The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs, of whom

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WOLFERT'S ROOST

AND

MISCELLANIES

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING

CONTENTS.

CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST

SLEEPY HOLLOW

BIRDS OF SPRING

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA

ABENCERRAGE

ENCHANTED ISLAND

ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE

DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM

SPANISH ROMANCE

LEGEND OF DON MUIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA

COMMUNIPAW

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS

LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW

BERMUDAS, THE

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER

KNIGHT OF MALTA

LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT

COUNT VAN HORN WOLFERT'S ROOST

AND

MISCELLANIES.

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is subject to

a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vast

accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt to

become narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling long

stories, and of doling out advice, to the small profit and great

annoyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming the

oracle, or, more technically speaking, the "bore," of the domestic

circle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon the

world at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of the

intellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossiping

volumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writing

volumes; they do not afford exactly the relief I require; there is too

much preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming

before the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any

thing that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore, of

securing to myself a snug corner in some periodical work where I might,

as it were, loll at my ease in my elbow-chair, and chat sociably with

the public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop

into my brain.

In looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excellent

periodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was struck by the

title of your work--"THE KNICKERBOCKER." My heart leaped at the sight.

DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, Sir, was one of my earliest and most valued

friends, and the recollection of him is associated with some of the

pleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To explain this, and to show how

I came into possession of sundry of his posthumous works, which I

have from time to time given to the world, permit me to relate a

few particulars of our early intercourse. I give them with the more

confidence, as I know the interest you take in that departed worthy,

whose name and effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they will

be found important to the better understanding and relishing divers

communications I may have to make to you.

My first acquaintance with that great and good man, for such I may

venture to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years has

shrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice has

elevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore, my first

acquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far

from the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course

of his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials for his

immortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking the archives of

one of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It was

a lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a

green bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the

Great Tappan Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright

pure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook came

babbling down a neighboring ravine, and threw itself into a little woody

cove, in front of the mansion. It was indeed as quiet and sheltered a

nook as the heart of man could require, in which to take refuge from the

cares and troubles of the world; and as such, it had been chosen in old

times, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the renowned

Peter Stuyvesant.

This worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried life,

throughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being one of those

unlucky wights with whom the world is ever at variance, and who are kept

in a continual fume and fret, by the wickedness of mankind. At the time

of the subjugation of the province by the English, he retired hither in

high dudgeon; with the bitter determination to bury himself from the

world, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of his

days. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his door the

favorite Dutch motto, "Lust in Rust," (pleasure in repose.) The mansion

was thence called "Wolfert's Rust"--Wolfert's Rest; but in process of

time, the name was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost, probably from its

quaint cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched on

every gable. This name it continued to bear, long after the unlucky

Wolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by the

tongue of a termagant wife; for it passed into a proverb through the

neighborhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that the cock of

the Roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the country.

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed through many

changes and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to notice. At the

time of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker it was in possession of

the gallant family of the Van Tassels, who have figured so conspicuously

in his writings. What appears to have given it peculiar value, in his

eyes, was the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoarded

up, like buried gold; for it is said that Wolfert Acker, when he

retreated from New Amsterdam, carried off with him many of the records

and journals of the province, pertaining to the Dutch dynasty; swearing

that they should never fall into the hands of the English. These, like

the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former historians;

but these did I find the indefatigable Diedrich diligently deciphering.

He was already a sage in year's and experience, I but an idle stripling;

yet he did not despise my youth and ignorance, but took me kindly by the

hand, and led me gently into those paths of local and traditional lore

which he was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamber

at the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perseverance

with which he deciphered those venerable Dutch documents, worse than

Herculanean manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot of

the green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the worthies of

the olden time, the paladins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in his

legendary researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored with

him the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many of

his conferences with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, from

whom he derived many of those marvelous facts not laid down in books

or records, and which give such superior value and authenticity to his

history, over all others that have been written concerning the New

Netherlands.

But let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite theme; I may

recur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the intimacy thus formed,

continued for a considerable time; and in company with the worthy

Diedrich, I visited many of the places celebrated by his pen. The

currents of our lives at length diverged. He remained at home to

complete his mighty work, while a vagrant fancy led me to wander about

the world. Many, many years elapsed, before I returned to the parent

soil. In the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlands

had been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to renown. His

native city, that city in which he so much delighted, had decreed all

manner of costly honors to his memory. I found his effigy imprinted upon

new-year cakes, and devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins; a

great oyster-house bore the name of "Knickerbocker Hall;" and I narrowly

escaped the pleasure of being run over by a Knickerbocker omnibus!

Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved such greatness,

I now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold pleasure, and sought to

revisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important of

these was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate

Wolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operations

upon a Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little

edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. There

stood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had occupied;

the old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he had pored over the

chronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with the

archives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been fired

off as wadding from the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scene

around the mansion was still the same; the green bank; the spring beside

which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian; the

wild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locust

trees, half shutting out the prospect of the great Tappan Zee.

As I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at the recollection

of my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed the mansion which he had

inhabited, and which was fast mouldering to decay. The thought struck me

to arrest the desolating hand of Time; to rescue the historic pile from

utter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wanderings; a quiet

home, where I might enjoy "lust in rust" for the remainder of my days.

It is true, the fate of the unlucky Wolfert passed across my mind; but

I consoled myself with the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that I

had no termagant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me.

I have become possessor of the Roost! I have repaired and renovated it

with religious care, in the genuine Dutch style, and have adorned and

illustrated it with sundry reliques of the glorious days of the New

Netherlands. A venerable weathercock, of portly Dutch dimensions,

which once battled with the wind on the top of the Stadt-House of New

Amsterdam, in the time of Peter Stuyvesant, now erects its crest on

the gable end of my edifice; a gilded horse in full gallop, once the

weathercock of the great Vander Heyden Palace of Albany, now glitters in

the sunshine, and veers with every breeze, on the peaked turret over

my portal; my sanctum sanctorum is the chamber once honored by the

illustrious Diedrich, and it is from his elbow-chair, and his identical

old Dutch writing-desk, that I pen this rambling epistle.

Here, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recollections of

early days, and the mementoes of the historian of the Manhattoes, with

that glorious river before me, which flows with such majesty through his

works, and which has ever been to me a river of delight.

I thank God I was born on the banks of the Hudson! I think it an

invaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of

some grand and noble object in nature; a river, a lake, or a mountain.

We make a friendship with it, we in a manner ally ourselves to it for

life. It remains an object of our pride and affections, a rallying

point, to call us home again after all our wanderings. "The things which

we have learned in our childhood," says an old writer, "grow up with our

souls, and unite themselves to it." So it is with the scenes among which

we have passed our early days; they influence the whole course of our

thoughts and feelings; and I fancy I can trace much of what is good and

pleasant in my own heterogeneous compound to my early companionship with

this glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used to

clothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it a soul. I admired

its frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfect

truth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangerous

sand-bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was broad, and

bearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I

gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; ever straight

forward. Once, indeed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from its

course by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them, and

immediately resumes its straightforward march. Behold, thought I, an

emblem of a good man's course through life; ever simple, open, and

direct; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate into

error, it is but momentary; he soon recovers his onward and honorable

career, and continues it to the end of his pilgrimage.

Excuse this rhapsody, into which I have been betrayed by a revival of

early feelings. The Hudson is, in a manner, my first and last love; and

after all my wanderings and seeming infidelities, I return to it with a

heart-felt preference over all the other rivers in the world. I seem

to catch new life as I bathe in its ample billows and inhale the pure

breezes of its hills. It is true, the romance of youth is past, that

once spread illusions over every scene. I can no longer picture an

Arcadia in every green valley; nor a fairy land among the distant

mountains; nor a peerless beauty in every villa gleaming among the

trees; but though the illusions of youth have faded from the landscape,

the recollections of departed years and departed pleasures shed over it

the mellow charm of evening sunshine.

Permit me, then, Mr. Editor, through the medium of your work, to

hold occasional discourse from my retreat with the busy world I have

abandoned. I have much to say about what I have seen, heard, felt, and

thought through the course of a varied and rambling life, and some

lucubrations that have long been encumbering my portfolio; together with

divers reminiscences of the venerable historian of the New Netherlands,

that may not be unacceptable to those who have taken an interest in his

writings, and are desirous of any thing that may cast a light back upon

our early history. Let your readers rest assured of one thing, that,

though retired from the world, I am not disgusted with it; and that if

in my communings with it I do not prove very wise, I trust I shall at

least prove very good-natured.

Which is all at present, from

Yours, etc.,

GEOFFREY CRAYON.

* * * * *

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Worthy Sir: In a preceding communication, I have given you some brief

notice of Wolfert's Roost, the mansion where I first had the good

fortune to become acquainted with the venerable historian of the New

Netherlands. As this ancient edifice is likely to be the place whence

I shall date many of my lucubrations, and as it is really a very

remarkable little pile, intimately connected with all the great epochs

of our local and national history, I have thought it but right to give

some farther particulars concerning it. Fortunately, in rummaging a

ponderous Dutch chest of drawers, which serves as the archives of the

Roost, and in which are preserved many inedited manuscripts of Mr.

