Chapter II: Part 2

“But this was not the worst of it either. Just about this time Dominie Egidius Luyck prophesied the world was coming speedily to an end, as plainly appeared from the great quantity of toad stools, which made their appearance in the Ladies' Valley and Windmill Meadow after a heavy rain. This prophecy was followed up by the appearance of the northern lights, falling stars, and mysterious rattlings of invisible carriages through the streets at midnight. To crown all, an inspired fanatic had passed through the Broadway, crying out 'Wo, wo to the crown of pride, and the drunkards of Ephraim. Two woes past, and the third coming, except ye repent—repent—repent.' All these horrors now encompassed the imagination of Jan Sol, as he paced the little sand hillock with slow steps, and from time to time started at his shadow. The half hour seemed an age, and never did anybody long so much for the appearance of a corporal's guard to relieve him.

“He had not been on his watch more than ten minutes, or so, when, happening to look towards the opposite shore of Pavonia, he saw something moving on the waters like a canoe shooting across the river. Five hundred Indians with tomahawks and scalping knives all at once stood before the little sentinel, whose imagination was ready cocked and primed for the reception of all sorts of horrors. He had a great mind to fire his gun, and alarm the garrison, but a little of the fear of his companions' jokes restrained him for that time. However, he drew a pistol, and refreshed his courage with a little of the genuine Schiedam, after which he ventured to look that way again. But the canoe had disappeared in a most miraculous manner, and Jan was satisfied in his own mind, that it was neither more nor less than the ghost of a canoe. There was not much consolation in this; but it was better than the five hundred Indians, with their tomahawks and scalping knives.

“The night breeze now sprung up with its chilling dews, and cooled Jan's courage till it nearly fell down to the freezing point. The wind, or some other cause, produced a sort of creaking and moaning in the old crazy windmill, which drew the eyes of the little sentinel in that direction. At that moment, Jan saw a head slowly rising and peeping over the wall, directly in a line with the windmill. His eyes became riveted to the spot, with the irresistible fascination of overwhelming terror. Gradually the head was followed by shoulders, body and legs, which Jan swore belonged to a giant at least sixteen ells high. After sitting a moment upon the wall, the figure, according to Jan's relation before the governor next morning, put forth a pair of enormous wings, and whirling itself round and round in a circle—while its eyes flashed fire, and its teeth appeared like live coals—actually flew down from the wall towards the governor's garden, where it disappeared, or rather sank into the ground, close by the garden gate. Jan fired his gun, and one might have supposed he killed himself, for he fell flat on his face, apparently as dead as a door nail.

“Here he was found by the relief guard, about five minutes afterwards, with his face buried in the sand hill. The moment they touched him, he began to roar out with awful vociferation, ‘Wo, wo to the crown of pride, and the drunkards of Ephraim.’ They could make nothing of Jan or his story, and forthwith carried him to the ‘big house,’ as it was called, where the governor resided, and who, together with the whole corporation and city, had been waked by the discharge of the gun. Such a thing had not happened within the memory of man. Jan told his story, and swore to it afterwards; but all he got by it, was a ride on the wooden horse the next morning. The story, however, took wind, and there was more liquor sold that day at the Stadt Herberg, or city tavern, than for a whole week before. Coming upon the back of the dominie's toad stools, the northern lights, the rumbling of the invisible wheels, and the mysterious denunciation of the drunkards of Ephraim, it made a great impression; and many, not to say all, believed there must be something in it. Several people went to church the next day, who had not been there since they were christened.

“Measures were taken the following night, and for several nights afterwards, to detect this gigantic spectre, but in vain. Nothing appeared to disturb the quiet repose of the guard and the city, till the next Saturday night, when it came to Jan Sol's turn to take his watch upon the sand hill, about the same hour as before. They say Jan fortified himself with a double allowance of Schiedam, and put a little Dutch Bible in the pocket of one of his breeches. But all would not do, for many people were ready to swear afterwards, that his hair stood on end so sturdily that he could hardly keep his tin cap upon it. Ghosts, hobgoblins, and all that sort of thing, have not only a propensity to visit some one particular person, but are likewise extremely regular in their habits, as well as in their hours of appearing. Exactly at the same hour the little canoe shot from Pavonia—the night breeze sprang up as before—the old windmill began to creak and moan—the gigantic spectre peered over the wall at the same spot as before, and cautiously glaring round with his fiery eyes, unfurled his mighty wings, and after turning a few somersets, flew towards the gate of the governor's garden, where he disappeared as before. This time Jan was too far gone to fire his matchlock, but a few minutes after he was found almost insensible with fright, by the relief guard, who carried him before the governor next morning, where he swore to the same story, and was complimented with another ride on the wooden horse.

