wasteful extravagance, engendered and stimulated by the baleful passion
of envy. In less than ten years from the hatching of the diabolical
conspiracy of these three wicked women against the supremacy of the
excellent St. Nicholas, their spendthrift rivalship had ruined the
fortunes of their husbands, and entailed upon themselves misery and
remorse. Rich Amos Shuttle became at last as poor as a church mouse,
and, would have been obliged to take to the loom again in his old age,
had not Johnny, now rich, and a worshipful magistrate of the city,
afforded him and his better half a generous shelter under his own happy
roof. Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble had scarcely time to
condole with Mrs. Shuttle, and congratulate each other, when their
husbands went the way of all flesh, that is to say, failed for a few
tens of thousands, and called their creditors together to hear the good
news. The two wicked women lived long enough after this to repent of
their offence against St. Nicholas; but they never imported any more
French curtains, and at last perished miserably in an attempt to set
the fashions in Pennypot alley.
Mrs. Abigail Shuttle might have lived happily the rest of her life
with her children and grandchildren, who all treated her with
reverent courtesy and affection, now that the wrath of the mighty St.
Nicholas was appeased by her exemplary punishment. But she could not
get over her bad habits and feelings, or forgive her lovely little
daughter-in-law for treating her so kindly when she so little deserved
it. She gradually pined away; and though she revived at hearing of the
catastrophe of Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, it was only
for a moment. The remainder of the life of this wicked woman was a
series of disappointments and heartburnings, and when she died, Amos
tried to shed a few tears, but he found it impossible, I suppose,
because, as his wife always said, “he had no soul.”
Such was the terrible revenge of St. Nicholas, which ought to be
a warning to all who attempt to set themselves up against the
venerable customs of their ancestors, and backslide from the hallowed
institutions of the blessed saint, to whose good offices, without
doubt, it is owing that this his favourite city has transcended all
others of the universe in beautiful damsels, valorous young men, mince
pies, and Newyear cookies. The catastrophe of these three wicked women
had a wonderful influence in the city, insomuch that from this time
forward, no _gray mares_ were ever known, no French furniture was ever
used, and no woman was hardy enough to set herself up in opposition
to the good customs of St. Nicholas. And so, wishing many happy
Newyears to all my dear countrywomen and countrymen, saving those who
shut their doors to old friends, high or low, rich or poor, on that
blessed anniversary, which makes more glad hearts than all others put
together—I say, wishing a thousand happy Newyears to all, with this
single exception, I lay down my pen, with a caution to all wicked women
to beware of the revenge of St. Nicholas.
THE ORIGIN
OF
THE BAKERS' DOZEN.
Little Brom Boomptie, or Boss Boomptie, as he was commonly called by
his apprentices and neighbours, was the first man that ever baked
Newyear cakes in the good city of New-Amsterdam. It is generally
supposed that he was the inventor of those excellent and respectable
articles. However this may be, he lived and prospered in the little
Dutch house in William-street, called, time out of mind, Knickerbocker
Hall, just at the outskirts of the good town of New-Amsterdam.
Boomptie was a fat comfortable creature, with a capital pair of
oldfashioned legs; a full, round, good-natured face; a corporation
like unto one of his plump loaves; and as much honesty as a Turkish
baker, who lives in the fear of having his ears nailed to his own door
for retailing bad bread. He wore a low-crowned, broad-brimmed beaver;
a gray bearskin cloth coat, waistcoat, and breeches, and gray woollen
stockings, summer and winter, all the year round. The only language
he spoke, understood, or had the least respect for, was Dutch— and
the only books he ever read or owned, were a Dutch Bible, with silver
clasps and hinges, and a Dutch history of the Duke of Alva's bloody
wars in the Low Countries. Boss Boomptie was a pious man, of simple
habits and simple character; a believer in “demonology and witchcraft;”
and as much afraid of _spooks_ as the mother that bore him. It ran in
the family to be bewitched, and for three generations the Boompties had
been very much pestered with supernatural visitations. But for all this
they continued to prosper in the world, insomuch that Boss Boomptie
daily added a piece of wampum or two to his strong box. He was blessed
with a good wife, who saved the very parings of her nails, and three
plump boys, after whom he modelled his gingerbread babies, and who were
every Sunday zealously instructed never to pass a pin without picking
it up and bringing it home to their mother.