KNICKERBOCKER, together with the precious records of New-Amsterdam,

brought hither by Wolfert Acker at the downfall of the Dutch dynasty,

as has been already mentioned, I found in one corner, among dried

pumpkin-seeds, bunches of thyme, and pennyroyal, and crumbs of new-year

cakes, a manuscript, carefully wrapped up in the fragment of an old

parchment deed, but much blotted, and the ink grown foxy by time, which,

on inspection, I discovered to be a faithful chronicle of the Roost. The

hand-writing, and certain internal evidences, leave no doubt in my

mind, that it is a genuine production of the venerable historian of the

New-Netherlands, written, very probably, during his residence at the

Roost, in gratitude for the hospitality of its proprietor. As such, I

submit it for publication. As the entire chronicle is too long for the

pages of your Magazine, and as it contains many minute particulars,

which might prove tedious to the general reader, I have abbreviated and

occasionally omitted some of its details; but may hereafter furnish

them separately, should they seem to be required by the curiosity of an

enlightened and document-hunting public. Respectfully yours, GEOFFREY

CRAYON.

* * * * *

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST.

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

About five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and renowned city of

Manhattan, formerly called New-Amsterdam, and vulgarly called New-York,

on the eastern bank of that expansion of the Hudson, known among

Dutch mariners of yore, as the Tappan Zee, being in fact the great

Mediterranean Sea of the New-Netherlands, stands a little old-fashioned

stone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and

corners as an old cocked hat. Though but of small dimensions, yet, like

many small people, it is of mighty spirit, and values itself greatly on

its antiquity, being one of the oldest edifices, for its size, in the

whole country. It claims to be an ancient seat of empire, I may rather

say an empire in itself, and like all empires, great and small, has had

its grand historical epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorous

little pile, I shall call it by its usual appellation of "The Roost;"

though that is a name given to it in modern days, since it became the

abode of the white man.

Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote region commonly

called the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes mystified, and

tinted up with delectable fiction. The eastern shore of the Tappan Sea

was inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated race, existing in all

the simplicity of nature; that is to say, they lived by hunting and

fishing, and recreated themselves occasionally with a little tomahawking

and scalping. Each stream that flows down from the hills into the

Hudson, had its petty sachem, who ruled over a hand's-breadth of forest

on either side, and had his seat of government at its mouth. The

chieftain who ruled at the Roost, was not merely a great warrior, but a

medicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they all mean the same thing,

in Indian parlance. Of his fighting propensities, evidences still

remain, in various arrowheads of flint, and stone battle-axes,

occasionally digged up about the Roost: of his wizard powers, we have a

token in a spring which wells up at the foot of the bank, on the

very margin of the river, which, it is said, was gifted by him with

rejuvenating powers, something like the renowned Fountain of Youth in

the Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after by the veteran Ponce

de Leon. This story, however, is stoutly contradicted by an old Dutch

matter-of-fact tradition, which declares that the spring in question was

smuggled over from Holland in a churn, by Femmetie Van Slocum, wife of

Goosen Garret Van Slocum, one of the first settlers, and that she took

it up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-house

near Rotterdam; being sure she should find no water equal to it in the

new country--and she was right.

The wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing territorial

questions, and settling boundary lines; this kept him in continual feud

with the neighboring sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for his

hand-breadth of territory; so that there is not a petty stream nor

ragged hill in the neighborhood, that has not been the subject of long

talks and hard battles. The sachem, however, as has been observed, was a

medicine-man, as well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by arts

as well as arms; so that, by dint of a little hard fighting here, and

hocus-pocus there, he managed to extend his boundary-line from field

to field and stream to stream, until he found himself in legitimate

possession of that region of hills and valleys, bright fountains and

limpid brooks, locked in by the mazy windings of the Neperan and the

Pocantico. [Footnote: As every one may not recognize these boundaries

by their original Indian names, it may be well to observe, that the

Neperan is that beautiful stream, vulgarly called the Saw-Mill River,

which, after winding gracefully for many miles through a lovely valley,

shrouded by groves, and dotted by Dutch farm-houses, empties itself

into the Hudson, at the ancient drop of Yonkers. The Pocantico is that

hitherto nameless brook, that, rising among woody hills, winds in many a

wizard maze through the sequestered banks of Sleepy Hollow. We owe it to

the indefatigable researches of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, that those beautiful

streams are rescued from modern common-place, and reinvested with their

ancient Indian names. The correctness of the venerable historian may be

ascertained, by reference to the records of the original Indian grants

to the Herr Frederick Philipsen, preserved in the county clerk's office,

at White Plains.]

