WOLFERT'S ROOST

AND

MISCELLANIES

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING

CONTENTS. 

CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST

SLEEPY HOLLOW

BIRDS OF SPRING

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA

ABENCERRAGE

ENCHANTED ISLAND

ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE

DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM

SPANISH ROMANCE

LEGEND OF DON MUIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA

COMMUNIPAW

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS

LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW

BERMUDAS, THE

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER

KNIGHT OF MALTA

LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT

COUNT VAN HORN WOLFERT'S ROOST

AND

MISCELLANIES. 

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir: I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is subject toa kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vastaccumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt tobecome narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling longstories, and of doling out advice, to the small profit and greatannoyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming theoracle, or, more technically speaking, the "bore, " of the domesticcircle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon theworld at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of theintellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossipingvolumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writingvolumes; they do not afford exactly the relief I require; there is toomuch preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of comingbefore the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for anything that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore, ofsecuring to myself a snug corner in some periodical work where I might, as it were, loll at my ease in my elbow-chair, and chat sociably withthe public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might popinto my brain. 

In looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excellentperiodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was struck by thetitle of your work--"THE KNICKERBOCKER. " My heart leaped at the sight. DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, Sir, was one of my earliest and most valuedfriends, and the recollection of him is associated with some of thepleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To explain this, and to show howI came into possession of sundry of his posthumous works, which Ihave from time to time given to the world, permit me to relate afew particulars of our early intercourse. I give them with the moreconfidence, as I know the interest you take in that departed worthy, whose name and effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they willbe found important to the better understanding and relishing diverscommunications I may have to make to you. 

My first acquaintance with that great and good man, for such I mayventure to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years hasshrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice haselevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore, my firstacquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not farfrom the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the courseof his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials for hisimmortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking the archives ofone of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It wasa lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on agreen bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon theGreat Tappan Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A brightpure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook camebabbling down a neighboring ravine, and threw itself into a little woodycove, in front of the mansion. It was indeed as quiet and sheltered anook as the heart of man could require, in which to take refuge from thecares and troubles of the world; and as such, it had been chosen in oldtimes, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the renownedPeter Stuyvesant. 

This worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried life, throughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being one of thoseunlucky wights with whom the world is ever at variance, and who are keptin a continual fume and fret, by the wickedness of mankind. At the timeof the subjugation of the province by the English, he retired hither inhigh dudgeon; with the bitter determination to bury himself from theworld, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of hisdays. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his door thefavorite Dutch motto, "Lust in Rust, " (pleasure in repose. ) The mansionwas thence called "Wolfert's Rust"--Wolfert's Rest; but in process oftime, the name was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost, probably from itsquaint cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched onevery gable. This name it continued to bear, long after the unluckyWolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by thetongue of a termagant wife; for it passed into a proverb through theneighborhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that the cock ofthe Roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the country. 

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed through manychanges and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to notice. At thetime of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker it was in possession ofthe gallant family of the Van Tassels, who have figured so conspicuouslyin his writings. What appears to have given it peculiar value, in hiseyes, was the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoardedup, like buried gold; for it is said that Wolfert Acker, when heretreated from New Amsterdam, carried off with him many of the recordsand journals of the province, pertaining to the Dutch dynasty; swearingthat they should never fall into the hands of the English. These, likethe lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former historians;but these did I find the indefatigable Diedrich diligently deciphering. He was already a sage in year's and experience, I but an idle stripling;yet he did not despise my youth and ignorance, but took me kindly by thehand, and led me gently into those paths of local and traditional lorewhich he was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamberat the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perseverancewith which he deciphered those venerable Dutch documents, worse thanHerculanean manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot ofthe green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the worthies ofthe olden time, the paladins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in hislegendary researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored withhim the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many ofhis conferences with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, fromwhom he derived many of those marvelous facts not laid down in booksor records, and which give such superior value and authenticity to hishistory, over all others that have been written concerning the NewNetherlands. 