It was on Newyear's eve, in the year 1655, and the good city of
New-Amsterdam, then under the special patronage of the blessed
St. Nicholas, was as jovial and wanton as hot spiced rum and long
abstinence from fun and frolic could make it. It is worth while to
live soberly and mind our business all the rest of the year, if it be
only to enjoy the holydays at the end with a true zest. St. Nicholas,
thrice blessed soul! was riding up one chimney and down another like a
locomotive engine in his little one-horse wagon, distributing cakes to
the good boys, and whips to the bad ones; and the laugh of the good
city, which had been pent up all the year, now burst forth with an
explosion that echoed even unto Breuckelen and Communipaw.
Boss Boomptie, who never forgot the main chance, and knew from
experience that Newyear's eve was a shrewd time for selling cakes,
joined profit and pleasure on this occasion. He was one minute in his
shop, dealing out cakes to his customers, and the next laughing, and
tippling, and jigging, and frisking it with his wife and children
in the little back room, the door of which had a pane of glass that
commanded a full view of the shop. Nobody, that is, no genuine
disciple of jolly St. Nicholas, ever went to bed till twelve o'clock
on Newyear's eve. The Dutch are eminently a sober, discreet folk; but
somehow or other, no people frolic so like the very dickens, when they
are once let loose, as your very sober and discreet bodies.
By twelve o'clock the spicy beverage, sacred to holydays at that time,
began to mount up into Boss Boomptie's head, and he was vociferating a
Dutch ditty in praise of St. Nicholas with marvellous discordance, when
just as the old clock in one corner of the room struck the hour that
ushers in the new year, a loud knock was heard on the counter, which
roused the dormant spirit of trade within his bosom. He went into the
shop, where he found a little ugly old thing of a woman, with a sharp
chin, resting on a crooked black stick, which had been burned in the
fire and then polished; two high sharp cheek bones; two sharp black
eyes; skinny lips, and a most diabolical pair of leather spectacles on
a nose ten times sharper than her chin.
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies,” screamed she, in a voice sharper than
her nose.
“Vel, den, you needn't sbeak so loud,” replied Boss Boomptie, whose ear
being just then attuned to the melody of his own song, was somewhat
outraged by this shrill salutation.
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies,” screamed she again, ten times louder
and shriller than ever.
“Duyvel—I an't teaf den,” grumbled the worthy man, as he proceeded to
count out the cakes, which the other very deliberately counted after
him.
“I want a dozen,” screamed the little woman; “here is only twelve.”
“Vel, den, and what de duyvel is dwalf but a dozen?” said Boomptie.
“I tell you I want one more,” screamed she, in a voice that roused Mrs.
Boomptie in the back room, who came and peeped through the pane of
glass, as she often did when she heard the boss talking to the ladies.
Boss Boomptie waxed wroth, for he had a reasonable quantity of hot
spiced rum in his noddle, which predisposes a man to valour.
“Vel, den,” said he, “you may co to de duyvel and get anoder, for you
won't get it here.”
Boomptie was not a stingy man; on the contrary, he was very generous
to the pretty young damsels who came to buy cakes, and often gave them
two or three extra for a smack, which made Mrs. Boomptie peevish
sometimes, and caused her to watch at the little pane of glass when she
ought to have been minding her business like an honest woman.
But this old hag was as ugly as sin, and the little baker never in his
whole life could find in his heart to be generous to an ugly woman, old
or young.
“In my country they always give thirteen to the dozen,” screamed the
ugly woman in the leather spectacles.
“And where de duyvel is your gountry?” asked Boomptie.
“It is nobody's business,” screeched the old woman. “But will you give
me another cake, once for all?”
“Not if it would save me and all my chineration from peing pewitched
and pedemonologized dime out of mind,” cried he, in a great passion.
What put it into his head to talk in this way I don't know, but he
might better have held his tongue. The old woman gave him three stivers
for his cakes, and went away, grumbling something about “living to
repent it,” which Boss Boomptie didn't understand or care a fig about.
He was chock full of Dutch courage, and defied all the ugly old women
in Christendom. He put his three stivers in the till and shut up
his shop, determined to enjoy the rest of the night without further
molestation.
