citizen, who, in addition to his vocation of bellringer, was crier of
the court, messenger to the governor, sexton, clerk, and gravedigger
to the whole city of New-Amsterdam. It was something to be a man in
those days, before the invention of steam engines, spinning jennies,
and chessplaying automatons caused such a superfluity of human beings,
that it is much if they can now earn salt to their porridge. At that
time, men were so scarce, that there were at least half a dozen offices
to one man; now there are half a dozen men to one office; all which is
owing to machinery. This accumulation of honours in the person of the
bellringer, made him a man of considerable consequence, insomuch, that
the little boys about Flattenbarrack Hill chalked his name upon their
sleighs, and it is even asserted that he had an Albany sloop called
after him. I could, therefore, do no less than make honourable mention
of a person of his dignity.
“After the council met, and everything was ready, the door of the
cellar was cautiously opened, and Jan Sol, at the head, that is to
say, in the rear of a file of soldiers, descended for the purpose of
bringing forth this daring interloper, who had thus, from time to
time, disturbed the sleep of the sober citizens of New-Amsterdam. Jan
offered to bet a canteen of Schiedam, that they would find nobody in
the cellar; but, contrary to all expectation, they presently came
forth with the body of a comely youth, apparently about the age of
five-and-twenty, which was considered very young in those days. Nothing
was more customary there, than for a sturdy mother to bastinado her
boys, as she called them, after they had grown to be six feet high.
They were all the better for it, and made excellent husbands.
“When the young man came into the presence of the puissant governor
of the New Netherlands, he appeared a comely person, tall, fair
complexioned, and pleasant of feature. He was asked whence he came,
and not having a lawyer at his elbow to teach him the noble art of
prevarication, replied without hesitation,
“‘From Pavonia.’
“‘How did you get into the city?’
“‘I climbed the wall, near the company's windmill.’
“‘And how did you get into the governor's garden?’
“‘The same way I got out.’
“‘How was that?’
“‘Through the gate.’
“‘How did you get through the gate?’
“‘By unlocking it.’
“‘With what?’
“‘With a key.’
“‘Whence came that key?’
“No answer.
“‘Whence came that key?’
“‘I shall not tell.’
“‘What induced you to scale the wall and intrude into the garden?’
“‘I shall not tell.’
“‘Not if you are hanged for not telling?’
“‘Not if I am hanged for not telling.’
“‘What have you done with the wings with which, according to the
testimony of Jan Sol, you flew from the wall, and through the street to
the governor's garden?’
“‘I never had any wings, and never flew in the whole course of my life.’
“Here Jan Sol was called up, and testified positively to the wings and
the flying. There was now great perplexity in the council, when the
keeper of the windmill demanded to be heard. He stated he remembered
perfectly well, that on the two nights referred to, he had set his
windmill going about the hour in which Jan Sol saw the spectre whirl
round and fly from the wall. There had been a calm for several days
previous, and the citizens began to be in want of flour. He had
therefore taken advantage of the rising of the wind at the time, to
set his mill going. A little further inquiry led to the fact, that the
place where the spectre scaled the wall was exactly in a line with the
windmill and the spot where Jan held his watch. It was thus that the
spectre became identified with the wings of the mill. This exposition
marvellously quieted the fears of the good people; but there were
a number of stern believers who stuck by the little sentinel, and
continued to believe in the winged monster. As for poor Jan, he looked
ten times more foolish than when he used to be caught emptying the
canteens of his comrades in his sleep. This elucidation being over, the
examination proceeded.
“‘Did you know of the law making it death for any one to enter or
depart from the city between sunset and sunrise, except through the
gate?’
“‘I did.’
“‘What induced you to violate it?’
“‘I shall not tell.’
“‘Was it plunder?’
“‘I am no thief.’
“‘Was it treason against the state?’
“‘I am no traitor.’
“‘Was it mischief?’
“‘I am not a child.’
“‘Was it to frighten people?’