“But the repetition of a miracle is sure to make it less miraculous; and a wonder twice told is almost half proved. People began to believe, and from believing, to be sure there was something out of the way, at least, in this affair. Miracles, like misfortunes, never come single; and almost every one had a wonder of his own to reinforce that of the little Dutch sentinel. At least fifty of them happened within less than a week, each more alarming than the other. Doors opened at midnight, by invisible hands—strange black cats with green eyes, and sparks of fire flying out of their backs, appeared at different times—the old mahogany chests of drawers made divers strange noises, and sometimes went off with a report almost as loud as a pistol—and an old woman coming into market with cabbages before daylight in the morning, met a black figure, she could almost swear had a tail and a cloven foot. A horseman was heard in the middle of the night galloping furiously towards the land poort, crying ‘Whoa! whoa!’ with a hollow voice; and what was very singular, though several persons got up to look out of the windows, not one could see the least sign of horse or horseman. In short, the whole city of New-Amsterdam was in a panic, and he was a bold man that did not run away from his own shadow. Even the ‘big house’ where the governor dwelt, was infected, insomuch that his excellency doubled his guards, and slept with loaded pistols at his bedside. One of these made a voluntary discharge one night, and the bullet passed right through the picture of Admiral Van Tromp, which hung up in the chamber. If it had been the admiral himself he would have been killed as sure as a gun. This accident was considered as very remarkable, as there were no hair triggers in those days, to go off of themselves.

“There was at that time a public-spirited little magistrate in office, by the name of DIRCK SMET, a pipemaker by trade, who was the father of more laws than all the lawyers before or after him, from Moses down to the present time. He had the itch of legislation to a most alarming degree, and like Titus, considered he had lost a day when he had not begotten at least one law. A single circumstance or event, no matter how insignificant, was enough for him. If a little boy happened to frighten a sober Dutch horse, which, by-the-way, was no such easy matter, by flying his kite, the worshipful Dirck Smet would forthwith call a meeting of the common council, and, after declaiming a full hour upon the dangers of kiteflying, get a law passed, denouncing a penalty upon all wicked parents who allowed their children to indulge in that pestilent amusement. If there happened a rumour of a man, a horse, a cow, or any other animal being bitten by a mad dog, in some remote part of New-England, or elsewhere, Dirck Smet would spout a speech enough to make one's hair stand on end, about the horrors of hydrophobia, and get a law passed against all the honest mastiffs of New-Amsterdam, who had no more idea of running mad than I have at this moment. Owing to the number of little creeks intersecting the city, and the quantity of grass growing in the streets at that time, there was never a finer city for raising flocks of geese than New-Amsterdam—in fact, there were as many geese as inhabitants. Dirck declared war against these in a speech of three hours, which so overpowered the council, that they all fell asleep, and passed a law banishing the geese from the city; although one of the members, who had the finest goose pond in the place, talked very learnedly about the famous goose that saved the capitol. It is said that Dirck's antipathy to these honest birds arose from having been attacked and sorely buffeted by a valiant old gander, whose premises he had chanced to invade on some occasion. He was, indeed, the most arrant meddler and busybody of his day, always poking his nose into holes and corners, ferreting out nuisances, and seeking pretexts for new laws; so that if the people had paid any attention to them they would have been under a worse tyranny than that of the Turk or the Spaniard. But they were saved from this by a lucky circumstance—the council thinking they did enough by making the laws, let them take care of themselves afterwards; and honest Dirck Smet was too busy begetting new laws, to mind what became of the old ones. Nevertheless, he got the reputation of a most vigilant magistrate, which means a pestilent intermeddler with people's domestic sports and occupations, and a most industrious busybody in attempting impossibilities.