But let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite theme; I mayrecur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the intimacy thus formed, continued for a considerable time; and in company with the worthyDiedrich, I visited many of the places celebrated by his pen. Thecurrents of our lives at length diverged. He remained at home tocomplete his mighty work, while a vagrant fancy led me to wander aboutthe world. Many, many years elapsed, before I returned to the parentsoil. In the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlandshad been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to renown. Hisnative city, that city in which he so much delighted, had decreed allmanner of costly honors to his memory. I found his effigy imprinted uponnew-year cakes, and devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins; agreat oyster-house bore the name of "Knickerbocker Hall;" and I narrowlyescaped the pleasure of being run over by a Knickerbocker omnibus!

Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved such greatness, I now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold pleasure, and sought torevisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important ofthese was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunateWolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operationsupon a Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint littleedifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. Therestood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had occupied;the old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he had pored over thechronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with thearchives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been firedoff as wadding from the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scenearound the mansion was still the same; the green bank; the spring besidewhich I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian; thewild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locusttrees, half shutting out the prospect of the great Tappan Zee. 

As I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at the recollectionof my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed the mansion which he hadinhabited, and which was fast mouldering to decay. The thought struck meto arrest the desolating hand of Time; to rescue the historic pile fromutter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wanderings; a quiethome, where I might enjoy "lust in rust" for the remainder of my days. It is true, the fate of the unlucky Wolfert passed across my mind; butI consoled myself with the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that Ihad no termagant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me. 

I have become possessor of the Roost! I have repaired and renovated itwith religious care, in the genuine Dutch style, and have adorned andillustrated it with sundry reliques of the glorious days of the NewNetherlands. A venerable weathercock, of portly Dutch dimensions, which once battled with the wind on the top of the Stadt-House of NewAmsterdam, in the time of Peter Stuyvesant, now erects its crest onthe gable end of my edifice; a gilded horse in full gallop, once theweathercock of the great Vander Heyden Palace of Albany, now glitters inthe sunshine, and veers with every breeze, on the peaked turret overmy portal; my sanctum sanctorum is the chamber once honored by theillustrious Diedrich, and it is from his elbow-chair, and his identicalold Dutch writing-desk, that I pen this rambling epistle. 

Here, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recollections ofearly days, and the mementoes of the historian of the Manhattoes, withthat glorious river before me, which flows with such majesty through hisworks, and which has ever been to me a river of delight. 

I thank God I was born on the banks of the Hudson! I think it aninvaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood ofsome grand and noble object in nature; a river, a lake, or a mountain. We make a friendship with it, we in a manner ally ourselves to it forlife. It remains an object of our pride and affections, a rallyingpoint, to call us home again after all our wanderings. "The things whichwe have learned in our childhood, " says an old writer, "grow up with oursouls, and unite themselves to it. " So it is with the scenes among whichwe have passed our early days; they influence the whole course of ourthoughts and feelings; and I fancy I can trace much of what is good andpleasant in my own heterogeneous compound to my early companionship withthis glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used toclothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it a soul. I admiredits frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfecttruth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangeroussand-bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was broad, andbearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. Igloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; ever straightforward. Once, indeed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from itscourse by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them, andimmediately resumes its straightforward march. Behold, thought I, anemblem of a good man's course through life; ever simple, open, anddirect; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate intoerror, it is but momentary; he soon recovers his onward and honorablecareer, and continues it to the end of his pilgrimage. 

Excuse this rhapsody, into which I have been betrayed by a revival ofearly feelings. The Hudson is, in a manner, my first and last love; andafter all my wanderings and seeming infidelities, I return to it with aheart-felt preference over all the other rivers in the world. I seemto catch new life as I bathe in its ample billows and inhale the purebreezes of its hills. It is true, the romance of youth is past, thatonce spread illusions over every scene. I can no longer picture anArcadia in every green valley; nor a fairy land among the distantmountains; nor a peerless beauty in every villa gleaming among thetrees; but though the illusions of youth have faded from the landscape, the recollections of departed years and departed pleasures shed over itthe mellow charm of evening sunshine. 