This last-mentioned stream, or rather the valley through which it flows,

was the most difficult of all his acquisitions. It lay half way to the

strong-hold of the redoubtable sachem of Sing-Sing, and was claimed by

him as an integral part of his domains. Many were the sharp conflicts

between the rival chieftains for the sovereignty of this valley, and

many the ambuscades, surprisals, and deadly onslaughts that took place

among its fastnesses, of which it grieves me much that I cannot furnish

the details for the gratification of those gentle but bloody-minded

readers of both sexes, who delight in the romance of the tomahawk and

scalping-knife. Suffice it to say that the wizard chieftain was at

length victorious, though his victory is attributed in Indian tradition

to a great medicine or charm by which he laid the sachem of Sing-Sing

and his warriors asleep among the rocks and recesses of the valley,

where they remain asleep to the present day with their bows and

war-clubs beside them. This was the origin of that potent and drowsy

spell which still prevails over the valley of the Pocantico, and which

has gained it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow. Often, in

secluded and quiet parts of that valley, where the stream is overhung by

dark woods and rocks, the ploughman, on some calm and sunny day as

he shouts to his oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from the

hill-sides in reply; being, it is said, the spell-bound warriors, who

half start from their rocky couches and grasp their weapons, but sink to

sleep again.

The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph of the wizard sachem.

Notwithstanding all his medicine and charms, he fell in battle in

attempting to extend his boundary line to the east so as to take in the

little wild valley of the Sprain, and his grave is still shown near the

banks of that pastoral stream. He left, however, a great empire to his

successors, extending along the Tappan Zee, from Yonkers quite to Sleepy

Hollow; all which delectable region, if every one had his right, would

still acknowledge allegiance to the lord of the Roost--whoever he might

be. [Footnote: In recording the contest for the sovereignty of Sleepy

Hollow, I have called one sachem by the modern name of his castle or

strong-hold, viz.: Sing-Sing. This, I would observe for the sake

of historical exactness, is a corruption of the old Indian name,

O-sin-sing, or rather O-sin-song; that is to say, a place where any

thing may be had for a song--a great recommendation for a market town.

The modern and melodious alteration of the name to Sing-Sing is said to

have been made in compliment to an eminent Methodist singing-master, who

first introduced into the neighborhood the art of singing through the

nose. D. K.]

The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs, of whom nothing

remarkable remains on record. The last who makes any figure in history

is the one who ruled here at the time of the discovery of the country by

the white man. This sachem is said to have been a renowned trencherman,

who maintained almost as potent a sway by dint of good feeding as his

warlike predecessor had done by hard fighting. He diligently cultivated

the growth of oysters along the aquatic borders of his territories, and

founded those great oyster-beds which yet exist along the shores of the

Tappan Zee. Did any dispute occur between him and a neighboring sachem,

he invited him and all his principal sages and fighting-men to a solemn

banquet, and seldom failed of feeding them into terms. Enormous heaps of

oyster-shells, which encumber the lofty banks of the river, remain as

monuments of his gastronomical victories, and have been occasionally

adduced through mistake by amateur geologists from town, as additional

proofs of the deluge. Modern investigators, who are making such

indefatigable researches into our early history, have even affirmed that

this sachem was the very individual on whom Master Hendrick Hudson and

his mate, Robert Juet, made that sage and astounding experiment so

gravely recorded by the latter in his narrative of the voyage: "Our

master and his mate determined to try some of the cheefe men of the

country whether they had any treacherie in them. So they took them down

into the cabin and gave them so much wine and aqua vitae that they

were all very merrie; one of them had his wife with him, which sate so

modestly as any of our countrywomen would do in a strange place. In the

end one of them was drunke; and that was strange to them, for they

could not tell how to take it." [Footnote: See Juet's Journal, Purchas

Pilgrim.]

How far Master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy mate carried their

experiment with the sachem's wife is not recorded, neither does the

curious Robert Juet make any mention of the after-consequences of this

grand moral test; tradition, however, affirms that the sachem on landing

gave his modest spouse a hearty rib-roasting, according to the connubial

discipline of the aboriginals; it farther affirms that he remained a

hard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all his lands, acre

by acre, for aqua vitae; by which means the Roost and all its domains,

from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, came, in the regular course of trade and

by right of purchase, into the possession of the Dutchmen.

