feature in the history of Communipaw, the retreat of the patriotic band
of Nederlanders, led by Van Horne, whom he justly terms the Pelayo of
the New-Netherlands. He has given you a picture of the manner in which
they ensconced themselves in the House of the Four Chimneys, and awaited
with heroic patience and perseverance the day that should see the flag
of the Hogen Mogens once more floating on the fort of New-Amsterdam.
Your correspondent, Sir, has but given you a glimpse over the threshold;
I will now let you into the heart of the mystery of this most mysterious
and eventful village.
Yes, sir, I will now--"unclasp a secret book;
And to your quick conceiving discontents,
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
As to o'er walk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear."
Sir, it is one of the most beautiful and interesting facts connected
with the history of Communipaw, that the early feeling of resistance to
foreign rule, alluded to by your correspondent, is still kept up. Yes,
sir, a settled, secret, and determined conspiracy has been going on
for generations among this indomitable people, the descendants of the
refugees from New-Amsterdam; the object of which is to redeem their
ancient seat of empire, and to drive the losel Yankees out of the land.
Communipaw, it is true, has the glory of originating this conspiracy;
and it was hatched and reared in the House of the Four Chimneys; but it
has spread far and wide over ancient Pavonia, surmounted the heights of
Bergen, Hoboken, and Weehawk, crept up along the banks of the Passaic
and the Hackensack, until it pervades the whole chivalry of the country
from Tappan Slote in the north to Piscataway in the south, including the
pugnacious village of Rahway, more heroically denominated Spank-town.
Throughout all these regions a great "in-and-in confederacy" prevails,
that is to say, a confederacy among the Dutch families, by dint of
diligent and exclusive intermarriage, to keep the race pure and to
multiply. If ever, Mr. Editor, in the course of your travels between
Spank-town and Tappan Slote, you should see a cosey, low-eaved
farm-house, teeming with sturdy, broad-built little urchins, you may set
it down as one of the breeding places of this grand secret confederacy,
stocked with the embryo deliverers of New-Amsterdam.
Another step in the progress of this patriotic conspiracy, is the
establishment, in various places within the ancient boundaries of the
Nieuw-Nederlands, of secret, or rather mysterious associations, composed
of the genuine sons of the Nederlanders, with the ostensible object of
keeping up the memory of old times and customs, but with the real object
of promoting the views of this dark and mighty plot, and extending its
ramifications throughout the land.
Sir, I am descended from a long line of genuine Nederlanders, who,
though they remained in the city of New-Amsterdam after the conquest,
and throughout the usurpation, have never in their hearts been able to
tolerate the yoke imposed upon them. My worthy father, who was one of
the last of the cocked hats, had a little knot of cronies, of his own
stamp, who used to meet in our wainscoted parlor, round a nut-wood fire,
talk over old times, when the city was ruled by its native burgomasters,
and groan over the monopoly of all places of power and profit by the
Yankees. I well recollect the effect upon this worthy little conclave,
when the Yankees first instituted then New-England Society, held their
"national festival," toasted their "father land," and sang their foreign
songs of triumph within the very precincts of our ancient metropolis.
Sir, from that day, my father held the smell of codfish and potatoes,
and the sight of pumpkin pie, in utter abomination; and whenever the
annual dinner of the New-England Society came round, it was a sore
anniversary for his children. He got up in an ill humor, grumbled and
growled throughout the day, and not one of us went to bed that night,
without having had his jacket well trounced, to the tune of "The Pilgrim
Fathers."
You may judge, then, Mr. Editor, of the exaltation of all true patriots
of this stamp, when the Society of Saint Nicholas was set up among us,
and intrepidly established, cheek by jole, alongside of the society of
the invaders. Never shall I forget the effect upon my father and his
little knot of brother groaners, when tidings were brought them that the
ancient banner of the Manhattoes was actually floating from the window
of the City Hotel. Sir, they nearly jumped out of their silver-buckled
shoes for joy. They took down their cocked hats from the pegs on which
they had hanged them, as the Israelites of yore hung their harps upon
the willows, in token of bondage, clapped them resolutely once more upon
their heads, and cocked them in the face of every Yankee they met on the
way to the banqueting-room.
