is New-Amsterdam, the excellent St. Nicholas—who is worth a dozen St.
Georges and dragons to boot, and who, if every tub stood on its right
bottom, would be at the head of the Seven Champions of christendom—I
say, everybody knows the excellent St. Nicholas, in holyday times,
goes about among the people in the middle of the night, distributing
all sorts of toothsome and becoming gifts to the good boys and girls
in this his favourite city. Some say that he comes down the chimneys
in a little Jersey wagon; others, that he wears a pair of Holland
skates, with which he travels like the wind; and others, who pretend
to have seen him, maintain that he has lately adopted a locomotive,
and was once actually detected on the _Albany_ railroad. But this last
assertion is looked upon to be entirely fabulous, because St. Nicholas
has too much discretion to trust himself in such a newfangled jarvie;
and so I leave this matter to be settled by whomsoever will take the
trouble. My own opinion is, that his favourite mode of travelling
is on a canal, the motion and speed of which aptly comport with the
philosophic dignity of his character. But this is not material, and
I will no longer detain my readers with extraneous and irrelevant
matters, as is too much the fashion with our statesmen, orators,
biographers, and story tellers.
It was in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty, or sixty-one,
for the most orthodox chronicles differ in this respect; but it was
a very remarkable year, and it was called _annus mirabilis_ on that
account. It was said that several people were detected in speaking the
truth about that time; that nine staid, sober, and discreet widows,
who had sworn on an anti-masonic almanac never to enter a second time
into the holy state, were snapped up by young husbands before they knew
what they were about; that six venerable bachelors wedded as many buxom
young belles, and, it is reported, were afterwards sorry for what they
had done; that many people actually went to church, from motives of
piety; and that a great scholar, who had written a book in support of
certain opinions, was not only convinced of his error, but acknowledged
it publicly afterwards. No wonder the year one thousand seven hundred
and sixty, if that was the year, was called _annus mirabilis_!
What contributed to render this year still more remarkable, was
the building of six new three-story brick houses in the city, and
three persons setting up equipages, who, I cannot find, ever failed
in business afterwards, or compounded with their creditors at a
pistareen in the pound. It is, moreover, recorded in the annals of the
horticultural society of that day, which were written on a cabbage
leaf, as is said, that a member produced a forked radish, of such vast
dimensions, that being dressed up in fashionable male attire at the
exhibition, it was actually mistaken for a travelled beau by several
inexperienced young ladies, who pined away for love of its beautiful
complexion, and were changed into daffadowndillies. Some maintained
it was a mandrake, but it was finally detected by an inquest of
experienced matrons. No wonder the year seventeen hundred and sixty was
called _annus mirabilis_!
But the most extraordinary thing of all, was the confident assertion
that there was but one _gray mare_ within the bills of mortality; and,
incredible as it may appear, she was the wife of a responsible citizen,
who, it was affirmed, had grown rich by weaving velvet purses out of
sows' ears. But this we look upon as being somewhat of the character of
the predictions of almanac makers. Certain it is, however, that Amos
Shuttle possessed the treasure of a wife who was shrewdly suspected of
having established within doors a system of government not laid down in
Aristotle or the Abbe Sièyes, who made a constitution for every day in
the year, and two for the first of April.
Amos Shuttle, though a mighty pompous little man out of doors, was the
meekest of human creatures within. He belonged to that class of people
who pass for great among the little, and little among the great; and
he would certainly have been master in his own house had it not been
for a woman! We have read somewhere that no wise woman ever thinks her
husband a demigod. If so, it is a blessing that there are so few wise
women in the world.
Amos had grown rich, Heaven knows how—he did net know himself; but,
what was somewhat extraordinary, he considered his wealth a signal
proof of his talents and sagacity, and valued himself according to the
infallible standard of pounds, shillings, and pence. But though he
lorded it without, he was, as we have just said, the most gentle of men
within doors. The moment he stepped inside of his own house, his spirit
cowered down, like that of a pious man entering a church; he felt as
if he was in the presence of a superior being—to wit, Mrs. Abigail
Shuttle. He was, indeed, the meekest of beings at home, except Moses;
and Sir Andrew Aguecheek's song, which Sir Toby Belch declared “would
draw nine souls out of one weaver,” would have failed in drawing half
a one out of Amos. The truth is, his wife, who ought to have known,
affirmed he had no more soul than a monkey; but he was the only man
in the city thus circumstanced at the time we speak of. No wonder,
therefore, the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty was called
_annus mirabilis_!
