. Each commander, of course, had his adherents:\nthese dissensions ripened into a complete schism; and this handful\nof shipwrecked men, thus thrown together, on an uninhabited island,\nseparated into two parties, and lived asunder in bitter feud, as men\nrendered fickle by prosperity instead of being brought into brotherhood\nby a common calamity.\n\nWeeks and months elapsed, without bringing the looked-for aid from\nVirginia, though that colony was within but a few days' sail. Fears were\nnow entertained that the long-boat had been either swallowed up in\nthe sea, or wrecked on some savage coast; one or other of which most\nprobably was the case, as nothing was ever heard of Raven and his\ncomrades.\n\nEach party now set to work to build a vessel for itself out of the cedar\nwith which the island abounded. The wreck of the Sea-Vulture furnished\nrigging, and various other articles; but they had no iron for bolts, and\nother fastenings; and for want of pitch and tar, they payed the seams of\ntheir vessels with lime and turtle's oil, which soon dried, and became\nas hard as stone.\n\nOn the tenth of May, 1610, they set sail, having been about nine months\non the island. They reached Virginia without farther accident, but found\nthe colony in great distress for provisions. The account they gave of\nthe abundance that reigned in the Bermudas, and especially of the herds\nof swine that roamed the island, determined Lord Delaware, the governor\nof Virginia, to send thither for supplies. Sir George Somers, with his\nwonted promptness and generosity, offered to undertake what was still\nconsidered a dangerous voyage. Accordingly, on the nineteenth of June,\nhe set sail, in his own cedar vessel of thirty tons, accompanied by\nanother small vessel, commanded by Captain Argall.\n\nThe gallant Somers was doomed again to be tempest-tossed. His companion\nvessel was soon driven back to port, but he kept the sea; and, as usual,\nremained at his post on deck, in all weathers. His voyage was long and\nboisterous, and the fatigues and exposures which he underwent, were too\nmuch for a frame impaired by age, and by previous hardships. He arrived\nat Bermudas completely exhausted and broken down.\n\nHis nephew, Captain Mathew Somers, attended him in his illness with\naffectionate assiduity. Finding his end approaching, the veteran called\nhis men together, and exhorted them to be true to the interests of\nVirginia; to procure provisions with all possible despatch, and hasten\nback to the relief of the colony.\n\nWith this dying charge, he gave up the ghost, leaving us nephew and crew\noverwhelmed with grief and consternation. Their first thought was to\npay honor to his remains. Opening the body, they took out the heart and\nentrails, and buried them, erecting a cross over the grave. They then\nembalmed the body, and set sail with it for England; thus, while paying\nempty honors to their deceased commander, neglecting his earnest wish\nand dying injunction, that they should return with relief to Virginia.\n\nThe little bark arrived safely at Whitechurch, in Dorsetshire, with its\nmelancholy freight. The body of the worthy Somers was interred with the\nmilitary honors due to a brave soldier, and many volleys were fired\nover his grave. The Bermudas have since received the name of the Somer\nIslands, as a tribute to his memory.\n\nThe accounts given by Captain Mathew Somers and his crew of the\ndelightful climate, and the great beauty, fertility, and abundance of\nthese islands, excited the zeal of enthusiasts, and the cupidity of\nspeculators, and a plan was set on foot to colonize them. The Virginia\ncompany sold their right to the islands to one hundred and twenty of\ntheir own members, who erected themselves into a distinct corporation,\nunder the name of the \"Somer Island Society;\" and Mr. Richard More was\nsent out, in 1612, as governor, with sixty men, to found a colony: and\nthis leads me to the second branch of this research.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE THREE KINGS OF BERMUDA_.\n\nAND THEIR TREASURE OF AMBERGRIS.\n\nAt the time that Sir George Somers was preparing to launch his\ncedar-built bark, and sail for Virginia, there were three culprits among\nhis men, who had been guilty of capital offences. One of them was shot;\nthe others, named Christopher Carter and Edward Waters, escaped. Waters,\nindeed, made a very narrow escape, for he had actually been tied to a\ntree to be executed, but cut the rope with a knife, which he had\nconcealed about his person, and fled to the woods, where he was joined by\nCarter. These two worthies kept themselves concealed in the secret parts\nof the island, until the departure of the two vessels. When Sir George\nSomers revisited the island, in quest of supplies for the Virginia\ncolony, these culprits hovered about the landing-place, and succeeded in\npersuading another seaman, named Edward Chard, to join them, giving him\nthe most seductive pictures of the ease and abundance in which they\nrevelled.\n\nWhen the bark that bore Sir George's body to England had faded from the\nwatery horizon, these three vagabonds walked forth in their majesty and\nmight, the lords and sole inhabitants of these islands. For a time their\nlittle commonwealth went on prosperously and happily. They built a\nhouse, sowed corn, and the seeds of various fruits; and having plenty\nof hogs, wild fowl, and fish of all kinds, with turtle in abundance,\ncarried on their tripartite sovereignty with great harmony and much\nfeasting. All kingdoms, however, are doomed to revolution, convulsion,\nor decay; and so it fared with the empire of the three kings of Bermuda,\nalbeit they were monarchs without subjects. In an evil hour, in their\nsearch after turtle, among the fissures of the rocks, they came upon a\ngreat treasure of ambergris, which had been cast on shore by the ocean.\nBeside a number of pieces of smaller dimensions, there was one great\nmass, the largest that had ever been known, weighing eighty pounds, and\nwhich of itself, according to the market value of ambergris in those\ndays, was worth about nine or ten thousand pounds!\n\nFrom that moment, the happiness and harmony of the three kings of\nBermuda were gone for ever. While poor devils, with nothing to share\nbut the common blessings of the island, which administered to present\nenjoyment, but had nothing of convertible value, they were loving and\nunited: but here was actual wealth, which would make them rich men,\nwhenever they could transport it to a market.\n\nAdieu the delights of the island! They now became flat and insipid. Each\npictured to himself the consequence he might now aspire to, in civilized\nlife, could he once get there with this mass of ambergris. No longer a\npoor Jack Tar, frolicking in the low taveriis of Wapping, he might roll\nthrough London in his coach, and perchance arrive, like Whittington, at\nthe dignity of Lord Mayor.\n\nWith riches came envy and covetousness. Each was now for assuming the\nsupreme power, and getting the monopoly of the ambergris. A civil war at\nlength broke out: Chard and Waters defied each other to mortal combat,\nand the kingdom of the Bermudas was on the point of being deluged with\nroyal blood. Fortunately, Carter took no part in the bloody feud.\nAmbition might have made him view it with secret exultation; for if\neither or both of his brother potentates were slain in the conflict,\nhe would be a gainer in purse and ambergris. But he dreaded to be left\nalone in this uninhabited island, and to find himself the monarch of\na solitude: so he secretly purloined and hid the weapons of the\nbelligerent rivals, who, having no means of carrying on the war,\ngradually cooled down into a sullen armistice.\n\nThe arrival of Governor More, with an overpowering force of sixty men,\nput an end to the empire. He took possession of the kingdom, in the\nname of the Somer Island Company, and forthwith proceeded to make a\nsettlement. The three kings tacitly relinquished their sway, but stood\nup stoutly for their treasure. It was determined, however, that they\nhad been fitted out at the expense, and employed in the service, of the\nVirginia Company; that they had found the ambergis while in the service\nof that company, and on that company's land; that the ambergis,\ntherefore, belonged to that company, or rather to the Somer Island\nCompany, in consequence of their recent purchase of the island, and all\ntheir appurtenances. Having thus legally established their right, and\nbeing moreover able to back it by might, the company laid the lion's paw\nupon the spoil; and nothing more remains on historic record of the Three\nKings of Bermuda, and their treasure of ambergris.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe reader will now determine whether I am more extravagant than most\nof the commentators on Shakspeare, in my surmise that the story of Sir\nGeorge Somers' shipwreck, and the subsequent occurrences that took place\non the uninhabited island, may have furnished the bard with some of the\nelements of his drama of the Tempest. The tidings of the shipwreck, and\nof the incidents connected with it, reached England not long before the\nproduction of this drama, and made a great sensation there. A narrative\nof the whole matter, from which most of the foregoing particulars are\nextracted, was published at the time in London, in a pamphlet form, and\ncould not fail to be eagerly perused by Shakspeare, and to make a vivid\nimpression on his fancy. His expression, in the Tempest, of \"the still\nvext Bermoothes,\" accords exactly with the storm-beaten character of\nthose islands. The enchantments, too, with which he has clothed the\nisland of Prospero, may they not be traced to the wild and superstitious\nnotions entertained about the Bermudas? I have already cited two\npassages from a pamphlet published at the time, showing that they\nwere esteemed \"a most _prodigious_ and _inchanted_ place,\" and the\n\"habitation of divells;\" and another pamphlet, published shortly\nafterward, observes: \"And whereas it is reported that this land of the\nBarmudas, with the islands about, (which are many, at least a hundred,)\nare inchanted and kept with evil and wicked spirits, it is a most idle\nand false report.\" [Footnote: \"Newes from the Barmudas;\" 1612.]\n\nThe description, too, given in the same pamphlets, of the real beauty\nand fertility of the Bermudas, and of their serene and happy climate, so\nopposite to the dangerous and inhospitable character with which they had\nbeen stigmatized, accords with the eulogium of Sebastian on the island\nof Prospero:\n\n\"Though this island seem to be desert, uninhabitable, and almost\ninaccessible, it must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate\ntemperance. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. Here is every\nthing advantageous to life. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how\ngreen!\"\n\nI think too, in the exulting consciousness of ease, security, and\nabundance felt by the late tempest-tossed mariners, while revelling in\nthe plenteousness of the island, and their inclination to remain there,\nreleased from the labors, the cares, and the artificial restraints of\ncivilized life, I can see something of the golden commonwealth of honest\nGonzalo:\n\n  \"Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,\n  And were the king of it, what would I do?\n  I' the commonwealth I would by contraries\n  Execute all things: for no kind of traffic\n  Would I admit; no name of magistrate;\n  Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,\n  And use of service, none; contract, succession,\n  Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none:\n  No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil:\n  No occupation; all men idle, all.\n\n  All things in common, nature should produce,\n  Without sweat or endeavor: Treason, felony,\n  Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,\n  Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,\n  Of its own kind, all foizon, all abundance,\n  To feed my innocent people.\"\n\nBut above all, in the three fugitive vagabonds who remained in\npossession of the island of Bermuda, on the departure of their comrades,\nand in their squabbles about supremacy, on the finding of their\ntreasure, I see typified Sebastian, Trinculo, and their worthy companion\nCaliban:\n\n  \"Trinculo, the king and all our company being drowned,\nwe will inherit here.\"\n\n  \"Monster, I will kill this man; his daughter and I will be king and\nqueen, (save our graces!) and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys.\"\n\nI do not mean to hold up the incidents and characters in the narrative\nand in the play as parallel, or as being strikingly similar: neither\nwould I insinuate that the narrative suggested the play; I would only\nsuppose that Shakspeare, being occupied about that time on the drama of\nthe Tempest, the main story of which, I believe, is of Italian origin,\nhad many of the fanciful ideas of it suggested to his mind by the\nshipwreck of Sir George Somers on the \"still vext Bermothes,\" and by the\npopular superstitions connected with these islands, and suddenly put in\ncirculation by that event.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.