Never has a territorial right in these new countries been more

legitimately and tradefully established; yet, I grieve to say, the

worthy government of the New Netherlands was not suffered to enjoy this

grand acquisition unmolested; for, in the year 1654, the local Yankees

of Connecticut--those swapping, bargaining, squatting enemies of the

Manhattoes--made a daring inroad into this neighborhood and founded a

colony called Westchester, or, as the ancient Dutch records term it,

Vest Dorp, in the right of one Thomas Pell, who pretended to have

purchased the whole surrounding country of the Indians, and stood ready

to argue their claims before any tribunal of Christendom.

This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter Stuyvesant, and it

roused the ire of that gunpowder old hero; who, without waiting to

discuss claims and titles, pounced at once upon the nest of nefarious

squatters, carried off twenty-five of them in chains to the Manhattoes,

nor did he stay his hand, nor give rest to his wooden leg, until he had

driven every Yankee back into the bounds of Connecticut, or obliged

him to acknowledge allegiance to their High Mightinesses. He then

established certain out-posts, far in the Indian country, to keep an eye

over these debateable lands; one of these border-holds was the Roost,

being accessible from New Amsterdam by water, and easily kept supplied.

The Yankees, however, had too great a hankering after this delectable

region to give it up entirely. Some remained and swore allegiance to the

Manhattoes; but, while they kept this open semblance of fealty, they

went to work secretly and vigorously to intermarry and multiply, and by

these nefarious means, artfully propagated themselves into possession of

a wide tract of those open, arable parts of Westchester county, lying

along the Sound, where their descendants may be found at the present

day; while the mountainous regions along the Hudson, with the valleys

of the Neperan and the Pocantico, are tenaciously held by the lineal

descendants of the Copperheads.

* * * * *

The chronicle of the venerable Diedrich here goes on to relate how that,

shortly after the above-mentioned events, the whole province of the New

Netherlands 'was subjugated by the British; how that Wolfert Acker, one

of the wrangling councillors of Peter Stuyvesant, retired in dudgeon to

this fastness in the wilderness, determining to enjoy "lust in rust" for

the remainder of his days, whence the place first received its name of

Wolfert's Roost. As these and sundry other matters have been laid before

the public in a preceding article, I shall pass them over, and resume

the chronicle where it treats of matters not hitherto recorded:

Like many men who retire from a worrying world, says DIEDRICH

KNICKERBOCKER, to enjoy quiet in the country, Wolfert Acker soon found

himself up to the ears in trouble. He had a termagant wife at home,

and there was what is profanely called "the deuce to pay," abroad. The

recent irruption of the Yankees into the bounds of the New Netherlands,

had left behind it a doleful pestilence, such as is apt to follow the

steps of invading armies. This was the deadly plague of witchcraft,

which had long been prevalent to the eastward. The malady broke out at

Vest Dorp, and threatened to spread throughout the country. The Dutch

burghers along the Hudson, from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, hastened to

nail horseshoes to their doors, which have ever been found of sovereign

virtue to repel this awful visitation. This is the origin of the

horse-shoes which may still be seen nailed to the doors of barns and

farmhouses, in various parts of this sage and sober-thoughted region.

The evil, however, bore hard upon the Roost; partly, perhaps, from its

having in old times been subject to supernatural influences, during the

sway of the Wizard Sachem; but it has always, in fact, been considered a

fated mansion. The unlucky Wolfert had no rest day nor night. When the

weather was quiet all over the country, the wind would howl and whistle

round his roof; witches would ride and whirl upon his weathercocks, and

scream down his chimneys. His cows gave bloody milk, and his horses

broke bounds, and scampered into the woods. There were not wanting evil

tongues to whisper that Wolfert's termagant wife had some tampering

with the enemy; and that she even attended a witches' Sabbath in Sleepy

Hollow; nay, a neighbor, who lived hard by, declared that he saw her

harnessing a rampant broom-stick, and about to ride to the meeting;

though others presume it was merely flourished in the course of one of

her curtain lectures, to give energy and emphasis to a period. Certain

it is, that Wolfert Acker nailed a horse-shoe to the front door, during

one of her nocturnal excursions, to prevent her return; but as she

re-entered the house without any difficulty, it is probable she was

not so much of a witch as she was represented. [Footnote: HISTORICAL

NOTE.--The annexed extracts from the early colonial records, relate to

the irruption of witchcraft into Westchester county, as mentioned in the

chronicle:

"JULY 7, 1670.--Katharine Harryson, accused of witchcraft on complaint of

Thomas Hunt and Edward Waters, in behalf of the town, who pray that she

may be driven from the town of Westchester. The woman appears before

the council.... She was a native of England, and had lived a year in

Weathersfield, Connecticut, where she had been tried for witchcraft,

found guilty by the jury, acquitted by the bench, and released out of

prison, upon condition she would remove. Affair adjourned.