“‘I am no fool.’
“‘What is your name?’
“'My name is of no consequence—a man can be hanged without a name.'
“And this was all they could get out of him. Various cross-questions
were put to entrap him. He replied to them all with perfect freedom
and promptitude, until they came to his name, and his motives for
intruding into the city in violation of a law so severe, that none as
yet had ever been known to transgress it. Then, as before, he declined
answering.
“In those early days, under the Dutch dynasty, trial by jury was not
in fashion. People were too busy to serve as jurymen, if they had
been wanted; and the decision of most cases was left either to the
burgomasters, or if of great consequence, to the governor and council.
Justice was severe and prompt, in proportion to the dangers which
surrounded the early colonists, and the spirit of the times in which
they flourished. They lived in perpetual apprehension; and fear is
the father of cruelty. The law denouncing death to any person who
should enter the city between sunset and sunrise, except by the gate,
was considered as too essential to the security of the citizens to
be relaxed in favour of any one, especially of a person who refused
to tell either his name or the motive for his intrusion. By his own
admission, he was guilty of the offence, and but one course remained
for the council. The young man was sentenced to be hanged that day
week, and sent to the fort for safe keeping till the period arrived.
“That day the daughter of the governor did not appear to grace the
table of his excellency, nor in the management of those little
household affairs, that are not beneath the dignity of the daughters of
kings. She was ill with a headache, and kept her bed. The governor had
no child but her, and though without any great portion of sensibility,
was capable of all the warmth of parental affection. Indeed, all his
affections were centred in this little blooming offspring, who was
the only being in all the New World that carried a drop of his blood
coursing in her blue veins. He was also proud of her—so proud, that his
pride often got the better of his affection. She had many admirers—for
she was fair, wealthy, and the daughter of the greatest governor in
the New World, not excepting him of Virginia. It followed, as a matter
of course, that she was admired, but it was at an awful distance. The
honest Dutch swains, who had not pursued the female sprite through
all the mazes of romance, and learned how ofttimes highborn ladies
stooped to lads of low degree, gaped at her at church, as if she had
been a sea serpent. They would as soon have thought of aspiring to the
governor's dignity, as to the governor's daughter. Besides, he was one
of those absurd old blockheads, who consider nobody good enough for
their daughters at home, and hawk them about Europe, in search of some
needy sprig of nobility, who will exchange his mighty honours for bags
of gold, and a fair, blooming, virtuous virgin into the bargain. He had
sworn a thousand times, that his Blandina should never marry anything
below a Dutch baron.”
“Was her name Blandina—was she my namesake?” interrupted the little
granddaughter.
“Yes, girl, she was your great great grandmother, and you were
christened after her,” said the old man, and proceeded.
“This fear on the part of the young fellows of New-Amsterdam, and this
well-known determination of the governor, kept all admirers at an awful
distance from the young lady, who grew up to the age of eighteen,
loving no one save her father, now that her mother was no more; and an
old black woman, who had taken care of her ever since she was a child.
The throne of her innocent bosom had remained till then quite vacant,
nor did she know for certain what it was that made her sometimes so
weary of the world, and so tired of the length of the livelong sultry
summer hours. She walked into the garden to pluck the flowers, until
she became tired of that. She strolled with her old nurse into the
rural retirement of Ladies' Valley, and the shady paths which coursed
the wood where the Park is now, until she became tired of these. In
short, she became tired of everything, and so spiritless, that her
father was not a little alarmed for her health.
“About this time the governor was called by important political
business to the eastern frontier, and the journey was expected to
take up several days. During his absence, a party was formed to cross
the river, and spend the day in rambling about the romantic solitudes
of Weehawk, then a sort of frontier between the white man and the
Indian. Blandina was pressed to accompany them, and at last consented,
although against the will, not only of the governor's deputy, but of
the governor himself, who would certainly have forbidden it, had he
been present; but he was a hundred miles off, and in the absence of
the governor there was nobody equal to the governor's daughter. The
morning was fine, and the party set out as happy as youthful spirits
and youthful anticipations could make them. Here they rambled at will
and at random, in groups, in pairs, and alone, just as it suited them;
gathering together to take their refreshments, and again separating, as
chance or will directed them.