\n\nIt is the common lamentation of Spanish historiographers, that, for an\nobscure and melancholy space of time immediately succeeding the conquest\nof their country by the Moslems, its history is a mere wilderness of\ndubious facts, groundless fables, and rash exaggerations. Learned men,\nin cells and cloisters, have worn out their lives in vainly endeavoring\nto connect incongruous events, and to account for startling\nimprobabilities, recorded of this period. The worthy Jesuit, Padre\nAbarca, declares that, for more than forty years during which he had\nbeen employed in theological controversies, he had never found any so\nobscure and inexplicable as those which rise out of this portion of\nSpanish history, and that the only fruit of an indefatigable, prolix,\nand even prodigious study of the subject, was a melancholy and\nmortifying state of indecision. [Footnote: PADRE PEDRO ABARCA. Anales\nde Aragon, Anti Regno, F2.] During this apocryphal period, flourished\nPELAYO, the deliverer of Spain, whose name, like that of William\nWallace, will ever be linked with the glory of his country, but linked,\nin like manner, by a bond in which fact and fiction are inextricably\ninterwoven.\n\nThe quaint old chronicle of the Moor Rasis, which, though wild and\nfanciful in the extreme, is frequently drawn upon for early facts by\nSpanish historians, professes to give the birth, parentage, and whole\ncourse of fortune of Pelayo, without the least doubt or hesitation. It\nmakes him a son of the Duke of Cantabria, and descended, both by father\nand mother's side, from the Gothic kings of Spain. I shall pass over the\nromantic story of his childhood, and shall content myself with a scene\nof his youth, which was spent in a castle among the Pyrenees, under\nthe eye of his widowed and noble-minded mother, who caused him to be\ninstructed in everything befitting a cavalier of gentle birth. While the\nsons of the nobility were revelling amid the pleasures of a licentious\ncourt, and sunk in that vicious and effeminate indulgence which led\nto the perdition of unhappy Spain, the youthful Pelayo, in his rugged\nmountain school, was steeled to all kinds of hardy exercise. A great\npart of his time was spent in hunting the bears, the wild boars, and the\nwolves, with which the Pyrenees abounded; and so purely and chastely was\nhe brought up, by his good lady mother, that, if the ancient chronicle\nfrom which I draw my facts may be relied on, he had attained his\none-and-twentieth year, without having once sighed for woman!\n\nNor were his hardy contests confined to the wild beasts of the forest.\nOccasionally he had to contend with adversaries of a more formidable\ncharacter. The skirts and defiles of these border mountains were often\ninfested by marauders from the Gallic plains of Gascony. The Gascons,\nsays an old chronicler, were a people who used smooth words when\nexpedient, but force when they had power, and were ready to lay their\nhands on every thing they met. Though poor, they were proud; for there\nwas not one who did not pride himself on being a hijo-dalgo, or the son\nof somebody.\n\nAt the head of a band of these needy hijodalgos of Gascony, was one\nArnaud, a broken-down cavalier. He and four of his followers were well\narmed and mounted; the rest were a set of scamper-grounds on foot,\nfurnished with darts and javelins. They were the terror of the border;\nhere to-day and gone to-morrow; sometimes in one pass, sometimes in\nanother. They would make sudden inroads into Spain, scour the roads,\nplunder the country, and were over the mountains and far away before a\nforce could be collected to pursue them.\n\nNow it happened one day, that a wealthy burgher of Bordeaux, who was a\nmerchant, trading with Biscay, set out on a journey for that province.\nAs he intended to sojourn there for a season, he took with him his\nwife, who was a goodly dame, and his daughter, a gentle damsel, of\nmarriageable age, and exceeding fair to look upon. He was attended by a\ntrusty clerk from his comptoir, and a man servant; while another servant\nled a hackney, laden with bags of money, with which he intended to\npurchase merchandise.\n\nWhen the Gascons heard of this wealthy merchant and his convoy passing\nthrough the mountains, they thanked their stars, for they considered\nall peaceful men of traffic as lawful spoil, sent by providence for the\nbenefit of hidalgos like themselves, of valor and gentle blood, who\nlived by the sword. Placing themselves in ambush, in a lonely defile, by\nwhich the travellers had to pass, they silently awaited their coming. In\na little while they beheld them approaching. The merchant was a fair,\nportly man, in a buff surcoat and velvet cap. His looks bespoke the good\ncheer of his native city, and he was mounted on a stately, well-fed\nsteed, while his wife and daughter paced gently on palfreys by his side.\n\nThe travellers had advanced some distance in the defile, when the\nBandoleros rushed forth and assailed them. The merchant, though but\nlittle used to the exercise of arms, and unwieldy in his form, yet made\nvaliant defence, having his wife and daughter and money-bags at hazard.\nHe was wounded in two places, and overpowered; one of his servants was\nslain, the other took to flight.\n\nThe freebooters then began to ransack for spoil, but were disappointed\nat not finding the wealth they had expected. Putting their swords to the\nbreast of the trembling merchant, they demanded where he had concealed\nhis treasure, and learned from him of the hackney that was following,\nladen with, money. Overjoyed at this intelligence, they bound their\ncaptives to trees, and awaited the arrival of the golden spoil.\n\nOn this same day, Pelayo was out with his huntsmen among the mountains,\nand had taken his stand on a rock, at a narrow pass, to await the\nsallying forth of a wild boar. Close by him was a page, conducting a\nhorse, and at the saddle-bow hung his armor, for he was always prepared\nfor fight among these border mountains. While thus posted, the servant\nof the merchant came flying from the robbers. On beholding Pelayo, he\nfell on his knees, and implored his life, for he supposed him to be\none of the band. It was some time before he could be relieved from his\nterror, and made to tell his story. When Pelayo heard of the robbers,\nhe concluded they were the crew of Gascon hidalgos, upon the scamper.\nTaking his armor from the page, he put on his helmet, slung his buckler\nround his neck, took lance in hand, and mounting his steed, compelled\nthe trembling servant to guide him to the scene of action. At the same\ntime he ordered the page to seek his huntsmen, and summon them to his\nassistance.\n\nWhen the robbers saw Pelayo advancing through the forest, with a single\nattendant on foot, and beheld his rich armor sparkling in the sun, they\nthought a new prize had fallen into their hands, and Arnaud and two of\nhis companions, mounting their horses, advanced to meet him. As they\napproached, Pelayo stationed himself in a narrow pass between two rocks,\nwhere he could only be assailed in front, and bracing his buckler, and\nlowering his lance, awaited their coming.\n\n\"Who and what are ye,\" cried he, \"and what seek ye in this land?\"\n\n\"We are huntsmen,\" replied Arnaud, \"and lo! our game runs into our\ntoils!\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" replied Pelayo, \"thou wilt find the game more readily\nroused than taken: have at thee for a villain!\"\n\nSo saying, he put spurs to his horse, and ran full speed upon him. The\nGascon, not expecting so sudden an attack from a single horseman, was\ntaken by surprise. He hastily couched his lance, but it merely glanced\non the shield of Pelayo, who sent his own through the middle of his\nbreast, and threw him out of his saddle to the earth. One of the other\nrobbers made at Pelayo, and wounded him slightly in the side, but\nreceived a blow from the sword of the latter, which cleft his skull-cap,\nand sank into his brain. His companion, seeing him fall, put spurs to\nhis steed, and galloped off through the forest.\n\nBeholding several other robbers on foot coming up, Pelayo returned to\nhis station between the rocks, where he was assailed by them all at\nonce. He received two of their darts on his buckler, a javelin razed his\ncuirass, and glancing down, wounded his horse. Pelayo then rushed forth,\nand struck one of the robbers dead: the others, beholding several\nhuntsmen advancing, took to flight, but were pursued, and several of\nthem taken.\n\nThe good merchant of Bordeaux and his family beheld this scene with\ntrembling and amazement, for never had they looked upon such feats of\narms. They considered Don Pelayo as a leader of some rival band of\nrobbers; and when the bonds were loosed by which they were tied to\nthe trees, they fell at his feet and implored mercy. The females were\nsoonest undeceived, especially the daughter; for the damsel was struck\nwith the noble countenance and gentle demeanor of Pelayo, and said to\nherself: \"Surely nothing evil can dwell in so goodly and gracious a\nform.\"\n\nPelayo now sounded his horn, which echoed from rock to rock, and was\nanswered by shouts and horns from various parts of the mountains. The\nmerchant's heart misgave him at these signals, and especially when he\nbeheld more than forty men gathering from glen and thicket. They were\nclad in hunters' dresses, and armed with boar-spears, darts, and\nhunting-swords, and many of them led hounds in long leashes. All this\nwas a new and wild scene to the astonished merchant; nor were his fears\nabated, when he saw his servant approaching with the hackney, laden with\nmoney-bags; \"for of a certainty,\" said he to himself, \"this will be too\ntempting a spoil for these wild hunters of the mountains.\"\n\nPelayo, however, took no more notice of the gold than if it had been\nso much dross; at which the honest burgher marvelled exceedingly. He\nordered that the wounds of the merchant should be dressed, and his own\nexamined. On taking off his cuirass, his wound was found to be but\nslight; but his men were so exasperated at seeing his blood, that\nthey would have put the captive robbers to instant death, had he not\nforbidden them to do them any harm.\n\nThe huntsmen now made a great fire at the foot of a tree, and bringing\na boar which they had killed, cut off portions and roasted them, or\nbroiled them on the coals. Then drawing forth loaves of bread from their\nwallets, they devoured their food half raw, with the hungry relish of\nhuntsmen and mountaineers. The merchant, his wife, and daughter, looked\nat all this, and wondered, for they had never beheld so savage a repast.\n\nPelayo then inquired of them if they did not desire to eat; they were\ntoo much in awe of him to decline, though they felt a loathing at the\nthought of partaking of this hunter's fare; but he ordered a linen cloth\nto be spread under the shade of a great oak, on the grassy margin of a\nclear running stream; and to their astonishment, they were served, not\nwith the flesh of the boar, but with dainty cheer, such as the merchant\nhad scarcely hoped to find out of the walls of his native city of\nBordeaux.\n\nThe good burgher was of a community renowned for gastronomic prowess:\nhis fears having subsided, his appetite was now awakened, and he\naddressed himself manfully to the viands that were set before him. His\ndaughter, however, could not eat: her eyes were ever and anon stealing\nto gaze on Pelayo, whom she regarded with gratitude for his protection,\nand admiration for his valor; and now that he had laid aside his helmet,\nand she beheld his lofty countenance, glowing with manly beauty,\nshe thought him something more than mortal. The heart of the gentle\ndonzella, says the ancient chronicler, was kind and yielding; and had\nPelayo thought fit to ask the greatest boon that love and beauty could\nbestow--doubtless meaning her fair hand--she could not have had the\ncruelty to say him nay. Pelayo, however, had no such thoughts: the love\nof woman had never yet entered his heart; and though he regarded the\ndamsel as the fairest maiden he had ever beheld, her beauty caused no\nperturbation in his breast.\n\nWhen the repast was over, Pelayo offered to conduct the merchant and\nhis family through the defiles of the mountains, lest they should be\nmolested by any of the scattered band of robbers. The bodies of the\nslain marauders were buried, and the corpse of the servant was laid upon\none of the horses captured in the battle. Having formed their cavalcade,\nthey pursued their way slowly up one of the steep and winding passes of\nthe Pyrenees.\n\nToward sunset, they arrived at the dwelling of a holy hermit. It was\nhewn out of the living rock; there was a cross over the door, and before\nit was a great spreading oak, with a sweet spring of water at its foot.\nThe body of the faithful servant who had fallen in the defence of his\nlord, was buried close by the wall of this sacred retreat, and the\nhermit promised to perform masses for the repose of his soul. Then\nPelayo obtained from the holy father consent that the merchant's wife\nand daughter should pass the night within his cell; and the hermit made\nbeds of moss for them, and gave them his benediction; but the damsel\nfound little rest, so much were her thoughts occupied by the youthful\nchampion who had rescued her from death or dishonor.\n\nPelayo, however, was visited by no such wandering of the mind; but,\nwrapping himself in his mantle, slept soundly by the fountain under the\ntree. At midnight, when every thing was buried in deep repose, he was\nawakened from his sleep and beheld the hermit before him, with the beams\nof the moon shining upon his silver hair and beard.