The institution of this society was hailed with transport throughout the
whole extent of the New-Netherlands; being considered a secret foothold
gained in New-Amsterdam, and a flattering presage of future triumph.
Whenever that society holds its annual feast, a sympathetic hilarity
prevails throughout the land; ancient Pavonia sends over its
contributions of cabbages and oysters; the House of the Four Chimneys is
splendidly illuminated, and the traditional song of St. Nicholas, the
mystic bond of union and conspiracy, is chaunted with closed doors, in
every genuine Dutch family.
I have thus, I trust, Mr. Editor, opened your eyes to some of the grand
moral, poetical, and political phenomena with which you are surrounded.
You will now be able to read the "signs of the times." You will
now understand what is meant by those "Knickerbocker Halls," and
"Knickerbocker Hotels," and "Knickerbocker Lunches," that are daily
springing up in our city and what all these "Knickerbocker Omnibuses"
are driving at. You will see in them so many clouds before a storm; so
many mysterious but sublime intimations of the gathering vengeance of a
great though oppressed people. Above all, you will now contemplate
our bay and its portentous borders, with proper feelings of awe and
admiration. Talk of the Bay of Naples, and its volcanic mountains! Why,
Sir, little Communipaw, sleeping among its cabbage gardens, "quiet as
gunpowder," yet with this tremendous conspiracy brewing in its bosom is
an object ten times as sublime (in a moral point of view, mark me) as
Vesuvius in repose, though charged with lava and brimstone, and ready
for an eruption.
Let me advert to a circumstance connected with this theme, which
cannot but be appreciated by every heart of sensibility. You must have
remarked, Mr. Editor, on summer evenings, and on Sunday afternoons,
certain grave, primitive-looking personages, walking the Battery, in
close confabulation, with their canes behind their backs, and ever and
anon turning a wistful gaze toward the Jersey shore. These, Sir, are the
sons of Saint Nicholas, the genuine Nederlanders; who regard Communipaw
with pious reverence, not merely as the progenitor, but the destined
regenerator, of this great metropolis. Yes, Sir; they are looking with
longing eyes to the green marshes of ancient Pavonia, as did the poor
conquered Spaniards of yore toward the stern mountains of Asturias,
wondering whether the day of deliverance is at hand. Many is the time,
when, in my boyhood, I have walked with my father and his confidential
compeers on the Battery, and listened to their calculations and
conjectures, and observed the points of their sharp cocked hats evermore
turned toward Pavonia. Nay, Sir, I am convinced that at this moment, if
I were to take down the cocked hat of my lamented father from the peg on
which it has hung for years, and were to carry it to the Battery, its
centre point, true as the needle to the pole, would turn to Communipaw.
Mr. Editor, the great historic drama of New-Amsterdam, is but half
acted. The reigns of Walter the Doubter, William the Testy, and Peter
the Headstrong, with the rise, progress, and decline of the Dutch
dynasty, are but so many parts of the main action, the triumphant
catastrophe of which is yet to come. Yes, Sir! the deliverance of
the New-Nederlands from Yankee domination will eclipse the far-famed
redemption of Spain from the Moors, and the oft-sung conquest of Granada
will fade before the chivalrous triumph of New-Amsterdam. Would that
Peter Stuyvesant could rise from his grave to witness that day!
Your humble servant,
ROLOFF VAN RIPPER.
* * * * *
P. S. Just as I had concluded the foregoing epistle, I received a piece
of intelligence, which makes me tremble for the fate of Communipaw.
I fear, Mr. Editor, the grand conspiracy is in danger of being
countermined and counteracted, by those all-pervading and
indefatigable Yankees. Would you think it, Sir! one of them has actually
effected an entry in the place by covered way; or in other words, under
cover of the petticoats. Finding every other mode ineffectual, he
secretly laid siege to a Dutch heiress, who owns a great cabbage-garden
in her own right. Being a smooth-tongued varlet, he easily prevailed on
her to elope with him, and they were privately married at Spank-town!
The first notice the good people of Communipaw had of this awful event,
was a lithographed map of the cabbage garden laid out in town lots, and
advertised for sale! On the night of the wedding, the main weather-cock
of the House of the Four Chimneys was carried away in a whirlwind! The
greatest consternation reigns throughout the village!