Permit me, then, Mr. Editor, through the medium of your work, tohold occasional discourse from my retreat with the busy world I haveabandoned. I have much to say about what I have seen, heard, felt, andthought through the course of a varied and rambling life, and somelucubrations that have long been encumbering my portfolio; together withdivers reminiscences of the venerable historian of the New Netherlands, that may not be unacceptable to those who have taken an interest in hiswritings, and are desirous of any thing that may cast a light back uponour early history. Let your readers rest assured of one thing, that, though retired from the world, I am not disgusted with it; and that ifin my communings with it I do not prove very wise, I trust I shall atleast prove very good-natured. 

Which is all at present, from

Yours, etc. , GEOFFREY CRAYON. 

 * * * * *

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER. 

Worthy Sir: In a preceding communication, I have given you some briefnotice of Wolfert's Roost, the mansion where I first had the goodfortune to become acquainted with the venerable historian of the NewNetherlands. As this ancient edifice is likely to be the place whenceI shall date many of my lucubrations, and as it is really a veryremarkable little pile, intimately connected with all the great epochsof our local and national history, I have thought it but right to givesome farther particulars concerning it. Fortunately, in rummaging aponderous Dutch chest of drawers, which serves as the archives of theRoost, and in which are preserved many inedited manuscripts of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, together with the precious records of New-Amsterdam, brought hither by Wolfert Acker at the downfall of the Dutch dynasty, as has been already mentioned, I found in one corner, among driedpumpkin-seeds, bunches of thyme, and pennyroyal, and crumbs of new-yearcakes, a manuscript, carefully wrapped up in the fragment of an oldparchment deed, but much blotted, and the ink grown foxy by time, which, on inspection, I discovered to be a faithful chronicle of the Roost. Thehand-writing, and certain internal evidences, leave no doubt in mymind, that it is a genuine production of the venerable historian of theNew-Netherlands, written, very probably, during his residence at theRoost, in gratitude for the hospitality of its proprietor. As such, Isubmit it for publication. As the entire chronicle is too long for thepages of your Magazine, and as it contains many minute particulars, which might prove tedious to the general reader, I have abbreviated andoccasionally omitted some of its details; but may hereafter furnishthem separately, should they seem to be required by the curiosity of anenlightened and document-hunting public. Respectfully yours, GEOFFREYCRAYON. 

 * * * * *

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

About five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and renowned city ofManhattan, formerly called New-Amsterdam, and vulgarly called New-York, on the eastern bank of that expansion of the Hudson, known amongDutch mariners of yore, as the Tappan Zee, being in fact the greatMediterranean Sea of the New-Netherlands, stands a little old-fashionedstone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles andcorners as an old cocked hat. Though but of small dimensions, yet, likemany small people, it is of mighty spirit, and values itself greatly onits antiquity, being one of the oldest edifices, for its size, in thewhole country. It claims to be an ancient seat of empire, I may rathersay an empire in itself, and like all empires, great and small, has hadits grand historical epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorouslittle pile, I shall call it by its usual appellation of "The Roost;"though that is a name given to it in modern days, since it became theabode of the white man. 

Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote region commonlycalled the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes mystified, andtinted up with delectable fiction. The eastern shore of the Tappan Seawas inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated race, existing in allthe simplicity of nature; that is to say, they lived by hunting andfishing, and recreated themselves occasionally with a little tomahawkingand scalping. Each stream that flows down from the hills into theHudson, had its petty sachem, who ruled over a hand's-breadth of foreston either side, and had his seat of government at its mouth. Thechieftain who ruled at the Roost, was not merely a great warrior, but amedicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they all mean the same thing, in Indian parlance. Of his fighting propensities, evidences stillremain, in various arrowheads of flint, and stone battle-axes, occasionally digged up about the Roost: of his wizard powers, we have atoken in a spring which wells up at the foot of the bank, on thevery margin of the river, which, it is said, was gifted by him withrejuvenating powers, something like the renowned Fountain of Youth inthe Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after by the veteran Poncede Leon. This story, however, is stoutly contradicted by an old Dutchmatter-of-fact tradition, which declares that the spring in question wassmuggled over from Holland in a churn, by Femmetie Van Slocum, wife ofGoosen Garret Van Slocum, one of the first settlers, and that she tookit up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-housenear Rotterdam; being sure she should find no water equal to it in thenew country--and she was right. 

The wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing territorialquestions, and settling boundary lines; this kept him in continual feudwith the neighboring sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for hishand-breadth of territory; so that there is not a petty stream norragged hill in the neighborhood, that has not been the subject of longtalks and hard battles. The sachem, however, as has been observed, was amedicine-man, as well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by artsas well as arms; so that, by dint of a little hard fighting here, andhocus-pocus there, he managed to extend his boundary-line from fieldto field and stream to stream, until he found himself in legitimatepossession of that region of hills and valleys, bright fountains andlimpid brooks, locked in by the mazy windings of the Neperan and thePocantico. [Footnote: As every one may not recognize these boundariesby their original Indian names, it may be well to observe, that theNeperan is that beautiful stream, vulgarly called the Saw-Mill River, which, after winding gracefully for many miles through a lovely valley, shrouded by groves, and dotted by Dutch farm-houses, empties itselfinto the Hudson, at the ancient drop of Yonkers. The Pocantico is thathitherto nameless brook, that, rising among woody hills, winds in many awizard maze through the sequestered banks of Sleepy Hollow. We owe it tothe indefatigable researches of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, that those beautifulstreams are rescued from modern common-place, and reinvested with theirancient Indian names. The correctness of the venerable historian may beascertained, by reference to the records of the original Indian grantsto the Herr Frederick Philipsen, preserved in the county clerk's office, at White Plains. ]

This last-mentioned stream, or rather the valley through which it flows, was the most difficult of all his acquisitions. It lay half way to thestrong-hold of the redoubtable sachem of Sing-Sing, and was claimed byhim as an integral part of his domains. Many were the sharp conflictsbetween the rival chieftains for the sovereignty of this valley, andmany the ambuscades, surprisals, and deadly onslaughts that took placeamong its fastnesses, of which it grieves me much that I cannot furnishthe details for the gratification of those gentle but bloody-mindedreaders of both sexes, who delight in the romance of the tomahawk andscalping-knife. Suffice it to say that the wizard chieftain was atlength victorious, though his victory is attributed in Indian traditionto a great medicine or charm by which he laid the sachem of Sing-Singand his warriors asleep among the rocks and recesses of the valley, where they remain asleep to the present day with their bows andwar-clubs beside them. This was the origin of that potent and drowsyspell which still prevails over the valley of the Pocantico, and whichhas gained it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow. Often, insecluded and quiet parts of that valley, where the stream is overhung bydark woods and rocks, the ploughman, on some calm and sunny day ashe shouts to his oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from thehill-sides in reply; being, it is said, the spell-bound warriors, whohalf start from their rocky couches and grasp their weapons, but sink tosleep again. 

The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph of the wizard sachem. Notwithstanding all his medicine and charms, he fell in battle inattempting to extend his boundary line to the east so as to take in thelittle wild valley of the Sprain, and his grave is still shown near thebanks of that pastoral stream. He left, however, a great empire to hissuccessors, extending along the Tappan Zee, from Yonkers quite to SleepyHollow; all which delectable region, if every one had his right, wouldstill acknowledge allegiance to the lord of the Roost--whoever he mightbe. [Footnote: In recording the contest for the sovereignty of SleepyHollow, I have called one sachem by the modern name of his castle orstrong-hold, viz. : Sing-Sing. This, I would observe for the sakeof historical exactness, is a corruption of the old Indian name, O-sin-sing, or rather O-sin-song; that is to say, a place where anything may be had for a song--a great recommendation for a market town. The modern and melodious alteration of the name to Sing-Sing is said tohave been made in compliment to an eminent Methodist singing-master, whofirst introduced into the neighborhood the art of singing through thenose. D. K. ]