\n\n\"This is no time,\" said the latter, \"to be sleeping; arise and listen to\nmy words, and hear of the great work for which thou art chosen!\"\n\nThen Pelayo arose and seated himself on a rock, and the hermit continued\nhis discourse.\n\n\"Behold,\" said he, \"the ruin of Spain is at hand! It will be delivered\ninto the hands of strangers, and will become a prey to the spoiler. Its\nchildren will be slain or carried into captivity; or such as may escape\nthese evils, will harbor with the beasts of the forest or the eagles of\nthe mountain. The thorn and bramble will spring up where now are seen\nthe cornfield, the vine, and the olive; and hungry wolves will roam in\nplace of peaceful flocks and herds. But thou, my son! tarry not thou\nto see these things, for thou canst not prevent them. Depart on a\npilgrimage to the sepulchre of our blessed Lord in Palestine; purify\nthyself by prayer; enroll thyself in the order of chivalry, and prepare\nfor the great work of the redemption of thy country; for to thee it will\nbe given to raise it from the depth of its affliction.\"\n\nPelayo would have inquired farther into the evils thus foretold, but the\nhermit rebuked his curiosity.\n\n\"Seek not to know more,\" said he, \"than heaven is pleased to reveal.\nClouds and darkness cover its designs, and prophecy is never permitted\nto lift up but in part the veil that rests upon the future.\"\n\nThe hermit ceased to speak, and Pelayo laid himself down again to take\nrepose, but sleep was a stranger to his eyes.\n\nWhen the first rays of the rising sun shone upon the tops of the\nmountains, the travellers assembled round the fountain beneath the tree\nand made their morning's repast. Then, having received the benediction\nof the hermit, they departed in the freshness of the day, and descended\nalong the hollow defiles leading into the interior of Spain. The good\nmerchant was refreshed by sleep and by his morning's meal; and when he\nbeheld his wife and daughter thus secure by his side, and the hackney\nladen with his treasure close behind him, his heart was light in his\nbosom, and he carolled a chanson as he went, and the woodlands echoed to\nhis song. But Pelayo rode in silence, for he revolved in his mind the\nportentous words of the hermit; and the daughter of the merchant ever\nand anon stole looks at him full of tenderness and admiration, and deep\nsighs betrayed the agitation of her bosom.\n\nAt length they came to the foot of the mountains, where the forests and\nthe rocks terminated, and an open and secure country lay before the\ntravellers. Here they halted, for their roads were widely different.\nWhen they came to part, the merchant and his wife were loud in thanks\nand benedictions, and the good burgher would fain have given Pelayo the\nlargest of his sacks of gold; but the young man put it aside with a\nsmile. \"Silver and gold,\" said he, \"need I not, but if I have deserved\naught at thy hands, give me thy prayers, for the prayers of a good man\nare above all price.\"\n\nIn the mean time the daughter had spoken never a word. At length she\nraised her eyes, which were filled with tears, and looked timidly at\nPelayo, and her bosom throbbed; and after a violent struggle between\nstrong affection and virgin modesty, her heart relieved itself by words.\n\n\"Senor,\" said she, \"I know that I am unworthy of the notice of so noble\na cavalier; but suffer me to place this ring upon a finger of that hand\nwhich has so bravely rescued us from death; and when you regard it, you\nmay consider it as a memorial of your own valor, and not of one who is\ntoo humble to be remembered by you.\"\n\nWith these words, she drew a ring from her finger and put it upon the\nfinger of Pelayo; and having done this, she blushed and trembled at her\nown boldness, and stood as one abashed, with her eyes cast down upon the\nearth.\n\nPelayo was moved at the words of the simple maiden, and at the touch of\nher fair hand, and at her beauty, as she stood thus trembling and in\ntears before him; but as yet he knew nothing of woman, and his heart was\nfree from the snares of love. \"Amiga,\" (friend,) said he, \"I accept thy\npresent, and will wear it in remembrance of thy goodness;\" so saying, he\nkissed her on the cheek.\n\nThe damsel was cheered by these words, and hoped that she had awakened\nsome tenderness in his bosom; but it was no such thing, says the grave\nold chronicler, for his heart was devoted to higher and more sacred\nmatters; yet certain it is, that he always guarded well that ring.\n\nWhen they parted, Pelayo remained with his huntsmen on a cliff, watching\nthat no evil befell them, until they were far beyond the skirts of the\nmountain; and the damsel often turned to look at him, until she could no\nlonger discern him, for the distance and the tears that dimmed her eyes.\n\nAnd for that he had accepted her ring, says the ancient chronicler, she\nconsidered herself wedded to him in her heart, and would never marry;\nnor could she be brought to look with eyes of affection upon any other\nman; but for the true love which she bore Pelayo, she lived and died a\nvirgin. And she composed a book which treated of love and chivalry,\nand the temptations of this mortal life; and one part discoursed of\ncelestial matters, and it was called \"The Contemplations of Love;\"\nbecause at the time she wrote it, she thought of Pelayo, and of his\nhaving accepted her jewel and called her by the gentle appellation of\n\"Amiga.\" And often thinking of him in tender sadness, and of her never\nhaving beheld him more, she would take the book and would read it as\nif in his stead; and while she repeated the words of love which it\ncontained, she would endeavor to fancy them uttered by Pelayo, and that\nhe stood before her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE KNIGHT OF MALTA.\n\nTO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER\n\n\nSIR: In the course of a tour which I made in Sicily, in the days of my\njuvenility, I passed some little time at the ancient city of Catania,\nat the foot of Mount \u00c6tna. Here I became acquainted with the Chevalier\nL----, an old Knight of Malta. It was not many years after the time that\nNapoleon had dislodged the knights from their island, and he still wore\nthe insignia of his order. He was not, however, one of those reliques of\nthat once chivalrous body, who had been described was \"a few worn-out\nold men, creeping about certain parts of Europe, with the Maltese cross\non their breasts;\" on the contrary, though advanced in life, his form\nwas still light and vigorous; he had a pale, thin, intellectual visage,\nwith a high forehead, and a bright, visionary eye. He seemed to take a\nfancy to me, as I certainly did to him, and we soon became intimate,\nI visited him occasionally, at his apartments, in the wing of an old\npalace, looking toward Mount \u00c6tna. He was an antiquary, a virtuoso, and\na connoisseur. His rooms were decorated with mutilated statues, dug up\nfrom Grecian and Roman ruins; old vases, lachrymals, and sepulchral\nlamps. He had astronomical and chemical instruments, and black-letter\nbooks, in various languages. I found that he had dipped a little in\nchimerical studies and had a hankering after astrology and alchymy. He\naffected to believe in dreams and visions, and delighted in the fanciful\nRosicrucian doctrines. I cannot persuade myself, however, that he really\nbelieved in all these: I rather think he loved to let his imagination\ncarry him away into the boundless fairy land which they unfolded.\n\nIn company with the chevalier, I took several excursions on horseback\nabout the environs of Catania, and the picturesque skirts of Mount Etna.\nOne of these led through a village, which had sprung up on the very\ntract of an ancient eruption, the houses being built of lava. At one\ntime we passed, for some distance, along a narrow lane, between two high\ndead convent walls. It was a cut-throat-looking place, in a country\nwhere assassinations are frequent; and just about midway through it,\nwe observed blood upon the pavement and the walls, as if a murder had\nactually been committed there.\n\nThe chevalier spurred on his horse, until he had extricated himself\ncompletely from this suspicious neighborhood. He then observed, that it\nreminded him of a similar blind alley in Malta, infamous on account of\nthe many assassinations that had taken place there; concerning one\nof which, he related a long and tragical story, that lasted until\nwe reached Catania. It involved various circumstances of a wild and\nsupernatural character, but which he assured me were handed down in\ntradition, and generally credited by the old inhabitants of Malta.\n\nAs I like to pick up strange stories, and as I was particularly struck\nwith several parts of this, I made a minute of it, on my return to my\nlodgings. The memorandum was lost, with several others of my travelling\npapers, and the story had faded from my mind, when recently, in perusing\na French memoir, I came suddenly upon it, dressed up, it is true, in a\nvery different manner, but agreeing in the leading facts, and given upon\nthe word of that famous adventurer, the Count Cagliostro.\n\nI have amused myself, during a snowy day in the country, by rendering it\nroughly into English, for the entertainment of a youthful circle round\nthe Christmas fire. It was well received by my auditors, who, however,\nare rather easily pleased. One proof of its merits is that it sent\nsome of the youngest of them quaking to their beds, and gave them very\nfearful dreams. Hoping that it may have the same effect upon your\nghost-hunting readers, I offer it, Mr. Editor, for insertion in your\nMagazine. I would observe, that wherever I have modified the French\nversion of the Story, it has been in conformity to some recollection of\nthe narrative of my friend, the Knight of Malta.\n\nYour obt. servt.,\n\nGEOFFREY CRAYON.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA,_\n\nA VERITABLE GHOST STORY.\n\n  \"Keep my wits, heaven! They say spirits appear\n  To melancholy minds, and the graves open!\"--FLETCHER.\n\nAbout the middle of the last century, while the Knights of Saint John of\nJerusalem still maintained something of their ancient state and sway in\nthe Island of Malta, a tragical event took place there, which is the\ngroundwork of the following narrative.\n\nIt may be as well to premise, that at the time we are treating of,\nthe order of Saint John of Jerusalem, grown excessively wealthy, had\ndegenerated from its originally devout and warlike character. Instead\nof being a hardy body of \"monk-knights,\" sworn soldiers of the cross,\nfighting the Paynim in the Holy Land, or scouring the Mediterranean, and\nscourging the Barbary coasts with their galleys, or feeding the poor,\nand attending upon the sick at their hospitals, they led a life of\nluxury and libertinism, and were to be found in the most voluptuous\ncourts of Europe. The order, in fact, had become a mode of providing\nfor the needy branches of the Catholic aristocracy of Europe. \"A\ncommandery,\" we are told, was a splendid provision for a younger\nbrother; and men of rank, however dissolute, provided they belonged\nto the highest aristocracy, became Knights of Malta, just as they did\nbishops, or colonels of regiments, or court chamberlains. After a brief\nResidence at Malta, the knights passed the rest of their time in their\nown countries, or only made a visit now and then to the island. While\nthere, having but little military duty to perform, they beguiled their\nidleness by paying attentions to the fair.\n\nThere was one circle of society, however, into which they could not\nobtain currency. This was composed of a few families of the old Maltese\nnobility, natives of the island. These families, not being permitted\nto enroll any of their members in the order, affected to hold no\nintercourse with its chevaliers; admitting none into their exclusive\ncoteries but the Grand Master, whom they acknowledged as their\nsovereign, and the members of the chapter which composed his council.\n\nTo indemnify themselves for this exclusion, the chevaliers carried their\ngallantries into the next class of society, composed of those who held\ncivil, administrative, and judicial situations. The ladies of this class\nwere called _honorate_, or honorables, to distinguish them from the\ninferior orders; and among them were many of superior grace, beauty, and\nfascination.\n\nEven in this more hospitable class, the chevaliers were not all equally\nfavored. Those of Germany had the decided preference, owing to their\nfair and fresh complexions, and the kindliness of their manners: next\nto these came the Spanish cavaliers, on account of their profound and\ncourteous devotion, and most discreet secrecy. Singular as it may seem,\nthe chevaliers of France fared the worst. The Maltese ladies dreaded\ntheir volatility, and their proneness to boast of their amours, and\nshunned all entanglement with them. They were forced, therefore, to\ncontent themselves with conquests among females of the lower orders.\nThey revenged themselves, after the gay French manner, by making the\n\"honorate\" the objects of all kinds of jests and mystifications; by\nprying into their tender affairs with the more favored chevaliers, and\nmaking them the theme of song and epigram.