* * * * *
A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.
Sir: I observed in your last month's periodical, a communication from
a Mr. VANDERDONK, giving some information concerning Communipaw. I
herewith send you, Mr. Editor, a legend connected with that place; and
am much surprised it should have escaped the researches of your very
authentic correspondent, as it relates to an edifice scarcely less fated
than the House of the Four Chimneys. I give you the legend in its crude
and simple state, as I heard it related; it is capable, however, of
being dilated, inflated, and dressed up into very imposing shape and
dimensions. Should any of your ingenious contributors in this line feel
inclined to take it in hand, they will find ample materials, collateral
and illustrative, among the papers of the late Reinier Skaats, many
years since crier of the court, and keeper of the City Hall, in the
city of the Manhattoes; or in the library of that important and utterly
renowned functionary, Mr. Jacob Hays, long time high constable, who,
in the course of his extensive researches, has amassed an amount of
valuable facts, to be rivalled only by that great historical collection,
"The Newgate Calendar."
Your humble servant,
BARENT VAN SCHAICK.
* * * * *
_GUESTS FROM GIBBET-ISLAND_.
A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.
Whoever has visited the ancient and renowned village of Communipaw,
may have noticed an old stone building, of most ruinous and sinister
appearance. The doors and window-shutters are ready to drop from their
hinges; old clothes are stuffed in the broken panes of glass, while
legions of half-starved dogs prowl about the premises, and rush out and
bark at every passer-by; for your beggarly house in a village is most
apt to swarm with profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. What adds to the
sinister appearance of this mansion, is a tall frame in front, not
a little resembling a gallows, and which looks as if waiting to
accommodate some of the inhabitants with a well-merited airing. It is
not a gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post; for this dwelling, in
the golden days of Communipaw, was one of the most orderly and peaceful
of village taverns, where all the public affairs of Communipaw were
talked and smoked over. In fact, it was in this very building that
Oloffe the Dreamer, and his companions, concerted that great voyage of
discovery and colonization, in which they explored Buttermilk Channel,
were nearly shipwrecked in the strait of Hell-gate, and finally landed
on the Island of Manhattan, and founded the great city of New-Amsterdam.
Even after the province had been cruelly wrested from the sway of their
High Mightinesses, by the combined forces of the British and Yankees,
this tavern continued its ancient loyalty. It is true, the head of the
Prince of Orange disappeared from the sign; a strange bird being painted
over it, with the explanatory legend of "DIE WILDE GANS," or The Wild
Goose; but this all the world knew to be a sly riddle of the landlord,
the worthy Teunis Van Gieson, a knowing man in a small way, who laid
his finger beside his nose and winked, when any one studied the
signification of his sign, and observed that his goose was hatching, but
would join the flock whenever they flew over the water; an enigma which
was the perpetual recreation and delight of the loyal but fat-headed
burghers of Communipaw.
Under the sway of this patriotic, though discreet and quiet publican,
the tavern continued to flourish in primeval tranquillity, and was
the resort of all true-hearted Nederlanders, from all parts of Pavonia;
who met here quietly and secretly, to smoke and drink the downfall of
Briton and Yankee, and success to Admiral Van Tromp.
The only drawback on the comfort of the establishment, was a nephew of
mine host, a sister's son, Yan Yost Vanderscamp by name, and a real
scamp by nature. This unlucky whipster showed an early propensity to
mischief, which he gratified in a small way, by playing tricks upon the
frequenters of the Wild Goose; putting gunpowder in their pipes, or
squibs in their pockets, and astonishing them with an explosion, while
they sat nodding round the fire-place in the bar-room; and if perchance
a worthy burgher from some distant part of Pavonia had lingered until
dark over his potation, it was odds but that young Vanderscamp would
slip a briar under his horse's tail, as he mounted, and send him
clattering along the road, in neck-or-nothing style, to his infinite
astonishment and discomfiture.