The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs, of whom nothingremarkable remains on record. The last who makes any figure in historyis the one who ruled here at the time of the discovery of the country bythe white man. This sachem is said to have been a renowned trencherman, who maintained almost as potent a sway by dint of good feeding as hiswarlike predecessor had done by hard fighting. He diligently cultivatedthe growth of oysters along the aquatic borders of his territories, andfounded those great oyster-beds which yet exist along the shores of theTappan Zee. Did any dispute occur between him and a neighboring sachem, he invited him and all his principal sages and fighting-men to a solemnbanquet, and seldom failed of feeding them into terms. Enormous heaps ofoyster-shells, which encumber the lofty banks of the river, remain asmonuments of his gastronomical victories, and have been occasionallyadduced through mistake by amateur geologists from town, as additionalproofs of the deluge. Modern investigators, who are making suchindefatigable researches into our early history, have even affirmed thatthis sachem was the very individual on whom Master Hendrick Hudson andhis mate, Robert Juet, made that sage and astounding experiment sogravely recorded by the latter in his narrative of the voyage: "Ourmaster and his mate determined to try some of the cheefe men of thecountry whether they had any treacherie in them. So they took them downinto the cabin and gave them so much wine and aqua vitae that theywere all very merrie; one of them had his wife with him, which sate somodestly as any of our countrywomen would do in a strange place. In theend one of them was drunke; and that was strange to them, for theycould not tell how to take it. " [Footnote: See Juet's Journal, PurchasPilgrim. ]

How far Master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy mate carried theirexperiment with the sachem's wife is not recorded, neither does thecurious Robert Juet make any mention of the after-consequences of thisgrand moral test; tradition, however, affirms that the sachem on landinggave his modest spouse a hearty rib-roasting, according to the connubialdiscipline of the aboriginals; it farther affirms that he remained ahard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all his lands, acreby acre, for aqua vitae; by which means the Roost and all its domains, from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, came, in the regular course of trade andby right of purchase, into the possession of the Dutchmen. 

Never has a territorial right in these new countries been morelegitimately and tradefully established; yet, I grieve to say, theworthy government of the New Netherlands was not suffered to enjoy thisgrand acquisition unmolested; for, in the year 1654, the local Yankeesof Connecticut--those swapping, bargaining, squatting enemies of theManhattoes--made a daring inroad into this neighborhood and founded acolony called Westchester, or, as the ancient Dutch records term it, Vest Dorp, in the right of one Thomas Pell, who pretended to havepurchased the whole surrounding country of the Indians, and stood readyto argue their claims before any tribunal of Christendom. 

This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter Stuyvesant, and itroused the ire of that gunpowder old hero; who, without waiting todiscuss claims and titles, pounced at once upon the nest of nefarioussquatters, carried off twenty-five of them in chains to the Manhattoes, nor did he stay his hand, nor give rest to his wooden leg, until he haddriven every Yankee back into the bounds of Connecticut, or obligedhim to acknowledge allegiance to their High Mightinesses. He thenestablished certain out-posts, far in the Indian country, to keep an eyeover these debateable lands; one of these border-holds was the Roost, being accessible from New Amsterdam by water, and easily kept supplied. The Yankees, however, had too great a hankering after this delectableregion to give it up entirely. Some remained and swore allegiance to theManhattoes; but, while they kept this open semblance of fealty, theywent to work secretly and vigorously to intermarry and multiply, and bythese nefarious means, artfully propagated themselves into possession ofa wide tract of those open, arable parts of Westchester county, lyingalong the Sound, where their descendants may be found at the presentday; while the mountainous regions along the Hudson, with the valleysof the Neperan and the Pocantico, are tenaciously held by the linealdescendants of the Copperheads. 

 * * * * *

The chronicle of the venerable Diedrich here goes on to relate how that, shortly after the above-mentioned events, the whole province of the NewNetherlands 'was subjugated by the British; how that Wolfert Acker, oneof the wrangling councillors of Peter Stuyvesant, retired in dudgeon tothis fastness in the wilderness, determining to enjoy "lust in rust" forthe remainder of his days, whence the place first received its name ofWolfert's Roost. As these and sundry other matters have been laid beforethe public in a preceding article, I shall pass them over, and resumethe chronicle where it treats of matters not hitherto recorded:

Like many men who retire from a worrying world, says DIEDRICHKNICKERBOCKER, to enjoy quiet in the country, Wolfert Acker soon foundhimself up to the ears in trouble. He had a termagant wife at home, and there was what is profanely called "the deuce to pay, " abroad. Therecent irruption of the Yankees into the bounds of the New Netherlands, had left behind it a doleful pestilence, such as is apt to follow thesteps of invading armies. This was the deadly plague of witchcraft, which had long been prevalent to the eastward. The malady broke out atVest Dorp, and threatened to spread throughout the country. The Dutchburghers along the Hudson, from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, hastened tonail horseshoes to their doors, which have ever been found of sovereignvirtue to repel this awful visitation. This is the origin of thehorse-shoes which may still be seen nailed to the doors of barns andfarmhouses, in various parts of this sage and sober-thoughted region. 