\n\nAbout this time, a French vessel arrived at Malta, bringing out a\ndistinguished personage of the order of Saint John of Jerusalem,\nthe Commander de Foulquerre, who came to solicit the post of\ncommander-in-chief of the galleys. He was descended from an old and\nwarrior line of French nobility, his ancestors having long been\nseneschals of Poitou, and claiming descent from the first counts of\nAngouleme.\n\nThe arrival of the commander caused a little uneasiness among the\npeaceably inclined, for he bore the character, in the island, of being\nfiery, arrogant, and quarrelsome. He had already been three times at\nMalta, and on each visit had signalized himself by some rash and deadly\naffray.\n\nAs he was now thirty-five years of age, however, it was hoped that time\nmight have taken off the fiery edge of his spirit, and that he might\nprove more quiet and sedate than formerly. The commander set up an\nestablishment befitting his rank and pretensions; for he arrogated to\nhimself an importance greater even than that of the Grand Master. His\nhouse immediately became the rallying place of all the young French\nchevaliers. They informed him of all the slights they had experienced or\nimagined, and indulged their petulant and satirical vein at the expense\nof the honorate and their admirers. The chevaliers of other nations soon\nfound the topics and tone of conversation at the commander's irksome and\noffensive, and gradually ceased to visit there. The commander remained\nthe head of a national _clique_, who looked up to him as their model.\nIf he was not as boisterous and quarrelsome as formerly, he had become\nhaughty and overbearing. He was fond of talking over his past affairs of\npunctilio and bloody duel. When walking the streets, he was generally\nattended by a ruffling train of young French cavaliers, who caught his\nown air of assumption and bravado. These he would conduct to the scenes\nof his deadly encounters, point out the very spot where each fatal lunge\nhad been given, and dwell vaingloriously on every particular.\n\nUnder his tuition, the young French chevaliers began to add bluster and\narrogance to their former petulance and levity; they fired up on the\nmost trivial occasions, particularly with those who had been most\nsuccessful with the fair; and would put on the most intolerable\ndrawcansir airs. The other chevaliers conducted themselves with all\npossible forbearance and reserve; but they saw it would be impossible to\nkeep on long, in this manner, without coming to an open rupture.\n\nAmong the Spanish cavaliers was one named Don Luis de Lima Vasconcellos.\nHe was distantly related to the Grand Master; and had been enrolled at\nan early age among his pages, but had been rapidly promoted by him,\nuntil, at the age of twenty-six, he had been given the richest Spanish\ncommandery in the order. He had, moreover, been fortunate with the fair,\nwith one of whom, the most beautiful honorata of Malta, he had long\nmaintained the most tender correspondence.\n\nThe character, rank, and connexions of Don Luis put him on a par with\nthe imperious Commander de Foulquerre, and pointed him out as a leader\nand champion to his countrymen. The Spanish chevaliers repaired to him,\ntherefore, in a body; represented all the grievances they had sustained,\nand the evils they apprehended, and urged him to use his influence with\nthe commander and his adherents to put a stop to the growing abuses.\n\nDon Luis was gratified by this mark of confidence and esteem on the part\nof his countrymen, and promised to have an interview with the Commander\nde Foulquerre on the subject. He resolved to conduct himself with\nthe utmost caution and delicacy on the occasion; to represent to\nthe commander the evil consequences which might result from the\ninconsiderate conduct of the young French chevaliers, and to entreat him\nto exert the great influence he so deservedly possessed over them, to\nrestrain their excesses. Don Luis was aware, however, of the peril that\nattended any interview of the kind with this imperious and fractious\nman, and apprehended, however it might commence, that it would terminate\nin a duel. Still, it was an affair of honor, in which Castilian dignity\nwas concerned; beside, he had a lurking disgust at the overbearing\nmanners of De Foulquerre, and perhaps had been somewhat offended by\ncertain intrusive attentions which he had presumed to pay to the\nbeautiful honorata.\n\nIt was now Holy Week; a time too sacred for worldly feuds and passions,\nespecially in a community under the dominion of a religious order; it\nwas agreed, therefore, that the dangerous interview in question should\nnot take place until after the Easter holidays. It is probable, from\nsubsequent circumstances, that the Commander de Foulquerre had some\ninformation of this arrangement among the Spanish chevaliers, and was\ndetermined to be beforehand, and to mortify the pride of their champion,\nwho was thus preparing to read him a lecture. He chose Good Friday for\nhis purpose. On this sacred day, it is customary in Catholic countries\nto make a tour of all the churches, offering up prayers in each. In\nevery Catholic church, as is well known, there is a vessel of holy water\nnear the door. In this, every one, on entering, dips his fingers, and\nmakes therewith the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast. An\noffice of gallantry, among the young Spaniards, is to stand near the\ndoor, dip their hands in the holy vessel, and extend them courteously\nand respectfully to any lady of their acquaintance who may enter; who\nthus receives the sacred water at second hand, on the tips of her\nfingers, and proceeds to cross herself, with all due decorum. The\nSpaniards, who are the most jealous of lovers, are impatient when this\npiece of devotional gallantry is proffered to the object of their\naffections by any other hand: on Good Friday, therefore, when a lady\nmakes a tour of the churches, it is the usage among them for the\ninamorato to follow her from church to church, so as to present her the\nholy water at the door of each; thus testifying his own devotion, and at\nthe same time preventing the officious services of a rival.\n\nOn the day in question, Don Luis followed the beautiful honorata, to\nwhom, as has already been observed, he had long been devoted. At the\nvery first church she visited, the Commander de Foulquerre was stationed\nat the portal, with several of the young French chevaliers about him.\nBefore Don Luis could offer her the holy water, he was anticipated by\nthe commander, who thrust himself between them, and, while he performed\nthe gallant office to the lady, rudely turned his back upon her admirer,\nand trod upon his feet. The insult was enjoyed by the young Frenchmen\nwho were present: it was too deep and grave to be forgiven by Spanish\npride; and at once put an end to all Don Luis' plans of caution and\nforbearance. He repressed his passion for the moment, however, and\nwaited until all the parties left the church; then, accosting the\ncommander with an air of coolness and unconcern, he inquired after his\nhealth, and asked to what church he proposed making his second visit.\n\"To the Magisterial Church of Saint John.\" Don Luis offered to conduct\nhim thither, by the shortest route. His offer was accepted, apparently\nwithout suspicion, and they proceeded together. After walking some\ndistance, they entered a long, narrow lane, without door or window\nopening upon it, called the \"Strada Stretta,\" or narrow street. It was a\nstreet in which duels were tacitly permitted, or connived at, in Malta,\nand were suffered to pass as accidental encounters. Every where else\nthey were prohibited. This restriction had been instituted to diminish\nthe number of duels, formerly so frequent in Malta. As a farther\nprecaution to render these encounters less fatal, it was an offence,\npunishable with death, for any one to enter this street armed with\neither poniard or pistol. It was a lonely, dismal street, just wide\nenough for two men to stand upon their guard, and cross their swords;\nfew persons ever traversed it, unless with some sinister design; and on\nany preconcerted duello, the seconds posted themselves at each end, to\nstop all passengers, and prevent interruption.\n\nIn the present instance, the parties had scarce entered the street,\nwhen Don Luis drew his sword, and called upon the commander to defend\nhimself.\n\nDe Foulquerre was evidently taken by surprise: he drew back, and\nattempted to expostulate; but Don Luis persisted in defying him to the\ncombat.\n\nAfter a second or two, he likewise drew his sword, but immediately\nlowered the point.\n\n\"Good Friday!\" ejaculated he, shaking his head: \"one word with you; it\nis full six years since I have been in a confessional: I am shocked at\nthe state of my conscience; but within three days--that is to say, on\nMonday next--\"\n\nDon Luis would listen to nothing. Though naturally of a peaceable\ndisposition, he had been stung to fury, and people of that character,\nwhen once incensed, are deaf to reason. He compelled the commander to\nput himself on his guard. The latter, though a man accustomed to brawl\nin battle, was singularly dismayed. Terror was visible in all his\nfeatures. He placed himself with his back to the wall, and the weapons\nwere crossed. The contest was brief and fatal. At the very first thrust,\nthe sword of Don Luis passed through the body of his antagonist. The\ncommander staggered to the wall, and leaned against it.\n\n\"On Good Friday!\" ejaculated he again, with a failing voice, and\ndespairing accents. \"Heaven pardon you!\" added he; \"take my sword to\nT\u00eatefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of the\ncastle, for the repose of my soul!\" With these words he expired.\n\nThe fury of Don Luis was at an end. He stood aghast, gazing at the\nbleeding body of the commander. He called to mind the prayer of the\ndeceased for three days' respite, to make his peace with heaven; he had\nrefused it; had sent him to the grave, with all his sins upon his head!\nHis conscience smote him to the core; he gathered up the sword of the\ncommander, which he had been enjoined to take to T\u00eatefoulques, and\nhurried from the fatal Strada Stretta.\n\nThe duel of course made a great noise in Malta, but had no injurious\neffect upon the worldly fortunes of Don Luis. He made a full declaration\nof the whole matter, before the proper authorities; the Chapter of\nthe Order considered it one of those casual encounters of the Strada\nStretta, which were mourned over, but tolerated; the public, by whom\nthe late commander had been generally detested, declared that he had\ndeserved his fate. It was but three days after the event, that Don\nLuis was advanced to one of the highest dignities of the Order, being\ninvested by the Grand Master with the priorship of the kingdom of\nMinorca.\n\nFrom that time forward, however, the whole character and conduct of Don\nLuis underwent a change. He became a prey to a dark melancholy, which\nnothing could assuage. The most austere piety, the severest penances,\nhad no effect in allaying the horror which preyed upon his mind. He was\nabsent for a long time from Malta; having gone, it was said, on remote\npilgrimages: when he returned, he was more haggard than ever. There\nseemed something mysterious and inexplicable in this disorder of his\nmind. The following is the revelation made by himself, of the horrible\nvisions, or chimeras, by which he was haunted:\n\n\"When I had made my declaration before the Chapter,\" said he, \"and my\nprovocations were publicly known, I had made my peace with man; but it\nwas not so with God, nor with my confessor, nor with my own conscience.\nMy act was doubly criminal, from the day on which it was committed,\nand from my refusal to a delay of three days, for the victim of my\nresentment to receive the sacraments. His despairing ejaculation, 'Good\nFriday! Good Friday!' continually rang in my ears. 'Why did I not grant\nthe respite!' cried I to myself; 'was it not enough to kill the body,\nbut must I seek to kill the soul!'\n\n\"On the night of the following Friday, I started suddenly from my sleep.\nAn unaccountable horror was upon me. I looked wildly around. It seemed\nas if I were not in my apartment, nor in my bed, but in the fatal Strada\nStretta, lying on the pavement. I again saw the commander leaning\nagainst the wall; I again heard his dying words: 'Take my sword to\nT\u00eatefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of the\ncastle, for the repose of my soul!'\n\n\"On the following night, I caused one of my servants to sleep in the\nsame room with me. I saw and heard nothing, either on that night, or any\nof the nights following, until the next Friday; when I had again the\nsame vision, with this difference, that my valet seemed to be lying at\nsome distance from me on the pavement of the Strada Stretta. The vision\ncontinued to be repeated on every Friday night, the commander always\nappearing in the same manner, and uttering the same words: 'Take my\nsword to T\u00eatefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel\nof the castle for the repose of my soul!' On questioning my servant on\nthe subject, he stated, that on these occasions he dreamed that he was\nlying in a very narrow street, but he neither saw nor heard any thing of\nthe commander.\n\n\"I knew nothing of this T\u00eatefoulques, whither the defunct was so urgent\nI should carry his sword. I made inquiries, therefore, concerning it\namong the French chevaliers. They informed me that it was an old castle,\nsituated about four leagues from Poitiers, in the midst of a forest.