It may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild Goose did not turn
such a graceless varlet out of doors; but Teunis Van Gieson was an
easy-tempered man, and, having no child of his own, looked upon his
nephew with almost parental indulgence. His patience and good-nature
were doomed to be tried by another inmate of his mansion. This was a
cross-grained curmudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, who was a kind of
enigma in Communipaw. Where he came from, nobody knew. He was found one
morning, after a storm, cast like a sea-monster on the strand, in front
of the Wild Goose, and lay there, more dead than alive. The neighbors
gathered round, and speculated on this production of the deep; whether
it were fish or flesh, or a compound of both, commonly yclept a merman.
The kind-hearted Teunis Van Gieson, seeing that he wore the human form,
took him into his house, and warmed him into life. By degrees, he showed
signs of intelligence, and even uttered sounds very much like language,
but which no one in Communipaw could understand. Some thought him a
negro just from Guinea, who had either fallen overboard, or escaped from
a slave-ship. Nothing, however, could ever draw from him any account
of his origin. When questioned on the subject, he merely pointed to
Gibbet-Island, a small rocky islet, which lies in the open bay, just
opposite to Communipaw, as if that were his native place, though every
body knew it had never been inhabited.
In the process of time, he acquired something of the Dutch language,
that is to say, he learnt all its vocabulary of oaths and maledictions,
with just words sufficient to string them together. "Donder en
blicksen!" (thunder and lightning,) was the gentlest of his
ejaculations. For years he kept about the Wild Goose, more like one of
those familiar spirits, or household goblins, that we read of, than
like a human being. He acknowledged allegiance to no one, but performed
various domestic offices, when it suited his humor; waiting occasionally
on the guests; grooming the horses, cutting wood, drawing water; and all
this without being ordered. Lay any command on him, and the stubborn
sea-urchin was sure to rebel. He was never so much at home, however,
as when on the water, plying about in skiff or canoe, entirely alone,
fishing, crabbing, or grabbing for oysters, and would bring home
quantities for the larder of the Wild Goose, which he would throw down
at the kitchen door, with a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him from
launching forth on his favorite element: indeed, the wilder the weather,
the more he seemed to enjoy it. If a storm was brewing, he was sure to
put off from shore; and would be seen far out in the bay, his light
skiff dancing like a feather on the waves, when sea and sky were all
in a turmoil, and the stoutest ships were fain to lower their sails.
Sometimes, on such occasions, he would be absent for days together. How
he weathered the tempest, and how and where he subsisted, no one
could divine, nor did any one venture to ask, for all had an almost
superstitious awe of him. Some of the Communipaw oystermen declared that
they had more than once seen him suddenly disappear, canoe and all, as
if they plunged beneath the waves, and after a while come up again, in
quite a different part of the bay; whence they concluded that he could
live under water like that notable species of wild duck, commonly called
the Hell-diver. All began to consider him in the light of a foul-weather
bird, like the Mother Carey's Chicken, or Stormy Petrel; and whenever
they saw him putting far out in his skiff, in cloudy weather, made up
their minds for a storm.
The only being for whom he seemed to have any liking, was Yan Yost
Vanderscamp, and him he liked for his very wickedness. He in a manner
took the boy under his tutelage, prompted him to all kinds of mischief,
aided him in every wild, harum-scarum freak, until the lad became the
complete scapegrace of the village; a pest to his uncle, and to every
one else. Nor were his pranks confined to the land; he soon learned to
accompany old Pluto on the water. Together these worthies would cruise
about the broad bay, and all the neighboring straits and rivers; poking
around in skiffs and canoes; robbing the set-nets of the fishermen;
landing on remote coasts, and laying waste orchards and water-melon
patches; in short, carrying on a complete system of piracy, on a small
scale, Piloted by Pluto, the youthful Vanderscamp soon became acquainted
with all the bays, rivers, creeks, and inlets of the watery world around
him; could navigate from the Hook to Spiting-devil on the darkest night,
and learned to set even the terrors of Hell-gate at defiance.
At length, negro and boy suddenly disappeared, and days and weeks
elapsed, but without tidings of them. Some said they must have run away
and gone to sea; others jocosely hinted, that old Pluto, being no other
than his namesake in disguise, had spirited away the boy to the nether
regions. All, however, agreed in one thing, that the village was well
rid of them.