The evil, however, bore hard upon the Roost; partly, perhaps, from itshaving in old times been subject to supernatural influences, during thesway of the Wizard Sachem; but it has always, in fact, been considered afated mansion. The unlucky Wolfert had no rest day nor night. When theweather was quiet all over the country, the wind would howl and whistleround his roof; witches would ride and whirl upon his weathercocks, andscream down his chimneys. His cows gave bloody milk, and his horsesbroke bounds, and scampered into the woods. There were not wanting eviltongues to whisper that Wolfert's termagant wife had some tamperingwith the enemy; and that she even attended a witches' Sabbath in SleepyHollow; nay, a neighbor, who lived hard by, declared that he saw herharnessing a rampant broom-stick, and about to ride to the meeting;though others presume it was merely flourished in the course of one ofher curtain lectures, to give energy and emphasis to a period. Certainit is, that Wolfert Acker nailed a horse-shoe to the front door, duringone of her nocturnal excursions, to prevent her return; but as shere-entered the house without any difficulty, it is probable she wasnot so much of a witch as she was represented. [Footnote: HISTORICALNOTE. --The annexed extracts from the early colonial records, relate tothe irruption of witchcraft into Westchester county, as mentioned in thechronicle:

"JULY 7, 1670. --Katharine Harryson, accused of witchcraft on complaint ofThomas Hunt and Edward Waters, in behalf of the town, who pray that shemay be driven from the town of Westchester. The woman appears beforethe council. . . . She was a native of England, and had lived a year inWeathersfield, Connecticut, where she had been tried for witchcraft, found guilty by the jury, acquitted by the bench, and released out ofprison, upon condition she would remove. Affair adjourned. 

"AUGUST 24. --Affair taken up again, when, being heard at large, it wasreferred to the general court of assize. Woman ordered to give securityfor good behavior, " etc. 

In another place is the following entry:

"Order given for Katharine Harryson, charged with witchcraft, to leaveWestchester, as the inhabitants are uneasy at her residing there, andshe is ordered to go off. "]

After the time of Wolfert Acker, a long interval elapses, about whichbut little is known. It is hoped, however, that the antiquarianresearches so diligently making in every part of this new country, mayyet throw some light upon what may be termed the Dark Ages of the Roost. 

The next period at which we find this venerable and eventful pile risingto importance, and resuming its old belligerent character, is during therevolutionary war. It was at that time owned by Jacob Van Tassel, or VanTexel, as the name was originally spelled, after the place in Hollandwhich gave birth to this heroic line. He was strong-built, long-limbed, and as stout in soul as in body; a fit successor to the warrior sachemof yore, and, like him, delighting in extravagant enterprises and hardydeeds of arms. But, before I enter upon the exploits of this worthy cockof the Boost, it is fitting I should throw some light upon the state ofthe mansion, and of the surrounding country, at the time. 

The situation of the Roost is in the very heart of what was thedebateable ground between the American and British lines, during thewar. The British held possession of the city of New York, and the islandof Manhattan on which it stands. The Americans drew up toward theHighlands, holding their headquarters at Peekskill. The interveningcountry, from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek, was the debateableland, subject to be harried by friend and foe, like the Scottish bordersof yore. It is a rugged country, with a line of rocky hills extendingthrough it, like a back bone, sending ribs on either side; but amongthese rude hills are beautiful winding valleys, like those watered bythe Pocantico and the Neperan. In the fastnesses of these hills, and along these valleys, exist a race of hard-headed, hard-handed, stout-hearted Dutchmen, descendants of the primitive Nederlanders. Mostof these were strong whigs throughout the war, and have ever remainedobstinately attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor boughtout of their paternal acres. Others were tories, and adherents to theold kingly rule; some of whom took refuge within the British lines, joined the royal bands of refugees, a name odious to the American ear, and occasionally returned to harass their ancient neighbors. 