“Blandina had separated from the others, and wandered, almost
unconsciously, half a mile from the landing place by herself. Perhaps
when she set out, she expected some of the beaux to follow, but they
stood in such awe of her, that not one had the temerity to offer his
attendance. Each being occupied with his own pursuits and reflections,
no one missed the young madam for some time, until their attention was
roused by a shriek at a distance in the wood. After a momentary pause,
the shrieks were repeated in quick succession, and almost immediately
succeeded by the report of a gun. The little group of young people was
struck with dismay, and the first impulse was to run to the boats,
and escape into the stream. But to do them justice, this was but an
involuntary selfishness, for the moment they missed Blandina, the young
men prepared to pursue in the direction of the shrieks and the gun. At
this crisis, a figure darted swiftly from the wood, bearing the young
lady insensible in his arms, and approaching the group, placed her with
her head in the lap of one of the girls, while he ran to the river, and
returned with some water in his hat.
“Blandina soon came to herself, and related that she had been seized
by an Indian, and rescued by the young man, who, all the young damsels
presently discovered, was very handsome. He wore the dress of a
gentleman of that day, which, sooth to say, would not cut much of a
figure just now. He was accoutred as a sportsman, and had in his bag
sufficient evidence of his skill. It was decided on all hands that the
stranger, having saved the life of Blandina, or at least rescued her
from captivity, was destined to be her future husband, and that her
time was now come. Such prophecies are very apt to be fulfilled. The
stranger announced himself as the son of the ancient and honourable
Lord of Pavonia, and was blushingly invited by Blandina to come and
receive the thanks of her father, when he should return from the
eastern frontier. But he only shook his head, and replied with a
dubious smile, ‘Are you sure I shall be welcome?’
“From this time Blandina became more languid and thoughtful than
ever. When the father returned, and heard the story of her straying
into the woods, and of her deliverance, he swore he would reward the
gallant young man, like a most liberal and puissant governor. But when
afterwards, on inquiring his name, he found that he was the son of
the Lord of Pavonia, he retracted his promise, and swore that the son
was no better than the father, who was an arrant splutterkin. They
had quarrelled about boundaries; his excellency claiming the whole
of the river on the west side, up to the high-water mark, while the
Lord of Pavonia, whose territories lay exactly opposite the city of
New-Amsterdam, had the temerity to set nets, and catch shad in the very
middle of the stream. The feud was bitter in proportion to the dignity
of the parties and the importance of the point at issue. The governor
commanded his daughter never to mention the name of the splutterkin, on
pain of his displeasure.
“Rumour, however, says that the young man found means to renew his
acquaintance with Blandina, and that though she might never mention
his name to her father, she thought of him all day, and dreamed about
him all night. After a while the rumour died away, and the people
began to think and talk of something else. Some of the young men,
however, who happened to see the culprit that had dared to leap over
the wall against the statute, thought he had a strong resemblance to
the youth who had rescued Blandina from the Indian. The young lady,
as I said before, continued ill all day, and for several days after
the condemnation of the spectre youth, who persevered in obstinately
refusing any disclosure of his name, or his motives for scaling the
walls of New-Amsterdam. In the mean time the period of his execution
approached; only two days of life now remained to him, when Blandina,
with an effort, determined to bring her fate to a crisis at once. She
rose from her bed, pale and drooping like a lily, and tottering to her
father's study, sank at his feet.
“‘Father,’ said she, ‘will you forgive him and me?’
“‘Forgive thee, my daughter; I have nothing to forgive, so that is
settled. But who is the other?’
“‘My husband.’