Such as he was, Mr. Amos Shuttle waxed richer and richer every day,
insomuch that those who envied his prosperity were wont to say, “that
he had certainly been born with a dozen silver spoons in his mouth, or
such a great blockhead would never have got together such a heap of
money.” When he had become worth ten thousand pounds, he launched his
shuttle magnanimously out of the window, ordered his weaver's beam to
be split up for oven wood, and Mrs. Amos turned his weaver's shop into
a _boudoir_. Fortune followed him faster than he ran away from her.
In a few years the ten thousand doubled, and in a few more trebled,
quadrupled—in short, Amos could hardly count his money.
“What shall we do now, my dear?” asked Mrs. Shuttle, who never sought
his opinion, that I can learn, except for the pleasure of contradicting
him.
“Let us go and live in the country, and enjoy ourselves,” quoth Amos.
“Go into the country! go to—” I could never satisfy myself what Mrs.
Shuttle meant; but she stopped short, and concluded the sentence with a
withering look of scorn, that would have cowed the spirits of nineteen
weavers.
Amos named all sorts of places, enumerated all sorts of modes of
life he could think of, and every pleasure that might enter into the
imagination of a man without a soul. His wife despised them all; she
would not hear of them.
“Well, my dear, suppose you suggest something; do now, Abby,” at length
said Amos, in a coaxing whisper; “will you, my onydoney?”
“Ony fiddlestick! I wonder you repeat such vulgarisms. But if I must
say what I should like, I should like to travel.”
“Well, let us go and make a tour as far as Jamaica, or Hackensack, or
Spiking-devil. There is excellent fishing for striped bass there.”
“Spiking-devil!” screamed Mrs. Shuttle; “an't you ashamed to swear so,
you wicked mortal! I won't go to Jamaica, nor Hackensack among the
Dutch Hottentots, nor to Spiking-devil to catch striped bass. I'll go
to Europe!”
If Amos had possessed a soul it would have jumped out of its skin at
the idea of going beyond seas. He had once been on the sea-bass banks,
and got a seasoning there; the very thought of which made him sick.
But, as he had no soul, there was no great harm done.
When Mrs. Shuttle said a thing, it was settled. They went to Europe,
taking their only son with them; the lady ransacked all the milliners'
shops in Paris, and the gentleman visited all the restaurateurs. He
became such a desperate connoisseur and gourmand, that he could almost
tell an _omelette au jambon_ from a gammon of bacon. After consummating
the polish, they came home, the lady with the newest old fashions, and
the weaver with a confirmed preference of _potage à la Turque_ over
pepper-pot. It is said the city trembled, as with an earthquake, when
they landed; but the notion was probably superstitious.
They arrived near the close of the year, the memorable year, the _annus
mirabilis_, one thousand seven hundred and sixty. Everybody that had
ever known the Shuttles flocked to see them, or rather to see what
they had brought with them; and such was the magic of a voyage to
Europe, that Mr. and Mrs. Amos Shuttle, who had been nobodies when they
departed, became somebodies when they returned, and mounted at once to
the summit of _ton_.
“You have come in good time to enjoy the festivities of the holydays,”
said Mrs. Hubblebubble, an old friend of Amos the weaver and his wife.
“We shall have a merry Christmas and a happy Newyear,” exclaimed Mrs.
Doubletrouble, another old acquaintance of old times.
“The holydays,” drawled Mrs. Shuttle; “the holydays? Christmas and
Newyear? Pray what are they?”
It is astonishing to see how people lose their memories abroad
sometimes. They often forget their old friends, old customs, and
occasionally themselves.
“Why, la! now, who'd have thought it?” cried Mrs. Doubletrouble; “why,
sure you haven't forgot the oily cooks and the mince pies, the merry
meetings of friends, the sleigh-rides, the Kissing Bridge, and the
family parties?”