\nIt had been built in old times, several centuries since, by Foulques\nTaillefer, (or Fulke Hackiron,) a redoubtable, hard-fighting Count of\nAngouleme, who gave it to an illegitimate son, afterward created Grand\nSeneschal of Poitou, which son became the pro genitor of the Foulquerres\nof T\u00eatefoulques, hereditary Seneschals of Poitou. They farther\ninformed me, that strange stories were told of this old castle, in the\nsurrounding country, and that it contained many curious reliques. Among\nthese, were the arms of Foulques Taillefer, together with all those of\nthe warriors he had slain; and that it was an immemorial usage with the\nFoulquerres to have the weapons deposited there which they had wielded\neither in war or in single combat. This, then, was the reason of the\ndying injunction of the commander respecting his sword. I carried this\nweapon with me, wherever I went, but still I neglected to comply with\nhis request.\n\n\"The visions still continued to harass me with undiminished horror.\nI repaired to Rome, where I confessed myself to the Grand Cardinal\npenitentiary, and informed him of the terrors with which I was haunted.\nHe promised me absolution, after I should have performed certain acts of\npenance, the principal of which was, to execute the dying request of the\ncommander, by carrying the sword to T\u00eatefoulques, and having the hundred\nmasses performed in the chapel of the castle for the repose of his soul.\n\n\"I set out for France as speedily as possible, and made no delay in my\njourney. On arriving at Poitiers, I found that the tidings of the death\nof the commander had reached there, but had caused no more affliction\nthan among the people of Malta. Leaving my equipage in the town, I\nput on the garb of a pilgrim, and taking a guide, set out on foot\nfor T\u00eatefoulques, Indeed the roads in this part of the country were\nimpracticable for carriages.\n\n\"I found the castle of T\u00eatefoulques a grand but gloomy and dilapidated\npile. All the gates were closed, and there reigned over the whole place\nan air of almost savage loneliness and desertion. I had understood that\nits only inhabitant were the concierge, or warder, and a kind of hermit\nwho had charge of the chapel. After ringing for some time at the gate,\nI at length succeeded in bringing forth the warder, who bowed with\nreverence to my pilgrim's garb. I begged him to conduct me to the\nchapel, that being the end of my pilgrimage. We found the hermit there,\nchanting the funeral service; a dismal sound to one who came to perform\na penance for the death of a member of the family. When he had ceased\nto chant, I informed him that I came to accomplish an obligation of\nconscience, and that I wished him to perform a hundred masses for the\nrepose of the soul of the commander. He replied that, not being in\norders, he was not authorized to perform mass, but that he would\nwillingly undertake to see that my debt of conscience was discharged. I\nlaid my offering on the altar, and would have placed the sword of the\ncommander there, likewise. 'Hold!' said the hermit, with a melancholy\nshake of the head,'this is no place for so deadly a weapon, that has so\noften been bathed in Christian blood. Take it to the armory; you will\nfind there trophies enough of like character. It is a place into which I\nnever enter.'\n\n\"The warder here took up the theme abandoned by the peaceful man of\nGod. He assured me that I would see in the armory the swords of all the\nwarrior race of Foulquerres, together with those of the enemies over\nwhom they had triumphed. This, he observed, had been a usage kept\nup since the time of Mellusine, and of her husband, Geoffrey a la\nGrand-dent, or Geoffrey with the Great-tooth.\n\n\"I followed the gossiping warder to the armory. It was a great dusty\nhall, hung round with Gothic-looking portraits, of a stark line of\nwarriors, each with his weapon, and the weapons of those he had slain in\nbattle, hung beside his picture. The most conspicuous portrait was that\nof Foulques Taillefer, (Fulke Hackiron,) Count of Angouleme, and founder\nof the castle. He was represented at full-length, armed cap-a-pie, and\ngrasping a huge buckler, on which were emblazoned three lions passant.\nThe figure was so striking, that it seemed ready to start from the\ncanvas: and I observed beneath this picture, a trophy composed of many\nweapons, proofs of the numerous triumphs of this hard-fighting old\ncavalier. Beside the weapons connected with the portraits, there were\nswords of all shapes, sizes, and centuries, hung round the hall; with\npiles of armor, placed as it were in effigy.\n\n\"On each side of an immense chimney, were suspended the portraits of the\nfirst seneschal of Poitou (the illegitimate son of Foulques Taillefer)\nand his wife Isabella de Lusignan; the progenitors of the grim race of\nFoulquerres that frowned around. They had the look of being perfect\nlikenesses; and as I gazed on them, I fancied I could trace in their\nantiquated features some family resemblance to their unfortunate\ndescendant, whom I had slain! This was a dismal neighborhood, yet the\narmory was the only part of the castle that had a habitable air; so I\nasked the warder whether he could not make a fire, and give me something\nfor supper there, and prepare me a bed in one corner.\n\n\"'A fire and a supper you shall have, and that cheerfully, most worthy\npilgrim,' said he; 'but as to a bed, I advise you to come and sleep in\nmy chamber.'\n\n\"'Why so?' inquired I; 'why shall I not sleep in this hall?'\n\n\"'I have my reasons; I will make a bed for you close to mine.'\n\n\"I made no objections, for I recollected that it was Friday, and I\ndreaded the return of my vision. He brought in billets of wood, kindled\na fire in the great overhanging chimney, and then went forth to prepare\nmy supper. I drew a heavy chair before the fire, and seating myself in\nit, gazed muzingly round upon the portraits of the Foulquerres, and the\nantiquated armor and weapons, the mementos of many a bloody deed. As\nthe day declined, the smoky draperies of the hall gradually became\nconfounded with the dark ground of the paintings, and the lurid gleams\nfrom the chimney only enabled me to see visages staring at me from the\ngathering darkness. All this was dismal in the extreme, and somewhat\nappalling; perhaps it was the state of my conscience that rendered me\npeculiarly sensitive, and prone to fearful imaginings.\n\n\"At length the warder brought in my supper. It consisted of a dish of\ntrout, and some crawfish taken in the fosse of the castle. He procured\nalso a bottle of wine, which he informed me was wine of Poitou. I\nrequested him to invite the hermit to join me in my repast; but the holy\nman sent back word that he allowed himself nothing but roots and herbs,\ncooked with water. I took my meal, therefore, alone, but prolonged it as\nmuch as possible, and sought to cheer my drooping spirits by the wine of\nPoitou, which I found very tolerable.\n\n\"When supper was over, I prepared for my evening devotions. I have\nalways been very punctual in reciting my breviary; it is the prescribed\nand bounden duty of all chevaliers of the religious orders; and I can\nanswer for it, is faithfully performed by those of Spain. I accordingly\ndrew forth from my pocket a small missal and a rosary, and told the\nwarder he need only designate to me the way to his chamber, where I\ncould come and rejoin him, when I had finished my prayers.\n\n\"He accordingly pointed out a winding stair-case, opening from the hall.\n'You will descend this stair-case,' said he, 'until you come to the\nfourth landing-place, where you enter a vaulted passage, terminated by\nan arcade, with a statue of the blessed Jeanne of France; you cannot\nhelp finding my room, the door of which I will leave open; it is the\nsixth door from the landing-place. I advise you not to remain in this\nhall after midnight. Before that hour, you will hear the hermit ring the\nbell, in going the rounds of the corridors. Do not linger here after\nthat signal.'\n\n\"The warder retired, and I commenced my devotions. I continued at them\nearnestly; pausing from time to time to put wood upon the fire. I did\nnot dare to look much around me, for I felt myself becoming a prey to\nfearful fancies. The pictures appeared to become animated. If I regarded\none attentively, for any length of time, it seemed to move the eyes and\nlips. Above all, the portraits of the Grand Seneschal and his lady,\nwhich hung on each side of the great chimney, the progenitors of the\nFoulquerres of T\u00eatefoulque, regarded me, I thought, with angry and\nbaleful eyes: I even fancied they exchanged significant glances with\neach other. Just then a terrible blast of wind shook all the casements,\nand, rushing through the hall, made a fearful rattling and clashing\namong the armor. To my startled fancy, it seemed something supernatural.\n\n\"At length I heard the bell of the hermit, and hastened to quit the\nhall. Taking a solitary light, which stood on the supper-table, I\ndescended the winding stair-case; but before I had reached the vaulted\npassage leading to the statue of the blessed Jeanne of France, a blast\nof wind extinguished my taper. I hastily remounted the stairs, to light\nit again at the chimney; but judge of my feelings, when, on arriving at\nthe entrance to the armory, I beheld the Seneschal and his lady, who had\ndescended from their frames, and seated themselves on each side of the\nfire-place! \"'Madam, my love,' said the Seneschal, with great formality,\nand in antiquated phrase, 'what think you of the presumption of this\nCastilian, who comes to harbor himself and make wassail in this our\ncastle, after having slain our descendant, the commander, and that\nwithout granting him time for confession?'\n\n\"'Truly, my lord,' answered the female spectre, with no less stateliness\nof manner, and with great asperity of tone; 'truly, my lord, I opine\nthat this Castilian did a grievous wrong in this encounter; and he\nshould never be suffered to depart hence, without your throwing him the\ngauntlet.' I paused to hear no more, but rushed again down-stairs, to\nseek the chamber of the warder. It was impossible to find it in the\ndarkness, and in the perturbation of my mind. After an hour and a half\nof fruitless search, and mortal horror and anxieties, I endeavored\nto persuade myself that the day was about to break, and listened\nimpatiently for the crowing of the cock; for I thought if I could hear\nhis cheerful note, I should be reassured; catching, in the disordered\nstate of my nerves, at the popular notion that ghosts never appear after\nthe first crowing of the cock.\n\n\"At length I rallied myself, and endeavored to shake off the vague\nterrors which haunted me. I tried to persuade myself that the two\nfigures which I had seemed to see and hear, had existed only in my\ntroubled imagination. I still had the end of the candle in my hand, and\ndetermined to make another effort to re-light it, and find my way to\nbed; for I was ready to sink with fatigue. I accordingly sprang up the\nstair-case, three steps at a time, stopped at the door of the armory,\nand peeped cautiously in. The two Gothic figures were no longer in the\nchimney corners, but I neglected to notice whether they had reascended\nto their frames. I entered, and made desperately for the fire-place, but\nscarce had I advanced three strides, when Messire Foolques Taillefer\nstood before me, in the centre of the hall, armed cap-\u00e0-pie, and\nstanding in guard, with the point of his sword silently presented to\nme. I would have retreated to the stair-case, but the door of it was\noccupied by the phantom figure of an esquire, who rudely flung a\ngauntlet in my face. Driven to fury, I snatched down a sword from the\nwall: by chance, it was that of the commander which I had placed there.\nI rushed upon my fantastic adversary, and seemed to pierce him through\nand through; but at the same time I felt as if something pierced my\nheart, burning like a red-hot iron. My blood inundated the hall, and I\nfell senseless.\n\n\"When I recovered consciousness, it was broad day, and I found myself in\na small chamber, attended by the warder and the hermit. The former told\nme that on the previous night, he had awakened long after the midnight\nhour, and perceiving that I had not come to his chamber, he had\nfurnished himself with a vase of holy water, and set out to seek me. He\nfound me stretched senseless on the pavement of the armory, and bore me\nto this room. I spoke of my wound, and of the quantity of blood that I\nhad lost. He shook his head, and knew nothing about it; and to my\nsurprise, on examination, I found myself perfectly sound and unharmed.\nThe wound and blood, therefore, had been all delusion. Neither the\nwarder nor the hermit put any questions to me, but advised me to leave\nthe castle as soon as possible. I lost no time in complying with their\ncounsel, and felt my heart relieved from an oppressive weight, as I left\nthe gloomy and fate-bound battlements of T\u00eatefoulques behind me.