“As soon as Dirck Smet heard the story of the inroads of the winged monster, he fell into a fever of anxiety to do something for the good of the community. He was on the point of proposing a severe law against winged monsters, but from this he was dissuaded by a judicious friend, who represented the difficulty of catching this sort of delinquents, and that this was absolutely necessary, before he could punish them. Baffled in this point, he fumed about from one place to another, insisting that something must be done for the quiet and security of the city, and that a law of some kind or other was absolutely necessary on the occasion, if it were only to show their zeal for the public good. It was his opinion that a bad law was better than no law at all, and that it would be an inexcusable piece of negligence to let these interloping monsters fly over the wall with impunity.

“All this while his excellency the governor of New-Amsterdam said nothing, but thought a great deal. He was a little jealous of the popularity of Dirck Smet, who had got the title of Father of the City, on account of having saved it from the horrors of flying kites, mad dogs, and hissing ganders. In fact, they were two such great men, that the city was not half large enough for them both, and the consequence was, that instead of assisting, they only stood in each other's way, like two carts in a narrow lane. We can have too much of a good thing, even as regards laws and rulers. The governor was determined to do nothing, for no other reason that could ever be discovered than because his rival was so busy. The fears of the good citizens, however, and their increasing clamours against the negligence of their rulers, at length roused the activity of the governor, who forthwith convened his council, to deliberate upon the best means of saving the city of New-Amsterdam.

“Dirck Smet, who was ex-officio a member, was in his glory on this occasion, and talked so much that there was no time for acting. At length, however, the inward man gave out, and he had not breath to say anything more. It was then, tradition says, that a silent old member, who never made a set speech in his life, proposed, in as few words as possible, and in a quiet colloquial manner, that measures should be first taken to ascertain the truth of the story, after which means might be found to detect the miracle or the impostor, whatever it might be. It is affirmed the whole council was astonished that a man should be able to say so much in so few words, and that henceforth the silent member was considered the wisest of them all. Even Dirck Smet held his tongue for the rest of the sitting, thus furnishing another striking proof, my children, that good sense is an overmatch for the most confirmed garrulity. The same old gentleman suggested, that as Saturday night seemed to be the period chosen for his two visits by the winged monster, it would be advisable to place some of the most trusty of the city guard in ambush in the vicinity of the spot where, according to the testimony of Jan Sol, he had flown over the wall, to intercept him there, or at least overtake him in his progress to the governor's garden. Everybody wondered at the wisdom of this proposal, which was adopted with only one dissenting voice. Dirck Smet moved, as an amendment, that the word ‘progress’ should be changed to ‘flight,’ but it was negatived, greatly to his mortification, and therefore he voted against the whole proposition, declaring it went against his conscience.

“Accordingly, the next Saturday night a party was got in readiness, of six picked men of the city guard, under the command of Captain Balthaser Knyff, of immortal memory, who had faced more ghosts in his generation than any man living. The whole band was equipped with an extraordinary number of nether garments for defence, and fortified with double allowance of Schiedam, to keep up their courage in this arduous service. The captain was considered a person of the greatest weight in all the city; and in addition to this, he added to his specific gravity, by stuffing into his pocket all the leaden weights he could borrow of a neighbouring grocer, for he did not know but the monster might fly away with him. His comrades remonstrated that this additional weight would impede his pursuit of the foe; but the captain nobly replied, ‘it was beneath a soldier to run, either from or after an enemy.’ The most perfect secrecy was preserved in all these arrangements.

“Thus equipped, they took their station, about eleven o'clock on the Saturday night following the last appearance of the winged monster, under cover of one of the neighbouring houses, and there waited the coming of the mysterious visiter. Twelve o'clock, the favourite hour of spectres of all sorts, came and passed, yet no spectre appeared peeping over the wall. By this time they began to be wearied with long watching, and it was proposed that they should take turns, one at a time, while the others slept off the fatigue of such unheard-of service. The lot fell upon Jan Sol, who being, as it were, a sort of old acquaintance of the spectre, was supposed to be particularly qualified for this honour. Jan forthwith posted himself at the corner of the house, upon one leg, to make sure of keeping awake, as he had whilome seen the New-Amsterdam geese do, ere they were banished from the city, by the inflexible patriotism of Dirck Smet, the great lawgiver.