In a little while, this debateable land was overrun by predatory bandsfrom either side; sacking hen-roosts, plundering farm-houses, anddriving off cattle. Hence arose those two great orders of borderchivalry, the Skinners and the Cowboys, famous in the heroic annals ofWestchester county. The former fought, or rather marauded, under theAmerican, the latter under the British banner; but both, in the hurry oftheir military ardor, were apt to err on the safe side, and rob friendas well as foe. Neither of them stopped to ask the politics of horse orcow, which they drove into captivity; nor, when they wrung the neck ofa rooster, did they trouble their heads to ascertain whether he werecrowing for Congress or King George. 

While this marauding system prevailed on shore, the Great Tappan Sea, which washes this belligerent region, was domineered over by Britishfrigates and other vessels of war, anchored here and there, to keep aneye upon the river, and maintain a communication between the variousmilitary posts. Stout galleys, also, armed with eighteen-pounders, andnavigated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks, ready to pounceupon their prey. 

All these were eyed with bitter hostility by the Dutch yeomanry alongshore, who were indignant at seeing their great Mediterranean ploughedby hostile prows; and would occasionally throw up a mud breast-work on apoint or promontory, mount an old iron field-piece, and fire away at theenemy, though the greatest harm was apt to happen to themselves from thebursting of their ordnance; nay, there was scarce a Dutchman along theriver that would hesitate to fire with his long duck gun at any Britishcruiser that came within reach, as he had been accustomed to fire atwater-fowl. 

I have been thus particular in my account of the times and neighborhood, that the reader might the more readily comprehend the surroundingdangers in this the Heroic Age of the Roost. 

It was commanded at the time, as I have already observed, by the stoutJacob Van Tassel. As I wish to be extremely accurate in this part ofmy chronicle, I beg that this Jacob Van Tassel of the Roost may not beconfounded with another Jacob Van Tassel, commonly known in border storyby the name of "Clump-footed Jake, " a noted tory, and one of the refugeeband of Spiting Devil. On the contrary, he of the Roost was a patriot ofthe first water, and, if we may take his own word for granted, a thornin the side of the enemy. As the Roost, from its lonely situation on thewater's edge, might be liable to attack, he took measures for defence. On a row of hooks above his fire-place, reposed his great piece ofordnance, ready charged and primed for action. This was a duck, orrather goose-gun, of unparalleled longitude, with which it was said hecould kill a wild goose, though half-way across the Tappan Sea. Indeed, there are as many wonders told of this renowned gun, as of the enchantedweapons of the heroes of classic story. 

In different parts of the stone walls of his mansion, he had madeloop-holes, through which he might fire upon an assailant. His wife wasstout-hearted as himself, and could load as fast as he could fire; andthen he had an ancient and redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, amatch, as he said, for the stoutest man in the country. Thus garrisoned, the little Roost was fit to stand a siege, and Jacob Van Tassel was theman to defend it to the last charge of powder. 

He was, as I have already hinted, of pugnacious propensities; and, notcontent with being a patriot at home, and fighting for the security ofhis own fireside, he extended his thoughts abroad, and entered into aconfederacy with certain of the bold, hard-riding lads of Tarrytown, Petticoat Lane, and Sleepy Hollow, who formed a kind of HolyBrotherhood, scouring the country to clear it of Skinner and Cow-boy, and all other border vermin. The Roost was one of their rallying points. Did a band of marauders from Manhattan island come sweeping through theneighborhood, and driving off cattle, the stout Jacob and his compeerswere soon clattering at their heels, and fortunate did the rogues esteemthemselves if they could but get a part of their booty across the lines, or escape themselves without a rough handling. Should the mosstrooperssucceed in passing with their cavalcade, with thundering tramp and dustywhirlwind, across Kingsbridge, the Holy Brotherhood of the Roost wouldrein up at that perilous pass, and, wheeling about, would indemnifythemselves by foraging the refugee region of Morrisania. 