\n\n\"I arrived at Bayonne, on my way to Spain, on the following Friday. At\nmidnight I was startled from my sleep, as I had formerly been; but it\nwas no longer by the vision of the dying commander. It was old Foulques\nTaillefer who stood before me, armed cap-\u00e0-pie, and presenting the point\nof his sword. I made the sign of the cross, and the spectre vanished,\nbut I received the same red-hot thrust in the heart which I had felt in\nthe armory, and I seemed to be bathed in blood. I would have called out,\nor have arisen from my bed and gone in quest of succor, but I could\nneither speak nor stir. This agony endured until the crowing of the\ncock, when I fell asleep again; but the next day I was ill, and in a\nmost pitiable state. I have continued to be harassed by the same vision\nevery Friday night; no acts of penitence and devotion have been able to\nrelieve me from it; and it is only a lingering hope in divine mercy,\nthat sustains me, and enables me to support so lamentable a visitation.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Grand Prior of Minorca wasted gradually away under this constant\nremorse of conscience, and this horrible incubus. He died some time\nafter having revealed the preceding particulars of his case, evidently\nthe victim of a diseased imagination.\n\nThe above relation has been rendered, in many parts literally, from the\nFrench memoir, in which it is given as a true story: if so, it is one of\nthose instances in which truth is more romantic than fiction.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLEGEND OF\nTHE ENGULPHED CONVENT.\n\nBY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.\n\nAt the dark and melancholy period when Don Roderick the Goth and his\nchivalry were overthrown on the banks of the Guadalete, and all Spain\nwas overrun by the Moors, great was the devastation of churches and\nconvents throughout that pious kingdom. The miraculous fate of one of\nthose holy piles is thus recorded in one of the authentic legends of\nthose days.\n\nOn the summit of a hill, not very distant from the capital city of\nToledo, stood an ancient convent and chapel, dedicated to the invocation\nof Saint Benedict, and inhabited by a sisterhood of Benedictine nuns.\nThis holy asylum was confined to females of noble lineage. The younger\nsisters of the highest families were here given in religious marriage to\ntheir Saviour, in order that the portions of their elder sisters might\nbe increased, and they enabled to make suitable matches on earth, or\nthat the family wealth might go undivided to elder brothers, and the\ndignity of their ancient houses be protected from decay. The convent was\nrenowned, therefore, for enshrining within its walls a sisterhood of the\npurest blood, the most immaculate virtue, and most resplendent beauty,\nof all Gothic Spain.\n\nWhen the Moors overran the kingdom, there was nothing that more\nexcited their hostility than these virgin asylums. The very sight of a\nconvent-spire was sufficient to set their Moslem blood in a foment, and\nthey sacked it with as fierce a zeal as though the sacking of a nunnery\nwere a sure passport to Elysium.\n\nTidings of such outrages committed in various parts of the kingdom\nreached this noble sanctuary and filled it with dismay. The danger\ncame nearer and nearer; the infidel hosts were spreading all over the\ncountry; Toledo itself was captured; there was no flying from the\nconvent, and no security within its walls.\n\nIn the midst of this agitation, the alarm was given one day that a great\nband of Saracens were spurring across the plain. In an instant the whole\nconvent was a scene of confusion. Some of the nuns wrung their fair\nhands at the windows; others waved their veils and uttered shrieks from\nthe tops of the towers, vainly hoping to draw relief from a country\nover-run by the foe. The sight of these innocent doves thus fluttering\nabout their dove-cote, but increased the zealot fury of the whiskered\nMoors. They thundered at the portal, and at every blow the ponderous\ngates trembled on their hinges.\n\nThe nuns now crowded round the abbess. They had been accustomed to look\nup to her as all-powerful, and they now implored her protection. The\nmother abbess looked with a rueful eye upon the treasures of beauty\nand vestal virtue exposed to such imminent peril. Alas! how was she to\nprotect them from the spoiler! She had, it is true, experienced many\nsignal inter-positions of providence in her individual favor. Her early\ndays had been passed amid the temptations of a court, where her virtue\nhad been purified by repeated trials, from none of which had she escaped\nbut by a miracle. But were miracles never to cease? Could she hope that\nthe marvelous protection shown to herself would be extended to a\nwhole sisterhood? There was no other resource. The Moors were at the\nthreshold; a few moments more and the convent would be at their mercy.\nSummoning her nuns to follow her, she hurried into the chapel; and\nthrowing herself on her knees before the image of the blessed Mary, \"Oh,\nholy Lady!\" exclaimed she, \"oh, most pure and immaculate of virgins!\nthou seest our extremity. The ravager is at the gate, and there is none\non earth to help us! Look down with pity, and grant that the earth may\ngape and swallow us rather than that our cloister vows should suffer\nviolation!\"\n\nThe Moors redoubled their assault upon the portal; the gates gave way,\nwith a tremendous crash; a savage yell of exultation arose; when of a\nsudden the earth yawned; down sank the convent, with its cloisters, its\ndormitories, and all its nuns. The chapel tower was the last that sank,\nthe bell ringing forth a peal of triumph in the very teeth of the\ninfidels.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nForty years had passed and gone, since the period of this miracle. The\nsubjugation of Spain was complete. The Moors lorded it over city and\ncountry; and such of the Christian population as remained, and were\npermitted to exercise their religion, did it in humble resignation to\nthe Moslem sway.\n\nAt this time, a Christian cavalier, of Cordova, hearing that a patriotic\nband of his countrymen had raised the standard of the cross in the\nmountains of the Asturias, resolved to join them, and unite in breaking\nthe yoke of bondage. Secretly arming himself, and caparisoning his\nsteed, he set forth from Cordova, and pursued his course by unfrequented\nmule-paths, and along the dry channels made by winter torrents. His\nspirit burned with indignation, whenever, on commanding a view over a\nlong sweeping plain, he beheld the mosque swelling in the distance, and\nthe Arab horsemen careering about, as if the rightful lords of the soil.\nMany a deep-drawn sigh, and heavy groan, also, did the good cavalier\nutter, on passing the ruins of churches and convents desolated by the\nconquerors.\n\nIt was on a sultry midsummer evening, that this wandering cavalier, in\nskirting a hill thickly covered with forest, heard the faint tones of a\nvesper bell sounding melodiously in the air, and seeming to come from\nthe summit of the hill. The cavalier crossed himself with wonder, at\nthis unwonted and Christian sound. He supposed it to proceed from one\nof those humble chapels and hermitages permitted to exist through the\nindulgence of the Moslem conquerors. Turning his steed up a narrow\npath of the forest, he sought this sanctuary, in hopes of finding a\nhospitable shelter for the night. As he advanced, the trees threw a deep\ngloom around him, and the bat flitted across his path. The bell ceased\nto toll, and all was silence.\n\nPresently a choir of female voices came stealing sweetly through the\nforest, chanting the evening service, to the solemn accompaniment of\nan organ. The heart of the good cavalier melted at the sound, for it\nrecalled the happier days of his country. Urging forward his weary\nsteed, he at length arrived at a broad grassy area, on the summit of the\nhill, surrounded by the forest. Here the melodious voices rose in full\nchorus, like the swelling of the breeze; but whence they came, he could\nnot tell. Sometimes they were before, sometimes behind him; sometimes in\nthe air, sometimes as if from within the bosom of the earth. At length\nthey died away, and a holy stillness settled on the place.\n\nThe cavalier gazed around with bewildered eye. There was neither chapel\nnor convent, nor humble hermitage, to be seen; nothing but a moss-grown\nstone pinnacle, rising out of the centre of the area, surmounted by a\ncross. The greensward around appeared to have been sacred from the tread\nof man or beast, and the surrounding trees bent toward the cross, as if\nin adoration.\n\nThe cavalier felt a sensation of holy awe. He alighted and tethered\nhis steed on the skirts of the forest, where he might crop the tender\nherbage; then approaching the cross, he knelt and poured forth his\nevening prayers before this relique of the Christian days of Spain.\nHis orisons being concluded, he laid himself down at the foot of the\npinnacle, and reclining his head against one of its stones, fell into a\ndeep sleep.\n\nAbout midnight, he was awakened by the tolling of a bell, and found\nhimself lying before the gate of an ancient convent. A train of nuns\npassed by, each bearing a taper. The cavalier rose and followed them\ninto the chapel; in the centre of which was a bier, on which lay the\ncorpse of an aged nun. The organ performed a solemn requiem: the nuns\njoining in chorus. When the funeral service was finished, a melodious\nvoice chanted, \"_Requiescat in pace!_\"--\"May she rest in peace!\" The\nlights immediately vanished; the whole passed away as a dream; and the\ncavalier found himself at the foot of the cross, and beheld, by the\nfaint rays of the rising moon, his steed quietly grazing near him.\n\nWhen the day dawned, the cavalier descended the hill, and following the\ncourse of a small brook, came to a cave, at the entrance of which was\nseated an ancient man, clad in hermit's garb, with rosary and cross,\nand a beard that descended to his girdle. He was one of those holy\nanchorites permitted by the Moors to live unmolested in dens and caves,\nand humble hermitages, and even to practise the rites of their religion.\nThe cavalier checked his horse, and dismounting, knelt and craved a\nbenediction. He then related all that had befallen him in the night, and\nbesought the hermit to explain the mystery.\n\n\"What thou hast heard and seen, my son,\" replied the other, \"is but type\nand shadow of the woes of Spain.\"\n\nHe then related the foregoing story of the miraculous deliverance of the\nconvent.\n\n\"Forty years,\" added the holy man, \"have elapsed since this event, yet\nthe bells of that sacred edifice are still heard, from time to time,\nsounding from under ground, together with the pealing of the organ, and\nthe chanting of the choir. The Moors avoid this neighborhood, as haunted\nground, and the whole place, as thou mayest perceive, has become covered\nwith a thick and lonely forest.\"\n\nThe cavalier listened with wonder to the story of this engulphed\nconvent, as related by the holy man. For three days and nights did they\nkeep vigils beside the cross; but nothing more was to be seen of nun or\nconvent. It is supposed that, forty years having elapsed, the natural\nlives of all the nuns were finished, and that the cavalier had beheld\nthe obsequies of the last of the sisterhood. Certain it is, that from\nthat time, bell, and organ, and choral chant have never more been heard.\n\nThe mouldering pinnacle, surmounted by the cross, still remains an\nobject of pious pilgrimage. Some say that it anciently stood in front\nof the convent, but others assert that it was the spire of the sacred\nedifice, and that, when the main body of the building sank, this\nremained above ground, like the top-mast of some tall ship that\nhas foundered. These pious believers maintain, that the convent is\nmiraculously preserved entire in the centre of the mountain, where, if\nproper excavations were made, it would be found, with all its treasures,\nand monuments, and shrines, and reliques, and the tombs of its virgin\nnuns.\n\nShould any one doubt the truth of this marvelous interposition of the\nVirgin, to protect the vestal purity of her votaries, let him read the\nexcellent work entitled \"Espa\u00f1a Triumphante,\" written by Padre Fray\nAntonio de Sancta Maria, a bare-foot friar of the Carmelite order, and\nhe will doubt no longer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE COUNT VAN HORN.\n\n\nDuring the minority of Louis XV., while the Duke of Orleans was Regent\nof France, a young Flemish nobleman, the Count Antoine Joseph Van Horn,\nmade his sudden appearance in Paris, and by his character, conduct, and\nthe subsequent disasters in which he became involved, created a great\nsensation in the high circles of the proud aristocracy. He was about\ntwenty-two years of age, tall, finely formed, with a pale, romantic\ncountenance, and eyes of remarkable brilliancy and wildness.\n\nHe was of one of the most ancient and highly-esteemed families of\nEuropean nobility, being of the line of the Princes of Horn and\nOverique, sovereign Counts of Hautekerke, and hereditary Grand Veneurs\nof the empire.\n\nThe family took its name from the little town and seigneurie of Horn, in\nBrabant; and was known as early as the eleventh century among the little\ndynasties of the Netherlands, and since that time by a long line of\nillustrious generations. At the peace of Utrecht, when the Netherlands\npassed under subjection to Austria, the house of Van Horn came under the\ndomination of the emperor. At the time we treat of, two of the branches\nof this ancient house were extinct; the third and only surviving branch\nwas represented by the reigning prince, Maximilian Emanuel Van Horn,\ntwenty-four years of age, who resided in honorable and courtly style\non his hereditary domains at Baussigny, in the Netherlands, and his\nbrother, the Count Antoine Joseph, who is the subject of this memoir.