“The little Dutch sentinel stood for about half an hour, sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, with his head full of hobgoblins and his heart full of fears. All was silent as the grave, save the sonorous music of the captain's vocal nose, or, as it might be poetically expressed, ‘living lyre,’ which ever and anon snorted a low requiem to the waning night. The moon was on the swift decrease, and now exhibited an arch not unlike a bright Indian bow, suspended in the west, a little above the distant horizon. Gradually it sank behind the hills, leaving the world to the guardianship of the watchmen of the night, the twinkling stars. Scarcely a minute after, the heart of honest Jan was sent bumping against his trusty ribs, by the appearance of something slowly rising above the indistinct line of the city wall, which I ought to observe was made of wood. The spectre gradually mounted higher and higher, and rested on the very spot where he had seen it twice before. The teeth of Jan Sol chattered, and his knees knocked against each other—but he stood his ground manfully, and either would not or could not run away. This time the spectre, though he appeared with two enormous wings projecting from his shoulders, did not whirl them round, or expand them in the manner he had done before. After sitting perched for a few moments on the wall, he flew down to the ground, and crept cautiously along, under cover of the wall, in a direction towards the big house. At this moment, the trusty Jan with some difficulty roused his companions, and silently pointed to the spectre gliding along as before related. Whether it was that it saw or heard something to alarm it, I cannot say; but scarcely had the redoubtable Captain Knyff risen, and shaken from his valiant spirit the fumes of sleep and Schiedam, when the spirit took as it were to itself wings, and sped rapidly towards the gate of the governor's garden. The party pursued, with the exception of the captain, who carried too much weight for a race, and arrived within sight of the gate just in time to see the spectre vanish, either under, over, or inside of it, they could not tell which. When they got to the gate, they found it fast locked, a proof, if any had been wanting, that it must have been something supernatural.

“In pursuance of their instructions, the guard roused the governor, his household, and his troops, with the intention of searching the garden, and, if necessary, every part of his house, for the purpose of detecting this mysterious intruder. The garden was surrounded by a high brick wall, the top of which bristled with iron spikes and pieces of bottles set in mortar. It was worth a man's life to get over it. There was no getting in or out except by the gate, on the outside of which the governor stationed two trusty fellows, with orders to stand a little apart, and perfectly quiet. Now all the governor's household was wide awake, and in a rustle of anxiety and trepidation, except one alone, who did not make her appearance. This was the governor's only daughter, as pretty a little Dutch damsel as ever crossed Kissing Bridge, or rambled over the green fields of the Manhadoes. Compared to the queer little bodies that figure nowadays in the Broadway, seemingly composed of nothing but hats, feathers, and flounces, she was a composition of real flesh and blood, which is better than all the gauze, silk, tulle, and gros de Naples in the world. “A man marries a milliner's shop instead of a woman nowadays,” said the old gentleman, glancing a little archly at the fashionable paraphernalia of his pretty pet granddaughter. “Her face and form was all unsophisticated native beauty, and her dress all simplicity and grace.”

“Is that her picture hanging in the back parlour?” asked the little girl, in a sly way.”

“Yes; but the picture does not do justice either to the beauty or the dress of the original.”

“I hope not,” said the other; “for if it does, I am sure I would not be like her for the world.”

“Pshaw, you baggage,” replied the old gentleman, “you'll never be fit to hold a candle to her.”

“The search now commenced with great vigour in the garden, although Jan Sol openly declared it as his opinion, that they might look themselves blind before they found the spectre, who could fly over a wall as easy as a grasshopper. He accordingly kept aloof from the retired part of the garden, and stuck close to his noble commander, Captain Knyff, who by this time had come up with the pursuers. All search, however, proved vain; for after a close investigation of more than an hour, it was unanimously agreed that the intruder, whether man, monster, or ghost, could not possibly be hid in the garden. The governor then determined to have the house searched, and accordingly the whole party entered for that purpose, with the exception of the two sentinels without the gate. Here, while rummaging in closets, peering under beds, and looking up chimneys in vain, they were alarmed by a sudden shout from the garden, which made their hearts quake with exceeding apprehension. The shout was succeeded by loud talking and apparent tugging and struggling, as if between persons engaged in hot contention. At the same moment the governor's daughter rushed into her chamber, and throwing herself on the bed with a loud shriek, remained insensible for some time. Everybody was sure she had seen the spectre.