“Family parties!” shrieked Mrs. Shuttle, and held her salts to her
nose; “family parties! I never heard of anything so Gothic in Paris
or Rome; and oily cooks—oh shocking! and mince pies—detestable! and
throwing open one's doors to all one's old friends, whom one wishes to
forget as soon as possible. Oh! the idea is insupportable!” and again
she held the salts to her nose.
Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble found they had exposed
themselves sadly, and were quite ashamed. A real, genteel, well-bred,
enlightened lady of fashion ought to have no rule of conduct—no
conscience, but Paris—whatever is fashionable there is genteel—whatever
is not fashionable is vulgar. There is no other standard of right,
and no other eternal fitness of things. At least so thought Mrs.
Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble.
“But is it possible that all these things are out of fashion abroad?”
asked the latter, beseechingly.
“They never were in,” said Mrs. Amos Shuttle. “For my part, I mean to
close my doors and windows on Newyear's day—I'm determined.”
“And so am I,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble.
“And so am I,” said Mrs. Doubletrouble.
And it was settled that they should make a combination among themselves
and their friends, to put down the ancient and good customs of the
city, and abolish the sports and enjoyments of the jolly Newyear. The
conspirators then separated, each to pursue her diabolical designs
against oily cooks, mince pies, sleigh ridings, sociable visitings,
and family parties.
Now the excellent St. Nicholas, who knows well what is going on in
every house in the city, though, like a good and honourable saint, he
never betrays any family secrets, overheard these wicked women plotting
against his favourite anniversary, and he said to himself,
“_Vuur en Vlammen!_ but I'll be even with you, _mein vrouw_.” So he
determined he would play these conceited and misled women a trick or
two before he had done with them.
It was now the first day of the new year, and Mrs. Amos Shuttle,
and Mrs. Doubletrouble, and Mrs. Hubblebubble, and all their wicked
abetters, had shut up their doors and windows, so that when their old
friends called they could not get into their houses. Moreover, they
had prepared neither mince pies, nor oily cooks, nor crullers, nor
any of the good things consecrated to St. Nicholas by his pious and
well-intentioned votaries, and they were mightily pleased at having
been as dull and stupid as owls, while all the rest of the city were as
merry as crickets, chirping and frisking in the warm chimney corner.
Little did they think what horrible judgments were impending over them,
prepared by the wrath of the excellent St. Nicholas, who was resolved
to make an example of them for attempting to introduce their newfangled
corruptions in place of the ancient customs of his favourite city.
These wicked women never had another comfortable sleep in their lives!
The night was still, clear, and frosty—the earth was everywhere one
carpet of snow, and looked just like the ghost of a dead world, wrapped
in a white winding sheet; the moon was full, round, and of a silvery
brightness, and by her discreet silence afforded an example to the
rising generation of young damsels, while the myriads of stars that
multiplied as you gazed at them, seemed as though they were frozen
into icicles, they looked so cold, and sparkled with such a glorious
lustre. The streets and roads leading from the city were all alive
with sleighs, filled with jovial souls, whose echoing laughter and
cheerful songs, mingled with a thousand merry bells, that jingled in
harmonious dissonance, giving spirit to the horses and animation to
the scene. In the license of the season, hallowed by long custom, each
of the sleighs saluted the others in passing with a “Happy Newyear,”
a merry jest, or mischievous gibe, exchanged from one gay party to
another. All was life, motion, and merriment; and as old frostbitten
Winter, aroused from his trance by the rout and revelry around, raised
his weatherbeaten head to see what was passing, he felt his icy blood
warming and coursing through his veins, and wished he could only
overtake the laughing buxom Spring, that he might dance a jig with her,
and be as frisky as the best of them. But as the old rogue could not
bring this desirable matter about, he contented himself with calling
for a jolly bumper of cocktail, and drinking a swinging draught to the
health of the blessed St. Nicholas, and those who honour the memory of
the president of good fellows.
All this time the wicked women and their abetters lay under the
malediction of the good saint, who caused them to be bewitched by
an old lady from Salem. Mrs. Amos Shuttle could not sleep, because
something had whispered in her apprehensive ear, that her son, her
only son, whom she had engaged to the daughter of Count Grenouille, in
Paris, then about three years old, was actually at that moment crossing
Kissing Bridge, in company with little Susan Varian, and some others
besides. Now Susan was the fairest little lady of all the land; she
had a face and an eye just like the Widow Wadman, in Leslie's charming
picture; a face and an eye which no reasonable man under Heaven could
resist, except my Uncle Toby—beshrew him and his fortifications, I
say! She was, moreover, a good little girl, and an accomplished little
girl—but, alas! she had not mounted to the step in Jacob's ladder of
fashion, which qualifies a person for the heaven of high ton, and Mrs.