"AUGUST 24.--Affair taken up again, when, being heard at large, it was

referred to the general court of assize. Woman ordered to give security

for good behavior," etc.

In another place is the following entry:

"Order given for Katharine Harryson, charged with witchcraft, to leave

Westchester, as the inhabitants are uneasy at her residing there, and

she is ordered to go off."]

After the time of Wolfert Acker, a long interval elapses, about which

but little is known. It is hoped, however, that the antiquarian

researches so diligently making in every part of this new country, may

yet throw some light upon what may be termed the Dark Ages of the Roost.

The next period at which we find this venerable and eventful pile rising

to importance, and resuming its old belligerent character, is during the

revolutionary war. It was at that time owned by Jacob Van Tassel, or Van

Texel, as the name was originally spelled, after the place in Holland

which gave birth to this heroic line. He was strong-built, long-limbed,

and as stout in soul as in body; a fit successor to the warrior sachem

of yore, and, like him, delighting in extravagant enterprises and hardy

deeds of arms. But, before I enter upon the exploits of this worthy cock

of the Boost, it is fitting I should throw some light upon the state of

the mansion, and of the surrounding country, at the time.

The situation of the Roost is in the very heart of what was the

debateable ground between the American and British lines, during the

war. The British held possession of the city of New York, and the island

of Manhattan on which it stands. The Americans drew up toward the

Highlands, holding their headquarters at Peekskill. The intervening

country, from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek, was the debateable

land, subject to be harried by friend and foe, like the Scottish borders

of yore. It is a rugged country, with a line of rocky hills extending

through it, like a back bone, sending ribs on either side; but among

these rude hills are beautiful winding valleys, like those watered by

the Pocantico and the Neperan. In the fastnesses of these hills,

and along these valleys, exist a race of hard-headed, hard-handed,

stout-hearted Dutchmen, descendants of the primitive Nederlanders. Most

of these were strong whigs throughout the war, and have ever remained

obstinately attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought

out of their paternal acres. Others were tories, and adherents to the

old kingly rule; some of whom took refuge within the British lines,

joined the royal bands of refugees, a name odious to the American ear,

and occasionally returned to harass their ancient neighbors.

In a little while, this debateable land was overrun by predatory bands

from either side; sacking hen-roosts, plundering farm-houses, and

driving off cattle. Hence arose those two great orders of border

chivalry, the Skinners and the Cowboys, famous in the heroic annals of

Westchester county. The former fought, or rather marauded, under the

American, the latter under the British banner; but both, in the hurry of

their military ardor, were apt to err on the safe side, and rob friend

as well as foe. Neither of them stopped to ask the politics of horse or

cow, which they drove into captivity; nor, when they wrung the neck of

a rooster, did they trouble their heads to ascertain whether he were

crowing for Congress or King George.

While this marauding system prevailed on shore, the Great Tappan Sea,

which washes this belligerent region, was domineered over by British

frigates and other vessels of war, anchored here and there, to keep an

eye upon the river, and maintain a communication between the various

military posts. Stout galleys, also, armed with eighteen-pounders, and

navigated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks, ready to pounce

upon their prey.

All these were eyed with bitter hostility by the Dutch yeomanry along

shore, who were indignant at seeing their great Mediterranean ploughed

by hostile prows; and would occasionally throw up a mud breast-work on a

point or promontory, mount an old iron field-piece, and fire away at the

enemy, though the greatest harm was apt to happen to themselves from the

bursting of their ordnance; nay, there was scarce a Dutchman along the

river that would hesitate to fire with his long duck gun at any British

cruiser that came within reach, as he had been accustomed to fire at

water-fowl.

I have been thus particular in my account of the times and neighborhood,

that the reader might the more readily comprehend the surrounding

dangers in this the Heroic Age of the Roost.

It was commanded at the time, as I have already observed, by the stout

Jacob Van Tassel. As I wish to be extremely accurate in this part of

my chronicle, I beg that this Jacob Van Tassel of the Roost may not be

confounded with another Jacob Van Tassel, commonly known in border story

by the name of "Clump-footed Jake," a noted tory, and one of the refugee

band of Spiting Devil. On the contrary, he of the Roost was a patriot of

the first water, and, if we may take his own word for granted, a thorn

in the side of the enemy. As the Roost, from its lonely situation on the

water's edge, might be liable to attack, he took measures for defence.