“‘Thy husband!’ exclaimed the puissant governor, starting up in dismay;
‘and who is he?’
“‘The youth who is sentenced to die the day after the morrow.’
“'And who is he—in the d—l's name, I had almost said,' exclaimed his
excellency, in wrathful amazement.
“‘He is the son of the Lord of Pavonia,’ replied she, hiding her face
with her hands.
“‘And thou art married to that splutterkin?’
“‘Yes, father.’
“'Then I shall take care to unmarry thee—the knot the parson tied the
hangman shall untie the day after the morrow, or I'm no governor. But
who dared to marry thee against my will?'
“‘Dominie Curtenius.’
“'He did—then the dominie shall hang by the side of the splutterkin. Go
to thy chamber, to thy bed, to thy grave, thou art no daughter of mine.'
“Poor Blandina crawled to her bed, and wept herself into a temporary
forgetfulness. The next day she was so much worse, that the old nurse
declared she would die before her husband. The governor kept up a good
countenance, but his heart was sorely beset by pity and forgiveness,
which both clung weeping about him. He went so far as to sound some of
the council about pardoning the young man; but one of them, who was
suspected of looking up to the fair Blandina, talked so eloquently
about the safety of the city and the public good, that he was fain to
hold his tongue, and shut himself up, for he could not bear to see his
daughter.
“At length the day arrived, big with the fate of poor Blandina and
her unhappy husband. She sent to her father for permission to see him
before he died, but the governor, after a sore struggle, denied her
request.
“‘Then, indeed, he is no longer my father,’ cried Blandina, and sinking
upon her bed, covered her head, as if to shut out the world. Presently
the bell tolled the hour of the sacrifice, and its hollow vibrations
penetrated the ears of the mourning wife. In spite of her weakness, and
the endeavours of the old nurse, she started up, and rushing towards
the door of her chamber, exclaimed, wildly, 'I will see him—I will go
and see him die.' But her strength failed her, and she sank on the
floor. In the mean time a scene, peculiarly interesting to the fortunes
of Blandina, was passing below. The proud, obdurate, rich old Lord of
Pavonia, had heard of the capture, the condemnation of his only son.
For a while his pride and hatred of the Governor of New-Amsterdam
almost choked the thought of entreaty or concession to his ancient
enemy. But as the time approached, and he heard of the situation of his
son, and of his unfortunate wife, who had never offended him, his heart
gradually relented. When the morning arrived, and he looked across the
smooth river, from the long porch fronting his stately mansion, towards
the spot where his son was about suffering an ignominious death, he
could restrain his feelings no longer.
“Calling for his boatmen and his barge, and hastily putting on his
cocked hat and sword, he embarked, crossed swiftly over the river, and
landing, proceeded directly to the big house. He demanded an audience
of the governor.
“'The splutterkin is here too—but let him come in, that I may be
satisfied the old dog is as miserable as myself,' said the governor,
with tears in his eyes.
“The Lord of Pavonia entered with a stately bow, which was returned in
as stately a manner by the governor.
“‘I come,’ said Pavonia, ‘I come,’ and his voice became choked, ‘to ask
the life of my son at your hands.’
“‘Thy son has broken the laws, and the laws have condemned him to
death, justly.’
“‘I know it,’ said the other; ‘but what if I pay the price of his
ransom?’
“‘I am no money higgler.’
“‘But if I surrender the right of the river to high-water mark?’
“‘What!’ said his excellency, pricking up his ears, ‘wilt thou? And the
shad fishery, and the diabolical gill nets?’
“'Yea—all—all,‘ said the other, 'to save the life of my only son.’
“‘Wilt thou sign, seal, and deliver?’
“'This instant—so I receive back my boy alive.'
“‘Stay, then, a moment.’