\n\nThe ancient house of Van Horn, by the intermarriage of its various\nbranches with the noble families of the continent, had become widely\nconnected and interwoven with the high aristocracy of Europe. The Count\nAntoine, therefore, could claim relationship to many of the proudest\nnames in Paris. In fact, he was grandson, by the mother's side, of the\nPrince de Ligne, and even might boast of affinity to the Regent (the\nDuke of Orleans) himself. There were circumstances, however, connected\nwith his sudden appearance in Paris, and his previous story, that placed\nhim in what is termed \"a false position;\" a word of baleful significance\nin the fashionable vocabulary of France.\n\nThe young count had been a captain in the service of Austria, but had\nbeen cashiered for irregular conduct, and for disrespect to Prince Louis\nof Baden, commander-in-chief. To check him in his wild career, and\nbring him to sober reflection, his brother the prince caused him to be\narrested and sent to the old castle of Van Wert, in the domains of Horn.\nThis was the same castle in which, in former times, John Van Horn,\nStadtholder of Gueldres, had imprisoned his father; a circumstance which\nhas furnished Rembrandt with the subject of an admirable painting. The\ngovernor of the castle was one Van Wert, grandson of the famous John Van\nWert, the hero of many a popular song and legend. It was the intention\nof the prince that his brother should be held in honorable durance, for\nhis object was to sober and improve, not to punish and afflict him. Van\nWert, however, was a stern, harsh man of violent passions. He treated\nthe youth in a manner that prisoners and offenders were treated in the\nstrong-holds of the robber counts of Germany in old times; confined him\nin a dungeon and inflicted on him such hardships and indignities that\nthe irritable temperament of the young count was roused to continual\nfury, which ended in insanity. For six months was the unfortunate youth\nkept in this horrible state, without his brother the prince being\ninformed of his melancholy condition or of the cruel treatment to which\nhe was subjected. At length, one day, in a paroxysm of frenzy, the count\nknocked down two of his gaolers with a beetle, escaped from the castle\nof Van Wert, and eluded all pursuit; and after roving about in a state\nof distraction, made his way to Baussigny and appeared like a sceptre\nbefore his brother.\n\nThe prince was shocked at his wretched, emaciated appearance and his\nlamentable state of mental alienation. He received him with the most\ncompassionate tenderness; lodged him in his own room, appointed three\nservants to attend and watch over him day and night, and endeavored by\nthe most soothing and affectionate assiduity to atone for the past act\nof rigor with which he reproached himself. When he learned, however, the\nmanner in which his unfortunate brother had been treated in confinement,\nand the course of brutalities that had led to his mental malady, he was\nroused to indignation. His first step was to cashier Van Wert from his\ncommand. That violent man set the prince at defiance, and attempted to\nmaintain himself in his government and his castle by instigating the\npeasants, for several leagues round, to revolt. His insurrection might\nhave been formidable against the power of a petty prince; but he was put\nunder the ban of the empire and seized as a state prisoner. The memory\nof his grandfather, the oft-sung John Van Wert, alone saved him from a\ngibbet; but he was imprisoned in the strong tower of Horn-op-Zee. There\nhe remained until he was eighty-two years of age, savage, violent, and\nunconquered to the last; for we are told that he never ceased fighting\nand thumping as long as he could close a fist or wield a cudgel.\n\nIn the mean time a course of kind and gentle treatment and wholesome\nregimen, and, above all, the tender and affectionate assiduity of his\nbrother, the prince, produced the most salutary effects upon Count\nAntoine. He gradually recovered his reason; but a degree of violence\nseemed always lurking at the bottom of his character, and he required\nto be treated with the greatest caution and mildness, for the least\ncontradiction exasperated him.\n\nIn this state of mental convalescence, he began to find the supervision\nand restraints of brotherly affection insupportable; so he left the\nNetherlands furtively, and repaired to Paris, whither, in fact, it\nis said he was called by motives of interest, to make arrangements\nconcerning a valuable estate which he inherited from his relative, the\nPrincess d'Epinay.\n\nOn his arrival in Paris, he called upon the Marquis of Cr\u00e9qui, and other\nof the high nobility with whom he was connected. He was received with\ngreat courtesy; but, as he brought no letters from his elder brother,\nthe prince, and as various circumstances of his previous history had\ntranspired, they did not receive him into their families, nor introduce\nhim to their ladies. Still they f\u00eated him in bachelor style, gave him\ngay and elegant suppers at their separate apartments, and took him to\ntheir boxes at the theatres. He was often noticed, too, at the doors of\nthe most fashionable churches, taking his stand among the young men\nof fashion; and at such times, his tall, elegant figure, his pale but\nhandsome countenance, and his flashing eyes, distinguished him from\namong the crowd; and the ladies declared that it was almost impossible\nto support his ardent gaze.\n\nThe Count did not afflict himself much at his limited circulation in the\nfastidious circles of the high aristocracy. He relished society of a\nwilder and less ceremonious cast; and meeting with loose companions to\nhis taste, soon ran into all the excesses of the capital, in that most\nlicentious period. It is said that, in the course of his wild career, he\nhad an intrigue with a lady of quality, a favorite of the Regent; that\nhe was surprised by that prince in one of his interviews; that sharp\nwords passed between them; and that the jealousy and vengeance thus\nawakened, ended only with his life.\n\nAbout this time, the famous Mississippi scheme of Law was at its height,\nor rather it began to threaten that disastrous catastrophe which\nconvulsed the whole financial world. Every effort was making to keep the\nbubble inflated. The vagrant population of France was swept off from the\nstreets at night, and conveyed to Havre de Grace, to be shipped to the\nprojected colonies; even laboring people and mechanics were thus crimped\nand spirited away. As Count Antoine was in the habit of sallying forth\nat night, in disguise, in pursuit of his pleasures, he came near being\ncarried off by a gang of crimps; it seemed, in fact, as if they had been\nlying in wait for him, as he had experienced very rough treatment at\ntheir hands. Complaint was made of his case by his relation, the Marquis\nde Cr\u00e9qui, who took much interest in the youth; but the Marquis received\nmysterious intimations not to interfere in the matter, but to advise the\nCount to quit Paris immediately; \"If he lingers, he is lost!\" This has\nbeen cited as a proof that vengeance was dogging at the heels of the\nunfortunate youth, and only watching for an opportunity to destroy him.\n\nSuch opportunity occurred but too soon. Among the loose companions with\nwhom the Count had become intimate, were two who lodged in the same\nhotel with him. One was a youth only twenty years of age, who passed\nhimself off as the Chevalier d'Etampes, but whose real name was Lestang,\nthe prodigal son of a Flemish banker. The other, named Laurent de Mille,\na Piedmontese, was a cashiered captain, and at the time an esquire\nin the service of the dissolute Princess de Carignan, who kept\ngambling-tables in her palace. It is probable that gambling propensities\nhad driven these young men together, and that their losses had brought\nthem to desperate measures: certain it is, that all Paris was suddenly\nastounded by a murder which they were said to have committed. What made\nthe crime more startling, was, that it seemed connected with the great\nMississippi scheme, at that time the fruitful source of all kinds of\npanics and agitations. A Jew, a stock-broker, who dealt largely in\nshares of the bank of Law, founded on the Mississippi scheme, was the\nvictim. The story of his death is variously related. The darkest account\nstates, that the Jew was decoyed by these young men into an obscure\ntavern, under pretext of negotiating with him for bank shares to the\namount of one hundred thousand crowns, which he had with him in his\npocket-book. Lestang kept watch upon the stairs. The Count and De Mille\nentered with the Jew into a chamber. In a little while there were heard\ncries and struggles from within. A waiter passing by the room, looked\nin, and seeing the Jew weltering in his blood, shut the door again,\ndouble-locked it, and alarmed the house. Lestang rushed downstairs, made\nhis way to the hotel, secured his most portable effects, and fled the\ncountry. The Count and De Mille endeavored to escape by the window, but\nwere both taken, and conducted to prison.\n\nA circumstance which occurs in this part of the Count's story, seems to\npoint him out as a fated man. His mother, and his brother, the Prince\nVan Horn, had received intelligence some time before at Baussigny, of\nthe dissolute life the Count was leading at Paris, and of his losses at\nplay. They despatched a gentleman of the prince's household to Paris, to\npay the debts of the Count, and persuade him to return to Flanders; or,\nif he should refuse, to obtain an order from the Regent for him to quit\nthe capital. Unfortunately the gentleman did not arrive at Paris until\nthe day after the murder.\n\nThe news of the Count's arrest and imprisonment on a charge of murder,\ncaused a violent sensation among the high aristocracy. All those\nconnected with him, who had treated him hitherto with indifference,\nfound their dignity deeply involved in the question of his guilt or\ninnocence. A general convocation was held at the hotel of the Marquis de\nCr\u00e9qui, of all the relatives and allies of the house of Horn. It was\nan assemblage of the most proud and aristocratic personages of Paris.\nInquiries were made into the circumstances of the affair. It was\nascertained, beyond a doubt, that the Jew was dead, and that he had been\nkilled by several stabs of a poniard. In escaping by the window, it was\nsaid that the Count had fallen, and been immediately taken; but that De\nMille had fled through the streets, pursued by the populace, and had\nbeen arrested at some distance from the scene of the murder; that the\nCount had declared himself innocent of the death of the Jew, and that\nhe had risked his own life in endeavoring to protect him; but that De\nMille, on being brought back to the tavern, confessed to a plot to\nmurder the broker, and rob him of his pocket-book, and inculpated the\nCount in the crime.\n\nAnother version of the story was, that the Count Van Horn had deposited\nwith the broker, bank shares to the amount of eighty-eight thousand\nlivres; that he had sought him in this tavern, which was one of his\nresorts, and had demanded the shares; that the Jew had denied the\ndeposit; that a quarrel had ensued, in the course of which the Jew\nstruck the Count in the face; that the latter, transported with rage,\nhad snatched up a knife from a table, and wounded the Jew in the\nshoulder; and that thereupon De Mille, who was present, and who had\nlikewise been defrauded by the broker, fell on him, and despatched him\nwith blows of a poniard, and seized upon his pocket-book; that he had\noffered to divide the contents of the latter with the Count, _pro rata_,\nof what the usurer had defrauded them; that the latter had refused the\nproposition with disdain, and that, at a noise of persons approaching,\nboth had attempted to escape from the premises, but had been taken.\n\nRegard the story in any way they might, appearances were terribly\nagainst the Count, and the noble assemblage was in great consternation.\nWhat was to be done to ward off so foul a disgrace and to save their\nillustrious escutcheons from this murderous stain of blood? Their\nfirst attempt was to prevent the affair from going to trial, and their\nrelative from being dragged before a criminal tribunal, on so horrible\nand degrading a charge. They applied, therefore, to the Regent, to\nintervene his power; to treat the Count as having acted under an access\nof his mental malady; and to shut him up in a madhouse. The Regent was\ndeaf to their solicitations. He replied, coldly, that if the Count was a\nmadman, one could not get rid too quickly of madmen who were furious in\ntheir insanity. The crime was too public and atrocious to be hushed up\nor slurred over; justice must take its course.\n\nSeeing there was no avoiding the humiliating scene of a public trial,\nthe noble relatives of the Count endeavored to predispose the minds of\nthe magistrates before whom he was to be arraigned. They accordingly\nmade urgent and eloquent representations of the high descent, and noble\nand powerful connexions of the Count; set forth the circumstances of his\nearly history; his mental malady; the nervous irritability to which he\nwas subject, and his extreme sensitiveness to insult or contradiction.