In the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson slept with his
fathers, and the tavern remained shut up, waiting for a claimant, for
the next heir was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and he had not been heard of for
years. At length, one day, a boat was seen pulling for the shore, from a
long, black, rakish-looking schooner, that lay at anchor in the bay. The
boat's crew seemed worthy of the craft from which they debarked. Never
had such a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering varlets landed in
peaceful Communipaw. They were outlandish in garb and demeanor, and were
headed by a rough, burly, bully ruffian, with fiery whiskers, a copper
nose, a scar across his face, and a great Flaunderish beaver slouched on
one side of his head, in whom, to their dismay, the quiet inhabitants
were made to recognize their early pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. The rear
of this hopeful gang was brought up by old Pluto, who had lost an
eye, grown grizzly-headed, and looked more like a devil than ever.
Vanderscamp renewed his acquaintance with the old burghers, much against
their will, and in a manner not at all to their taste. He slapped them
familiarly on the back, gave them an iron grip of the hand, and was hail
fellow well met. According to his own account, he had been all the world
over; had made money by bags full; had ships in every sea, and now meant
to turn the Wild Goose into a country seat, where he and his comrades,
all rich merchants from foreign parts, might enjoy themselves in the
interval of their voyages. Sure enough, in a little while there was a
complete metamorphose of the Wild Goose. From being a quiet, peaceful
Dutch public house, it became a most riotous, uproarious private
dwelling; a complete rendezvous for boisterous men of the seas, who came
here to have what they called a "blow out" on dry land, and might be
seen at all hours, lounging about the door, or lolling out of the
windows; swearing among themselves, and cracking rough jokes on every
passer-by. The house was fitted up, too, in so strange a manner:
hammocks slung to the walls, instead of bedsteads; odd kinds of
furniture, of foreign fashion; bamboo couches, Spanish chairs; pistols,
cutlasses, and blunderbusses, suspended on every peg; silver crucifixes
on the mantel-pieces, silver candle-sticks and porringers on the
tables, contrasting oddly with the pewter and Delf ware of the original
establishment. And then the strange amusements of these sea-monsters!
Pitching Spanish dollars, instead of quoits; firing blunderbusses out of
the window; shooting at a mark, or at any unhappy dog, or cat, or pig,
or barn-door fowl, that might happen to come within reach.
The only being who seemed to relish their rough waggery, was old Pluto;
and yet he led but a dog's life of it; for they practised all kinds of
manual jokes upon him; kicked him about like a foot-ball; shook him by
his grizzly mop of wool, and never spoke to him without coupling a curse
by way of adjective to his name, and consigning him to the infernal
regions. The old fellow, however, seemed to like them the better, the
more they cursed him, though his utmost expression of pleasure never
amounted to more than the growl of a petted bear, when his ears are
rubbed.
Old Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of the Wild Goose;
and such orgies as took place there! Such drinking, singing, whooping,
swearing; with an occasional interlude of quarrelling and fighting. The
noisier grew the revel, the more old Pluto plied the potations, until
the guests would become frantic in their merriment, smashing every thing
to pieces, and throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, after a
drinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured the village, to the dismay
of the worthy burghers, who gathered their women within doors, and would
have shut up the house. Vanderscamp, however, was not to be rebuffed.
He insisted on renewing acquaintance with his old neighbors, and on
introducing his friends, the merchants, to their families; swore he was
on the look-out for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to find
husbands for all their daughters. So, will-ye, nil-ye, sociable he was;
swaggered about their best parlors, with his hat on one side of his
head; sat on the good wife's nicely-waxed mahogany table, kicking his
heels against the carved and polished legs; kissed and tousled the young
vrouws; and, if they frowned and pouted, gave them a gold rosary, or a
sparkling cross, to put them in good humor again.
Sometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must have some of his old
neighbors to dinner at the Wild Goose. There was no refusing him, for
he had got the complete upper-hand of the community, and the peaceful
burghers all stood in awe of him. But what a time would the quiet,
worthy men have, among these rake-hells, who would delight to astound
them with the most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered with all
kinds of foreign oaths; clink the can with them; pledge them in deep
potations; bawl drinking songs in their ears; and occasionally fire
pistols over their heads, or under the table, and then laugh in their
faces, and ask them how they liked the smell of gunpowder.