“It appears that while the search was going on in the big house, and the attention of everybody employed in that direction, the sentinels outside the gate heard the key cautiously turned inside, then, after a little pause, slowly open. A face then peeped out as if to take an observation, and the owner, apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, darted forward. The first step, he unluckily tripped over a rope which these trusty fellows had drawn across the gate, and fell full length on the ground. Before he could recover his feet the two sentinels were upon him, and in spite of his exertions kept him down, until their shouts drew the rest of the guard to their assistance. The spectre was then secured with ropes, and safely lodged in the cellar under a strong escort, to await his examination the next morning. Jan Sol was one of the band, though he insisted it was all nonsense to mount guard over a spectre.

“The council met betimes at the sound of a bell, rung by a worthy 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.

Master Tim, as they came to call him when they got to be a little acquainted, was a rare fellow, such as seldom rains down anywhere, much less on a country village. He was of “merry England,” as they call it—lucus a non lucendo—at least so he said and I believe, although he belied his nativity, by being the merriest rogue in the world, even when the fog was at the thickest. In truth, he was ever in a good humour, unless it might be when a rare bug or gorgeous butterfly, that he had followed through thick and thin, escaped his net at last. Then, to be sure, he was apt to call the recreant all the “vagabonds” he could think of. He was a middle-sized man, whose person decreased regularly, from the crown of his head to the—I was going to say, sole of his foot—but it was only to the commencement of the foot, to speak by the card. The top of his head was broad and flat, and so was his forehead, which took up at least two thirds of his face, that tapered off suddenly to a chin, as sharp as the point of a triangle. His forehead was indeed a large field, diversified like the country into which he had rained down, with singular varieties of hill and dale, meadow and plough land, hedge and ditch, ravine and watercourse. It had as many points as a periwinkle. The brow projected exuberantly, though not heavily, over a pair of rascally little cross-firing, twinkling eyes, that, as the country people said, looked at least nine ways from Sunday. His teeth were white enough, but no two of them were fellows. But his head would have turned the brains of a phrenologist, in exploring the mysteries of its development; it was shaped somewhat like Stony Point—which everybody knows as the scene of a gallant exploit of Pennsylvanian Wayne—and had quite as many abruptnesses and quizzical protuberances to brag about. At the upper extremity of his forehead, as he assured us, he carried his money, in the shape of a piece of silver, three inches long and two wide, inserted there in consequence of a fracture he got by falling down a precipice in hot chase of a “vagabond of a beetle,” as he was pleased to call him. Descending towards terra firma, to wit, his feet, we find his body gradually diminishing to his legs, which were so thin, everybody wondered how they could carry the great head. But, like Captain Wattle, each had a foot at the end of it, full as large as the Black Dwarf. It is so long ago that I almost forget his costume. All I recollect is, that he never wore boots or pantaloons, but exhibited his spindles in all weathers in worsted stockings, and his feet in shoes, gorgeously caparisoned in a pair of square silver buckles, the only pieces of finery he ever displayed.

In the merry months of spring and summer, and early in autumn, Master Timothy was most of his time chasing bugs and butterflies about the fields, to the utter confusion of the people, who wondered what he could want with such trumpery. Being a genius and an idler by profession, I used to accompany him frequently in these excursions, for he was fond of me, and called me vagabond oftener than he did anybody else. He had a little net of green gauze, so constructed as to open and shut as occasion required, to entrap the small fry, and a box with a cork bottom, upon which he impaled his prisoners with true scientific barbarity, by sticking a pin in them. Thus equipped, this Don Quixote of butterfly catchers, with myself his faithful esquire, would sally out of a morning into the clovered meadows and flower-dotted fields, over brook, through tangled copse and briery dell, in chase of these gentlemen commoners of nature. Ever and anon, as he came upon some little retired nook, where nature, like a modest virgin, shrouded her beauties from the common view—a rocky glen, romantic cottage, rustic bridge, or brawling stream, he would take out his little portfolio, and pointing me to some conspicuous station to animate his little landscape, sketch it and me together, with a mingled taste and skill I have never since seen surpassed. I figure in all his landscapes, although he often called me a vagabond, because he could not drill me into picturesque attitudes. But the finest sport for me, was to watch him creeping slily after a humming bird, the object of his most intense desires, half buried in the bliss of the dewy honeysuckle, and just as he was on the point of covering it with his net, to see the little vagrant flit away with a swiftness that made it invisible. It was an invaluable sight to behold Master Timothy stand wiping his continent of a forehead, and blessing the bird for a “little vagabond.” These were happy times, and at this moment I recall them, I hardly know why, with a melancholy yet pleasing delight.