\nBy these means they sought to prepare the judges to interpret every\nthing in favor of the Count, and, even if it should prove that he had\ninflicted the mortal blow on the usurer, to attribute it to access of\ninsanity, provoked by insult.\n\nTo give full effect to these representations, the noble conclave\ndetermined to bring upon the judges the dazzling rays of the whole\nassembled aristocracy. Accordingly, on the day that the trial took\nplace, the relations of the Count, to the number of fifty-seven persons,\nof both sexes, and of the highest rank, repaired in a body to the Palace\nof Justice, and took their stations in a long corridor which led to the\ncourt-room. Here, as the judges entered, they had to pass in review this\narray of lofty and noble personages, who saluted them mournfully and\nsignificantly, as they passed. Any one conversant with the stately pride\nand jealous dignity of the French noblesse of that day, may imagine the\nextreme state of sensitiveness that produced this self-abasement. It was\nconfidently presumed, however, by the noble suppliants, that having once\nbrought themselves to this measure, their influence over the tribunal\nwould be irresistible. There was one lady present, however, Madame de\nBeauffremont, who was affected with the Scottish gift of second sight,\nand related such dismal and sinister apparitions as passing before\nher eyes, that many of her female companions were filled with doleful\npresentiments.\n\nUnfortunately for the Count, there was another interest at work, more\npowerful even than the high aristocracy. The all-potent Abb\u00e9 Dubois, the\ngrand favorite and bosom counsellor of the Regent, was deeply interested\nin the scheme of Law, and the prosperity of his bank, and of course in\nthe security of the stock-brokers. Indeed, the Regent himself is said to\nhave dipped deep in the Mississippi scheme. Dubois and Law, therefore,\nexerted their influence to the utmost to have the tragic affair pushed\nto the extremity of the law, and the murder of the broker punished in\nthe most signal and appalling manner. Certain it is, the trial was\nneither long nor intricate. The Count and his fellow prisoner were\nequally inculpated in the crime; and both were condemned to a death the\nmost horrible and ignominious--to be broken alive on the wheel!\n\nAs soon as the sentence of the court was made public, all the nobility,\nin any degree related to the house of Van Horn, went into mourning.\nAnother grand aristocratical assemblage was held, and a petition to the\nRegent, on behalf of the Count, was drawn out and left with the Marquis\nde Cr\u00e9qui for signature. This petition set forth the previous insanity\nof the Count, and showed that it was a hereditary malady of his family.\nIt stated various circumstances in mitigation of his offence, and\nimplored that his sentence might be commuted to perpetual imprisonment.\n\nUpward of fifty names of the highest nobility, beginning with the Prince\nde Ligne, and including cardinals, archbishops, dukes, marquises, etc.,\ntogether with ladies of equal rank, were signed to this petition. By\none of the caprices of human pride and vanity, it became an object of\nambition to get enrolled among the illustrious suppliants; a kind of\ntestimonial of noble blood, to prove relationship to a murderer! The\nMarquis de Cr\u00e9qui was absolutely besieged by applicants to sign, and had\nto refer their claims to this singular honor, to the Prince de Ligne,\nthe grandfather of the Count. Many who were excluded, were highly\nincensed, and numerous feuds took place. Nay, the affronts thus given to\nthe morbid pride of some aristocratical families, passed from generation\nto generation; for, fifty years afterward, the Duchess of Mazarin\ncomplained of a slight which her father had received from the Marquis\nde Cr\u00e9qui; which proved to be something connected with the signature of\nthis petition. This important document being completed, the illustrious\nbody of petitioners, male and female, on Saturday evening, the eve of\nPalm Sunday, repaired to the Palais Royal, the residence of the Regent,\nand were ushered, with great ceremony but profound silence, into his\nhall of council. They had appointed four of their number as deputies, to\npresent the petition, viz.: the Cardinal de Rohan, the Duke de Havr\u00e9,\nthe Prince de Ligne, and the Marquis de Cr\u00e9qui. After a little while,\nthe deputies were summoned to the cabinet of the Regent. They entered,\nleaving the assembled petitioners in a state of the greatest anxiety.\nAs time slowly wore away, and the evening advanced, the gloom of the\ncompany increased. Several of the ladies prayed devoutly; the good\nPrincess of Armagnac told her beads.\n\nThe petition was received by the Regent with a most unpropitious aspect.\n\"In asking the pardon of the criminal,\" said he, \"you display more zeal\nfor the house of Van Horn, than for the service of the king.\" The noble\ndeputies enforced the petition by every argument in their power. They\nsupplicated the Regent to consider that the infamous punishment in\nquestion would reach not merely the person of the condemned, not\nmerely the house of Van Horn, but also the genealogies of princely\nand illustrious families, in whose armorial bearings might be found\nquarterings of this dishonored name.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" replied the Regent, \"it appears to me the disgrace consists\nin the crime, rather than in the punishment.\"\n\nThe Prince de Ligne spoke with warmth: \"I have in my genealogical\nstandard,\" said he, \"four escutcheons of Van Horn, and of course have\nfour ancestors of that house. I must have them erased and effaced, and\nthere would be so many blank spaces, like holes, in my heraldic ensigns.\nThere is not a sovereign family which would not suffer, through the\nrigor of your Royal Highness; nay, all the world knows, that in the\nthirty-two quarterings of Madame, your mother, there is an escutcheon of\nVan Horn.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" replied the Regent, \"I will share the disgrace with you,\ngentlemen.\"\n\nSeeing that a pardon could not be obtained, the Cardinal de Rohan and\nthe Marquis de Cr\u00e9qui left the cabinet; but the Prince de Ligne and the\nDuke de Havr\u00e9 remained behind. The honor of their houses, more than the\nlife of the unhappy Count, was the great object of their solicitude.\nThey now endeavored to obtain a minor grace. They represented that in\nthe Netherlands, and in Germany, there was an important difference in\nthe public mind as to the mode of inflicting the punishment of death\nupon persons of quality. That decapitation had no influence on the\nfortunes of the family of the executed, but that the punishment of the\nwheel was such an infamy, that the uncles, aunts, brothers, and sisters\nof the criminal, and his whole family, for three succeeding generations,\nwere excluded from all noble chapters, princely abbeys, sovereign\nbishoprics, and even Teutonic commanderies of the Order of Malta. They\nshowed how this would operate immediately upon the fortunes of a sister\nof the Count, who was on the point of being received as a canoness into\none of the noble chapters.\n\nWhile this scene was going on in the cabinet of the Regent, the\nillustrious assemblage of petitioners remained in the hall of council,\nin the most gloomy state of suspense. The re-entrance from the cabinet\nof the Cardinal de Rohan and the Marquis de Cr\u00e9qui, with pale, downcast\ncountenances, had struck a chill into every heart. Still they lingered\nuntil near midnight, to learn the result of the after application. At\nlength the cabinet conference was at an end. The Regent came forth, and\nsaluted the high personages of the assemblage in a courtly manner. One\nold lady of quality, Madame de Guyon, whom he had known in his infancy,\nhe kissed on the cheek, calling her his \"good aunt.\" He made a most\nceremonious salutation to the stately Marchioness de Cr\u00e9qui, telling\nher he was charmed to see her at the Palais Royal; \"a compliment very\nill-timed,\" said the Marchioness, \"considering the circumstance which\nbrought me there.\" He then conducted the ladies to the door of the\nsecond saloon, and there dismissed them, with the most ceremonious\npoliteness.\n\nThe application of the Prince de Ligne and the Duke de Havr\u00e9, for a\nchange of the mode of punishment, had, after much difficulty, been\nsuccessful. The Regent had promised solemnly to send a letter of\ncommutation to the attorney-general on Holy Monday, the 25th of March,\nat five o'clock in the morning. According to the same promise, a\nscaffold would be arranged in the cloister of the Conciergerie,\nor prison, where the Count would be beheaded on the same morning,\nimmediately after having received absolution. This mitigation of the\nform of punishment gave but little consolation to the great body of\npetitioners, who had been anxious for the pardon of the youth: it was\nlooked upon as all-important, however, by the Prince de Ligne, who, as\nhas been before observed,--was exquisitely alive to the dignity of his\nfamily.\n\nThe Bishop of Bayeux and the Marquis de Cr\u00e9qui visited the unfortunate\nyouth in prison. He had just received the communion in the chapel of the\nConciergerie, and was kneeling before the altar, listening to a mass for\nthe dead, which was performed at his request. He protested his innocence\nof any intention to murder the Jew, but did not deign to allude to the\naccusation of robbery. He made the bishop and the Marquis promise to see\nhis brother the prince, and inform him of this his dying asseveration.\n\nTwo other of his relations, the Prince Rebecq-Montmorency and the\nMarshal Van Isenghien, visited him secretly, and offered him poison, as\na means of evading the disgrace of a public execution. On his refusing\nto take it, they left him with high indignation. \"Miserable man!\" said\nthey, \"you are fit only to perish by the hand of the executioner!\"\n\nThe Marquis de Cr\u00e9qui sought the executioner of Paris, to bespeak an\neasy and decent death--for the unfortunate youth. \"Do not make him\nsuffer,\" said he; \"uncover no part of him but the neck; and have his\nbody placed in a coffin, before you deliver it to his family.\" The\nexecutioner promised all that was requested, but declined a rouleau of a\nhundred louis-d'ors which the Marquis would have put into his hand. \"I\nam paid by the king for fulfilling my office,\" said he; and added that\nhe had already refused a like sum, offered by another relation of the\nMarquis.\n\nThe Marquis de Cr\u00e9qui returned home in a state of deep affliction. There\nhe found a letter from the Duke de St. Simon, the familiar friend of the\nRegent, repeating the promise of that prince, that the punishment of the\nwheel should be commuted to decapitation.\n\n\"Imagine,\" says the Marchioness de Cr\u00e9qui, who in her memoirs gives a\ndetailed account of this affair, \"imagine what we experienced, and what\nwas our astonishment, our grief, and indignation, when, on Tuesday, the\n26th of March, an hour after midday, word was brought us that the Count\nVan Horn had been exposed on the wheel, in the Place de Gr\u00e9ve, since\nhalf-past six in the morning, on the same scaffold with the Piedmontese\nde Mille, and that he had been tortured previous to execution!\"\n\nOne more scene of aristocratic pride closed this tragic story. The\nMarquis de Cr\u00e9qui, on receiving this astounding news, immediately\narrayed himself in the uniform of a general officer, with his cordon\nof nobility on the coat. He ordered six valets to attend him in grand\nlivery, and two of his carriages, each with six horses, to be brought\nforth. In this sumptuous state, he set off for the Place de Gr\u00e9ve, where\nhe had been preceded by the Princes de Ligne, de Rohan, de Cro\u00fcy, and\nthe Duke de Havr\u00e9.\n\nThe Count Van Horn was already dead, and it was believed that the\nexecutioner had had the charity to give him the coup de grace, or\n\"death-blow,\" at eight o'clock in the morning. At five o'clock in the\nevening, when the Judge Commissary left his post at the Hotel de Ville,\nthese noblemen, with their own hands, aided to detach the mutilated\nremains of their relation; the Marquis de Crequi placed them in one of\nhis carriages, and bore them off to his hotel, to receive the last sad\nobsequies.\n\nThe conduct of the Regent in this affair excited general indignation.\nHis needless severity was attributed by some to vindictive jealousy; by\nothers to the persevering machinations of Law. The house of Van Horn,\nand the high nobility of Flanders and Germany, considered themselves\nflagrantly outraged: many schemes of vengeance were talked of, and a\nhatred engendered against the Regent, that followed him through life,\nand was wreaked with bitterness upon his memory after his death.\n\nThe following letter is said to have been written to the Regent by the\nPrince Van Horn, to whom the former had adjudged the confiscated effects\nof the Count:\n\n\"I do not complain, Sir, of the death of my brother, but I complain\nthat your Royal Highness has violated in his person the rights of the\nkingdom, the nobility, and the nation. I thank you for the confiscation\nof his effects; but I should think myself as much disgraced as he,\nshould I accept any favor at your hands. _I hope that God and the\nKing may render to you as strict justice as you have rendered to my\nunfortunate brother._\"","title":"Wolfert's Roost, and Miscellanies","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":64361}