Shuttle had not been to Europe for nothing. She would rather have seen
her son wedded to dissipation and profligacy than to Susan Varian; and
the thought of his being out sleigh-riding with her, was worse than
the toothache. It kept her awake all the livelong night; and the only
consolation she had was scolding poor Amos, because the sleigh bells
made such a noise.
As for Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, they neither of them
got a wink of sleep during a whole week, for thinking of the beautiful
French chairs and damask curtains Mrs. Shuttle had brought from Europe.
They forthwith besieged their good men, leaving them no rest until they
sent out orders to Paris for just such rich chairs and curtains as
those of the thrice happy Mrs. Shuttle, from whom they kept the affair
a profound secret, each meaning to treat her to an agreeable surprise.
In the mean while they could not rest for fear the vessel which was
to bring these treasures might be lost on her passage. Such was the
dreadful judgment inflicted on them by the good St. Nicholas.
The perplexities of Mrs. Shuttle increased daily. In the first place,
do all she could, she could not make Amos a fine gentleman. This was
a metamorphosis which Ovid would never have dreamed of. He would be
telling the price of everything in his house, his furniture, his
wines, and his dinners, insomuch that those who envied his prosperity,
or, perhaps, only despised his pretensions, were wont to say, after
eating his venison and drinking his old Madeira, “that he ought to
have been a tavern keeper, he knew so well how to make out a bill.”
Mrs. Shuttle once overheard a speech of this kind, and the good St.
Nicholas himself, who had brought it about, almost felt sorry for the
mortification she endured on the occasion.
Scarcely had she got over this, when she was invited to a ball, by Mrs.
Hubblebubble, and the first thing she saw on entering the drawing
room, was a suit of damask curtains and chairs, as much like her own
as two peas, only the curtains had far handsomer fringe. Mrs. Shuttle
came very near fainting away, but escaped for that time, determining to
mortify this impudent creature, by taking not the least notice of her
finery. But St. Nicholas ordered it otherwise, so that she was at last
obliged to acknowledge they were very elegant indeed. Nay, this was not
the worst, for she overheard one lady whisper to another, that Mrs.
Hubblebubble's curtains were much richer than Mrs. Shuttle's.
“Oh, I dare say,” replied the other—”I dare say Mrs. Shuttle bought
them second-hand, for her husband is as mean as pursley.
This was too much. The unfortunate woman was taken suddenly ill—called
her carriage, and went home, where it is supposed she would have died
that evening had she not wrought upon Amos to promise her an entire
new suit of French furniture for her drawing room and parlour to boot,
besides a new carriage. But for all this she could not close her eyes
that night for thinking of the “second-hand curtains.”
Nor was the wicked Mrs. Doubletrouble a whit better off, when her
friend Mrs. Hubblebubble treated her to the agreeable surprise of the
French window curtains and chairs. “It is too bad—too bad, I declare,”
said she to herself; “but I'll pay her off soon.” Accordingly she
issued invitations for a grand ball and supper, at which both Mrs.
Shuttle and Mrs. Hubblebubble were struck dumb at beholding a suit of
curtains and a set of chairs exactly of the same pattern with theirs.
The shock was terrible, and it is impossible to say what might have
been the consequences, had not the two ladies all at once thought of
uniting in abusing Mrs. Doubletrouble for her extravagance.
“I pity poor Mr. Doubletrouble,” said Mrs. Shuttle, shrugging her
shoulders significantly, and glancing at the room.
“And so do I,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble, doing the same.
Mrs. Doubletrouble had her eye upon them, and enjoyed their
mortification until her pride was brought to the ground by a dead shot
from Mrs. Shuttle, who was heard to exclaim, in reply to a lady who
observed the chairs and curtains were very handsome,
“Why, yes; but they have been out of fashion in Paris a long time; and,
besides, really they are getting so common, that I intend to have mine
removed to the nursery.”