While he was sitting smoking his pipe, and now and then sipping his
beverage, all at once he heard a terrible jingling of money in his
shop, whereupon he thought some losel caitiff was busy with his little
till. Accordingly, priming himself with another reinforcement of Dutch
courage, he took a pine knot, for he was too economical to burn candles
at that late hour, and proceeded to investigate. His money was all
safe, and the till appeared not to have been disturbed.
“Duyvel,” quoth the little baker man, “I pelieve mine _vrouw_ and I
have bote cot a zinging in our heads.”
He had hardly turned his back when the same jingling began again, so
much to the surprise of Boss Boomptie, that had it not been for his
invincible Dutch courage, he would, as it were, have been a little
frightened. But he was not in the least; and again went and unlocked
the till, when what was his astonishment to see the three diabolical
stivers, received from the old woman, dancing, and kicking up a dust
among the coppers and wampum with wonderful agility.
“_Wat donder is dat!_” exclaimed he, sorely perplexed; “de old duyvel
has cot indo dat old sinner's stivers, I dink.” He had a great mind to
throw them away, but he thought it a pity to waste so much money; so
he kept them locked up all night, enjoining them to good behaviour,
with a design to spend them the next day in another jollification.
But the next day they were gone, and so was the broomstick with which
it was the custom to sweep out the shop every morning. Some of the
neighbours coming home late the night before, on being informed of the
“abduction” of the broomstick, deposed and said, they had seen an old
woman riding through the air upon just such another, right over the top
of the little bakehouse; whereat Boss Boomptie, putting these odds and
ends together, did tremble in his heart, and he wished to himself that
he had given the ugly old woman thirteen to the dozen.
Nothing particular came to pass the next day, except that now and then
the little Boompties complained of having pins stuck in their backs,
and that their cookies were snatched away by some one unknown. On
examination it was found that no marks of the pins were to be seen; and
as to the cookies, the old black woman of the kitchen declared she saw
an invisible hand just as one of the children lost his commodity.
“Den I am pewitched, zure enough!” cried Boomptie, in despair, for
he had had too much of “demonology and witchcraft” in the family not
to know when he saw them, just as well as he did his own face in the
Collect.
On the second day of the year, the 'prentice boys all returned to their
business, and Boomptie once more solaced himself with the baking of the
staff of life. The reader must know that it is the custom of bakers to
knead a great batch at a time, in a mighty bread tray, into which they
throw two or three little apprentice boys to paddle about, like ducks
in a mill pond, whereby it is speedily amalgamated, and set to rising
in due time. When the little caitiffs began their gambols in this
matter they one and all stuck fast in the dough, as though it had been
so much pitch, and, to the utter dismay of honest Boomptie, behold the
whole batch rose up in a mighty mass, with the boys sticking fast on
the top of it!
“_Wat blikslager!_” exclaimed little Boomptie, as he witnessed this
catastrophe; “de duyvel ish cot into de yeast dis dime, I dink.”
The bread continued to rise till it lifted the roof off the bakehouse,
with the little 'prentice boys on the top, and the bread tray following
after. Boss Boomptie and his wife watched this wonderful rising of the
bread in dismay, and in proof of the poor woman's being bewitched,
it was afterwards recollected that she uttered not a single word on
this extraordinary occasion. The bread rose and rose, until it finally
disappeared, boys and all, behind the Jersey hills. If such things had
been known of at that time, it would have been taken for a balloon; as
it was, the people of Bergen and Communipaw thought that it was a water
spout.
Little Boss Boomptie was disconsolate at the loss of his bread and his
'prentice boys, whom he never expected to see again. However, he was a
stirring body, and set himself to work to prepare another batch, seeing
his customers must be supplied in spite of “witchcraft or demonology.”
To guard against such another rebellious rising, he determined to go
through the process down in the cellar, and turn his bread tray upside
down. The bread, instead of rising, began to sink into the earth so
fast, that Boss Boomptie had just time to jump off before it entirely
disappeared in the ground, which opened and shut just like a snuffbox.
“Wat blikslager is dat!” exclaimed he, out of breath; “my pread rises
downward dis dime, I dink. My customers must go widout to-day.”