On a row of hooks above his fire-place, reposed his great piece of

ordnance, ready charged and primed for action. This was a duck, or

rather goose-gun, of unparalleled longitude, with which it was said he

could kill a wild goose, though half-way across the Tappan Sea. Indeed,

there are as many wonders told of this renowned gun, as of the enchanted

weapons of the heroes of classic story.

In different parts of the stone walls of his mansion, he had made

loop-holes, through which he might fire upon an assailant. His wife was

stout-hearted as himself, and could load as fast as he could fire; and

then he had an ancient and redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, a

match, as he said, for the stoutest man in the country. Thus garrisoned,

the little Roost was fit to stand a siege, and Jacob Van Tassel was the

man to defend it to the last charge of powder.

He was, as I have already hinted, of pugnacious propensities; and, not

content with being a patriot at home, and fighting for the security of

his own fireside, he extended his thoughts abroad, and entered into a

confederacy with certain of the bold, hard-riding lads of Tarrytown,

Petticoat Lane, and Sleepy Hollow, who formed a kind of Holy

Brotherhood, scouring the country to clear it of Skinner and Cow-boy,

and all other border vermin. The Roost was one of their rallying points.

Did a band of marauders from Manhattan island come sweeping through the

neighborhood, and driving off cattle, the stout Jacob and his compeers

were soon clattering at their heels, and fortunate did the rogues esteem

themselves if they could but get a part of their booty across the lines,

or escape themselves without a rough handling. Should the mosstroopers

succeed in passing with their cavalcade, with thundering tramp and dusty

whirlwind, across Kingsbridge, the Holy Brotherhood of the Roost would

rein up at that perilous pass, and, wheeling about, would indemnify

themselves by foraging the refugee region of Morrisania.

When at home at the Roost, the stout Jacob was not idle; but was prone

to carry on a petty warfare of his own, for his private recreation and

refreshment. Did he ever chance to espy, from his look-out place, a

hostile ship or galley anchored or becalmed near shore, he would take

down his long goose-gun from the hooks over the fire-place, sally

out alone, and lurk along shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, and

watching for hours together, like a veteran mouser intent on a rat-hole.

So sure as a boat put off for shore, and came within shot, bang! went

the great goose-gun; a shower of slugs and buck-shot whistled about the

ears of the enemy, and before the boat could reach the shore, Jacob had

scuttled up some woody ravine, and left no trace behind. About this

time, the Roost experienced a vast accession of warlike importance, in

being made one of the stations of the water-guard. This was a kind of

aquatic corps of observation, composed of long, sharp, canoe-shaped

boats, technically called whale-boats, that lay lightly on the water,

and could be rowed with great rapidity. They were manned by resolute

fellows, skilled at pulling an oar, or handling a musket. These lurked

about in nooks and bays, and behind those long promontories which run

out into the Tappan Sea, keeping a look-out, to give notice of the

approach or movements of hostile ships. They roved about in pairs;

sometimes at night, with muffled oars, gliding like spectres about

frigates and guard-ships riding at anchor, cutting off any boats that

made for shore, and keeping the enemy in constant uneasiness. These

mosquito-cruisers generally kept aloof by day, so that their harboring

places might not be discovered, but would pull quietly along, under

shadow of the shore, at night, to take up their quarters at the Roost.

Hither, at such time, would also repair the hard-riding lads of the

hills, to hold secret councils of war with the "ocean chivalry;" and in

these nocturnal meetings were concerted many of those daring forays, by

land and water, that resounded throughout the border.

* * * * *

The chronicle here goes on to recount divers wonderful stories of the

wars of the Roost, from which it would seem, that this little warrior

nest carried the terror of its arms into every sea, from Spiting Devil

Creek to Antony's Nose; that it even bearded the stout island of

Manhattan, invading it at night, penetrating to its centre, and burning

down the famous Delancey house, the conflagration of which makes such a

blaze in revolutionary history. Nay more, in their extravagant daring,

these cocks of the Roost meditated a nocturnal descent upon New York

itself, to swoop upon the British commanders, Howe and Clinton, by

surprise, bear them off captive, and perhaps put a triumphant close to

the war!

All these and many similar exploits are recorded by the worthy Diedrich,

with his usual minuteness and enthusiasm, whenever the deeds in arms of

his kindred Dutchmen are in question; but though most of these warlike

stories rest upon the best of all authority, that of the warriors

themselves, and though many of them are still current among the

revolutionary patriarchs of this heroic neighborhood, yet I dare not

expose them to the incredulity of a tamer and less chivalric age,

Suffice it to say, the frequent gatherings at the Roost, and the hardy

projects set on foot there, at length drew on it the fiery indignation

of the enemy; and this was quickened by the conduct of the stout Jacob

Van Tassel; with whose valorous achievements we resume the course of the

chronicle.