“The governor then hastily directed his bellringer to call the council
together, and laid the proposition before them. The concession was
irresistible, and the council decided to pardon the son, on condition
that the father executed the deed of relinquishment. He did so, and the
young man was forthwith set at liberty. It is time for me to retire,”
said our good grandfather, “so I must cut short my story. The meeting
of the husband and his faithful wife took place without witnesses, and
none was ever able to describe it. Blandina speedily recovered, and
lived to see her children's children play about the room by dozens.
The Lord of Pavonia and the Governor of New-Amsterdam continued a sort
of grumbling acquaintance, and dined together once a year, when they
always quarrelled about the fishery and high-water mark. In process
of time, their respective fortunes became united in the person of the
winged monster, and formed a noble patrimony, some of which I inherited
with your grandmother.
“Jan Sol underwent many a joke, good, bad, and indifferent, about
the winged monster. But he continued to his dying day to assert his
solemn belief, that the young Lord of Pavonia and the spectre were
two different persons. Many a time and oft did he frighten his wife
and children with the story, which he improved every time he told
it, till he was at length gathered to his fathers, as his fathers
had been gathered before him. He had enough people to keep him in
countenance, for there were hundreds of discreet citizens, who treated
all doubts concerning the appearance of the winged monster with as
little toleration as do the good folks of the town of Salem the wicked
unbelievers in the existence of the great sea serpent.”
COBUS YERKS.
Little Cobus Yerks—his name was Jacob, but being a Dutchman, if not a
double Dutchman, it was rendered in English Cobus—little Cobus, I say,
lived on the banks of Sawmill River, where it winds close under the
brow of the Raven Rock, an enormous precipice jutting out of the side
of the famous Buttermilk Hill, of which the reader has doubtless often
heard. It was a rude, romantic spot, distant from the high road, which,
however, could be seen winding up the hill about three miles off. His
nearest neighbours were at the same distance, and he seldom saw company
except at night, when the fox and the weasel sometimes beat up his
quarters, and caused a horrible cackling among the poultry.
One Tuesday, in the month of November, 1793, Cobus had gone in his
wagon to the little market town on the river, from whence the boats
plied weekly to New-York, with the produce of the neighbouring farmers.
It was then a pestilent little place for running races, pitching
quoits, and wrestling for gin slings; but I must do it the credit to
say, that it is now a very orderly town, sober and quiet, save when
Parson Mathias, who calls himself a son of thunder, is praying in
secret, so as to be heard across the river. It so happened, that of
all the days in the year, this was the very day a rumour had got into
town, that I myself—the veritable writer of this true story—had been
poisoned by a dish of Souchong tea, which was bought a great bargain
of a pedler. There was not a stroke of work done in the village that
day. The shoemaker abandoned his awl; the tailor his goose; the hatter
his bowstring; and the forge of the blacksmith was cool from dawn till
nightfall. Silent was the sonorous harmony of the big spinning wheel;
silent the village song, and silent the fiddle of Master Timothy Canty,
who passed his livelong time in playing tuneful measures, and catching
bugs and butterflies. I must say something of Tim before I go on with
my tale.
Master Timothy was first seen in the village, one foggy morning, after
a drizzling, warm, showery night, when he was detected in a garret, at
the extremity of the suburbs; and it was the general supposition that
he had rained down in company with a store of little toads that were
seen hopping about, as is usual after a shower. Around his garret were
disposed a number of unframed pictures, painted on glass, as in the
olden time, representing the Four Seasons, the old King of Prussia, and
Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, in their sharp-pointed cocked hats; the
fat, bald-pated Marquis of Granby, the beautiful Constantia Phillips,
and divers others, not forgetting the renowned Kitty Fisher, who, I
honestly confess, was my favourite among them all. The whole village
poured into the garret to gaze at these chef d'œuvres; and it is my
confirmed opinion, which I shall carry to the grave, that neither the
gallery of Florence, Dresden, nor the Louvre, was ever visited by so
many real amateurs. Besides the pictures, there were a great many other
curiosities, at least curiosities to the simple villagers, who were
always sure of being welcomed by Master Tim with a jest and a tune.