By-and-by his customers came for hot rolls and muffins, but some of
them had gone up and some down, as little Boss Boomptie related after
the manner just described. What is very remarkable, nobody believed
him; and doubtless, if there had been any rival baker in New-Amsterdam,
the boss would have lost all his customers. Among those that called on
this occasion, was the ugly old woman with the sharp eyes, nose, chin,
voice, and leather spectacles.
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies!” screamed she, as before.
“Vuur en vlammen!” muttered he, as he counted out the twelve cakes.
“I want one more!” screamed she.
“Den you may co to de duyvel and kit it, I say, for not anoder shall
you haf here, I dell you.”
So the old woman took her twelve cakes, and went out grumbling, as
before. All the time she staid, Boomptie's old dog, who followed him
wherever he went, growled and whined, as it were, to himself, and
seemed mightily relieved when she went away. That very night, as
the little baker was going to see one of his old neighbours at the
_Maiden's Valley_, then a little way out of town walking, as he always
did, with his hands behind him, every now and then he felt something as
cold as death against them, which he could never account for, seeing
there was not a soul with him but his old dog. Moreover, Mrs. Boomptie,
having bought half a pound of tea at a grocery store, and put it into
her pocket, did feel a twitching and jerking of the paper of tea in
her pocket, every step she went. The faster she ran the quicker and
stronger was the twitching and jerking, so that when the good woman got
home she was nigh fainting away. On her recovery she took courage, and
pulled the tea out of her pocket, and laid it on the table, when behold
it began to move by fits and starts, jumped off the table, hopped out
of doors, all alone by itself, and jigged away to the place from whence
it came. The grocer brought it back again, but Madam Boomptie looked
upon the whole as a judgment for her extravagance, in laying out so
much money for tea, and refused to receive it again. The grocer assured
her that the strange capers of the bundle were owing to his having
forgot to cut the twine with which he had tied it; but the good woman
looked upon this as an ingenious subterfuge, and would take nothing but
her money. When the husband and wife came to compare notes, they both
agreed they were certainly bewitched. Had there been any doubt of the
matter, subsequent events would soon have put it to rest.
That very night Mrs. Boomptie was taken after a strange way. Sometimes
she would laugh about nothing, and then she would cry about nothing;
then she would set to work and talk about nothing for a whole hour
without stopping, in a language nobody could understand; and then, all
at once, her tongue would cleave to the roof of her mouth, so that
it was impossible to force it away. When this fit was over she would
get up and dance double trouble, till she tired herself out, when she
fell asleep, and waked up quite rational. It was particularly noticed
that when she talked loudest and fastest, her lips remained perfectly
closed, without motion, and her mouth wide open, so that the words
seemed to come from down her throat. Her principal talk was railing
against Dominie Laidlie, the good pastor of Garden-street Church,
whence everybody concluded that she was possessed by a devil. Sometimes
she got hold of a pen, and though she had never learned to write, would
scratch and scrawl certain mysterious and diabolical figures, that
nobody could understand, and everybody said must mean something.
As for little Boss Boomptie, he was worse off than his wife. He was
haunted by an invisible hand, which played him all sorts of scurvy
tricks. Standing one morning at his counter, talking to one of the
neighbours, he received a great box on the ear, whereat being exceeding
wroth, he returned it with such interest on the cheek of his neighbour,
that he laid him flat on the floor. His friend hereupon took the law of
him, and proved, to the satisfaction of the court, that he had both
hands in his breeches pockets at the time Boss Boomptie said he gave
him the box on the ear. The magistrate not being able to come at the
truth of the matter, fined them each twenty-five guilders for the use
of the dominie.