Heavens! what a blow! Poor Mrs. Doubletrouble hardly survived it. Such
a night of misery as the wicked woman endured almost made the good St.
Nicholas regret the judgment he had passed upon these mischievous and
conceited females. But he thought to himself he would persevere until
he had made them a sad example to all innovators upon the ancient
customs of our forefathers.
Thus were these wicked and miserable women spurred on by witchcraft
from one piece of extravagance to another, and a deadly rivalship
grew up between them, which destroyed their own happiness and that of
their husbands. Mrs. Shuttle's new carriage and drawing-room furniture
in due time were followed by similar extravagances on the part of
the two other wicked women, who had conspired against the hallowed
institutions of St. Nicholas; and soon their rivalship came to such a
height that neither of them had a moment's rest or comfort from that
time forward. But they still shut their doors on the jolly anniversary
of St. Nicholas, though the old respectable burghers and their wives,
who had held up their heads time out of mind, continued the good
custom, and laughed at the presumption of these upstart interlopers,
who were followed only by a few people of silly pretensions, who had
no more soul than Amos Shuttle himself. The three wicked women grew to
be almost perfect skeletons, on account of the vehemence with which
they strove to outdo each other, and the terrible exertions necessary
to keep up the appearance of being the best friends in the world.
In short, they became the laughingstock of the town; and sensible,
well-bred folks cut their acquaintance, except when they sometimes
accepted an invitation to a party, just to make merry with their folly
and conceitedness.
The excellent St. Nicholas, finding they still persisted in their
opposition to his rites and ceremonies, determined to inflict on them
the last and worst punishment that can befall the sex. He decreed that
they should be deprived of all the delights springing from the domestic
affections, and all taste for the innocent and virtuous enjoyments
of a happy fireside. Accordingly, they lost all relish for home;
were continually gadding about from one place to another in search
of pleasure, and worried themselves to death to find happiness where
it is never to be found. Their whole lives became one long series of
disappointed hopes, galled pride, and gnawing envy. They lost their
health, they lost their time, and their days became days of harassing
impatience, their nights nights of sleepless, feverish excitement,
ending in weariness and disappointment. The good saint sometimes
felt sorry for them, but their continued obstinacy determined him to
persevere in his plan to punish the upstart pride of these rebellious
females.
Young Shuttle, who had a soul, which I suppose he inherited from
his mother, all this while continued his attentions to little Susan
Varian, which added to the miseries inflicted on his wicked mother.
Mrs. Shuttle insisted that Amos should threaten to disinherit his son,
unless he gave up this attachment.
“Lord bless your soul, Abby,” said Amos, “what's the use of my
threatening, the boy knows as well as I do that I've no will of my own.
Why, bless my soul, Abby—”
“Bless your soul!” interrupted Mrs. Shuttle; “I wonder who'd take the
trouble to bless it but yourself? However, if you don't I will.”
Accordingly, she threatened the young man with being disinherited
unless he turned his back on little Susan Varian, which no man ever did
without getting a heartache.
“If my father goes on as he has done lately,” sighed the youth, “he
won't have anything left to disinherit me of but his affection, I fear.
But if he had millions I would not abandon Susan.”
Are you not ashamed of such a lowlived attachment? You, that have been
to Europe! But, once for all, remember this, renounce this lowborn
upstart, or quit your father's home for ever.”
“Upstart!” thought young Shuttle; “one of the oldest families in the
city.” He made his mother a respectful bow, bade Heaven bless her, and
left the house. He was, however, met by his father at the door, who
said to him,
“Johnny, I give my consent; but mind, don't tell your mother a word of
the matter. I'll let her know I've a soul as well as other people;” and
he tossed his head like a war horse.
The night after this Johnny was married to little Susan, and the
blessing of affection and beauty lighted upon his pillow. Her old
father, who was in a respectable business, took his son-in-law into
partnership, and they prospered so well that in a few years Johnny was
independent of all the world, with the prettiest wife and children in
the land. But Mrs. Shuttle was inexorable, while the knowledge of his
prosperity and happiness only worked her up to a higher pitch of anger,
and added to the pangs of jealousy perpetually inflicted on her by the
rivalry of Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, who suffered under
the like infliction from the wrathful St. Nicholas, who was resolved to
make them an example to all posterity.