* * * * *

THIS doughty Dutchman, continues the sage DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, was

not content with taking a share in all the magnanimous enterprises

concocted at the Roost, but still continued his petty warfare along

shore. A series of exploits at length raised his confidence in his

prowess to such a height, that he began to think himself and his

goose-gun a match for any thing. Unluckily, in the course of one of his

prowlings, he descried a British transport aground, not far from shore,

with her stern swung toward the land, within point-blank shot. The

temptation was too great to be resisted; bang! as usual, went the great

goose-gun, shivering the cabin windows, and driving all hands forward.

Bang! bang! the shots were repeated. The reports brought several

sharp-shooters of the neighborhood to the spot; before the transport

could bring a gun to bear, or land a boat, to take revenge, she was

soundly peppered, and the coast evacuated. This was the last of Jacob's

triumphs. He fared like some heroic spider, that has unwittingly

ensnared a hornet, to his immortal glory, perhaps, but to the utter ruin

of his web.

It was not long after this, during the absence of Jacob Van Tassel on

one of his forays, and when no one was in garrison but his stout-hearted

spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, and a strapping negro

wench, called Dinah, that an armed vessel came to anchor off the Roost,

and a boat full of men pulled to shore. The garrison flew to arms, that

is to say, to mops, broom-sticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of

domestic weapons; for, unluckily, the great piece of ordnance, the

goose-gun, was absent with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence was

made with that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never did

invaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all in vain. The

house was sacked and plundered, fire was set to each corner, and in a

few moments its blaze shed a baleful light far over the Tappan Sea. The

invaders then pounced upon the blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of

the Roost, and endeavored to bear her off to the boat. But here was the

real tug of war. The mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench,

all flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to the very water's

edge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered the spoilers

to let go their hold; they relinquished their prize, jumped into their

boats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a mere

rumpling of the feathers.

The fear of tiring my readers, who may not take such an interest as

myself in these heroic themes, induces me to close here my extracts from

this precious chronicle of the venerable Diedrich. Suffice it briefly to

say, that shortly after the catastrophe of the Roost, Jacob Van Tassel,

in the course of one of his forays, fell into the hands of the British;

was sent prisoner to New York, and was detained in captivity for

the greater part of the war. In the mean time, the Roost remained a

melancholy ruin; its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing,

blackened by fire, and the resort of bats and owlets. It was not until

the return of peace, when this belligerent neighborhood once more

resumed its quiet agricultural pursuits, that the stout Jacob sought the

scene of his triumphs and disasters; rebuilt the Roost, and reared again

on high its glittering weather-cocks.

Does any one want further particulars of the fortunes of this eventful

little pile? Let him go to the fountain-head, and drink deep of historic

truth. Reader! the stout Jacob Van Tassel still lives, a venerable,

gray-headed patriarch of the revolution, now in his ninety-fifth year!

He sits by his fireside, in the ancient city of the Manhattoes, and

passes the long winter evenings, surrounded by his children, and

grand-children, and great-grand-children, all listening to his tales of

the border wars, and the heroic days of the Roost. His great goose-gun,

too, is still in existence, having been preserved for many years in a

hollow tree, and passed from hand to hand among the Dutch burghers, as a

precious relique of the revolution. It is now actually in possession of

a contemporary of the stout Jacob, one almost his equal in years, who

treasures it up at his house in the Bowerie of New-Amsterdam, hard by

the ancient rural retreat of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant. I am not

without hopes of one day seeing this formidable piece of ordinance

restored to its proper station in the arsenal of the Roost. Before

closing this historic document, I cannot but advert to certain notions

and traditions concerning the venerable pile in question. Old-time

edifices are apt to gather odd fancies and superstitions about them, as

they do moss and weather-stains; and this is in a neighborhood a little

given to old-fashioned notions, and who look upon the Roost as somewhat

of a fated mansion. A lonely, rambling, down-hill lane leads to it,

overhung with trees, with a wild brook dashing along, and crossing

and re-crossing it. This lane I found some of the good people of the

neighborhood shy of treading at night; why, I could not for a long time

ascertain; until I learned that one or two of the rovers of the Tappan

Sea, shot by the stout Jacob during the war, had been buried hereabout,

in unconsecrated ground.