A dried codfish was one day thrown at his head, and the next minute his
walking stick fell to beating him, though nobody seemed to have hold of
it A chair danced about the room, and at last alighted on the dinner
table, and began to eat with such a good appetite, that had not the
children snatched some of the dinner away, there would have been none
left. The old cow one night jumped over the moon, and a pewter dish
ran fairly off with a horn spoon, which seized a cat by the tail, and
away they all went together, as merry as crickets. Sometimes, when Boss
Boomptie had money, or cakes, or perhaps a loaf of bread in his hand,
instead of putting them in their proper places, he would throw them
into the fire, in spite of his teeth, and then the invisible hand would
beat him with a bag of flour, till he was as white as a miller. As for
keeping his accounts, that was out of the question; whenever he sat
himself down to write his ink horn was snatched away by the invisible
hand, and by-and-by it would come tumbling down the chimney. Sometimes
an old dishcloth would be pinned to the skirt of his coat, and then a
great diabolical laugh heard under the floor. At night he had a pretty
time of it. His nightcap was torn off his head, his hair pulled out by
handfuls, his face scratched, and his ears pinched as if with a red-hot
pincers. If he went out in the yard at night, he was pelted with
brickbats, sticks, stones, and all sorts of filthy missives; and if he
staid at home, the ashes were blown upon his supper; and old shoes,
instead of plates, seen on the table. One of the frying pans rang
every night of itself for a whole hour, and a three-pronged fork stuck
itself voluntarily into Boss Boomptie's back, without hurting him in
the least. But what astonished the neighbours more than all, the little
man, all at once, took to speaking in a barbarous and unknown jargon,
which was afterwards found out to be English.
These matters frightened some of the neighbours and scandalized others,
until at length poor Boomptie's shop was almost deserted. People were
jealous of eating his bread, for fear of being bewitched. Nay, more
than one little urchin complained grievously of horrible, out of the
way pains in the stomach, after eating two or three dozen of his
Newyear cookies.
Things went on in this way until Newyear's eve came round again, when
Boss Boomptie was sitting behind his counter, which was wont to be
thronged with customers on this occasion, but was now quite deserted.
While thinking on his present miserable state and future prospects, all
of a sudden the little ugly old woman, with a sharp nose, sharp chin,
sharp eyes, sharp voice, and leather spectacles, again stood before
him, leaning on her crooked black cane.
“Ben je bedondered?” exclaimed Boss Boomptie, “what to you want now?”
“I want a dozen Newyear cookies!” screamed the old creature.
The little man counted out twelve, as before.
“I want one more!” screamed she, louder than ever.
“Men weet hoe een koe een haas vangen kan!” cried the boss, in a rage;
“den want will pe your masder.”
She offered him six stivers, which he indignantly rejected, saying,
“I want none of your duyvel's stuyvers—begone, duyvel's huysvrouw!”
The old woman went her way, mumbling and grumbling as usual.
“By Saint Johannes de Dooper,” quoth Boss Boomptie, “put she's a
peaudy!”
That night, and all the week after, the brickbats flew about
Knickerbocker Hall like hail, insomuch that Boss Boomptie marvelled
where they could all come from, until one morning, after a terrible
shower of bricks, he found, to his great grief and dismay, that his
oven had disappeared; next went the top of his chimney; and when that
was gone, these diabolical sinners began at the extreme point of the
gable end, and so went on picking at the two edges downward, until they
looked just like the teeth of a saw, as may be still seen in some of
our old Dutch houses.
“Onbegrypelik!” cried Boss Boomptie, “put it's too pad to have my
prains peat out wid my own prickpats.”
About the same time a sober respectable cat, that for years had done
nothing but sit purring in the chimney corner, all at once got the
duyvel in her, and after scratching the poor man half to death, jumped
out of the chimney and disappeared. A Whitehall boatman afterwards saw
her in Buttermilk Channel, with nothing but the tail left, swimming
against the tide as easy as kiss your hand. Poor Mrs. Boomptie had
no peace of her life, what with pinchings, stickings of needles, and
talking without opening her mouth. But the climax of the malice of the
demon which beset her was in at last tying up her tongue, so that she
could not speak at all, but did nothing but sit crying and wringing her
hands in the chimney corner.
These carryings on brought round Newyear's eve again, when Boss
Boomptie thought he would have a frolic, “in spite of de duyvel,” as
he said, which saying was, somehow or other, afterwards applied to
the creek at Kingsbridge. So he commanded his wife to prepare him a
swinging mug of hot spiced rum, to keep up his courage against the
assaults of the brickbats. But what was the dismay of the little man
when he found that every time he put the beverage to his lips he
received a great box on the ear, the mug was snatched away by an
invisible hand, and every single drop drank out of it before it came to
Boss Boomptie's turn. Then as if it was an excellent joke, he heard a
most diabolical laugh down in the cellar.
“Goeden Hemel! Is het mogelyk!” exclaimed the little man in despair.
This was attacking him in the very intrenchments of his heart. It was
worse than the brickbats.