When at home at the Roost, the stout Jacob was not idle; but was proneto carry on a petty warfare of his own, for his private recreation andrefreshment. Did he ever chance to espy, from his look-out place, ahostile ship or galley anchored or becalmed near shore, he would takedown his long goose-gun from the hooks over the fire-place, sallyout alone, and lurk along shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, andwatching for hours together, like a veteran mouser intent on a rat-hole. So sure as a boat put off for shore, and came within shot, bang! wentthe great goose-gun; a shower of slugs and buck-shot whistled about theears of the enemy, and before the boat could reach the shore, Jacob hadscuttled up some woody ravine, and left no trace behind. About thistime, the Roost experienced a vast accession of warlike importance, inbeing made one of the stations of the water-guard. This was a kind ofaquatic corps of observation, composed of long, sharp, canoe-shapedboats, technically called whale-boats, that lay lightly on the water, and could be rowed with great rapidity. They were manned by resolutefellows, skilled at pulling an oar, or handling a musket. These lurkedabout in nooks and bays, and behind those long promontories which runout into the Tappan Sea, keeping a look-out, to give notice of theapproach or movements of hostile ships. They roved about in pairs;sometimes at night, with muffled oars, gliding like spectres aboutfrigates and guard-ships riding at anchor, cutting off any boats thatmade for shore, and keeping the enemy in constant uneasiness. Thesemosquito-cruisers generally kept aloof by day, so that their harboringplaces might not be discovered, but would pull quietly along, undershadow of the shore, at night, to take up their quarters at the Roost. Hither, at such time, would also repair the hard-riding lads of thehills, to hold secret councils of war with the "ocean chivalry;" and inthese nocturnal meetings were concerted many of those daring forays, byland and water, that resounded throughout the border. 

 * * * * *

The chronicle here goes on to recount divers wonderful stories of thewars of the Roost, from which it would seem, that this little warriornest carried the terror of its arms into every sea, from Spiting DevilCreek to Antony's Nose; that it even bearded the stout island ofManhattan, invading it at night, penetrating to its centre, and burningdown the famous Delancey house, the conflagration of which makes such ablaze in revolutionary history. Nay more, in their extravagant daring, these cocks of the Roost meditated a nocturnal descent upon New Yorkitself, to swoop upon the British commanders, Howe and Clinton, bysurprise, bear them off captive, and perhaps put a triumphant close tothe war!

All these and many similar exploits are recorded by the worthy Diedrich, with his usual minuteness and enthusiasm, whenever the deeds in arms ofhis kindred Dutchmen are in question; but though most of these warlikestories rest upon the best of all authority, that of the warriorsthemselves, and though many of them are still current among therevolutionary patriarchs of this heroic neighborhood, yet I dare notexpose them to the incredulity of a tamer and less chivalric age, Suffice it to say, the frequent gatherings at the Roost, and the hardyprojects set on foot there, at length drew on it the fiery indignationof the enemy; and this was quickened by the conduct of the stout JacobVan Tassel; with whose valorous achievements we resume the course of thechronicle. 

 * * * * *

THIS doughty Dutchman, continues the sage DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, wasnot content with taking a share in all the magnanimous enterprisesconcocted at the Roost, but still continued his petty warfare alongshore. A series of exploits at length raised his confidence in hisprowess to such a height, that he began to think himself and hisgoose-gun a match for any thing. Unluckily, in the course of one of hisprowlings, he descried a British transport aground, not far from shore, with her stern swung toward the land, within point-blank shot. Thetemptation was too great to be resisted; bang! as usual, went the greatgoose-gun, shivering the cabin windows, and driving all hands forward. Bang! bang! the shots were repeated. The reports brought severalsharp-shooters of the neighborhood to the spot; before the transportcould bring a gun to bear, or land a boat, to take revenge, she wassoundly peppered, and the coast evacuated. This was the last of Jacob'striumphs. He fared like some heroic spider, that has unwittinglyensnared a hornet, to his immortal glory, perhaps, but to the utter ruinof his web. 

It was not long after this, during the absence of Jacob Van Tassel onone of his forays, and when no one was in garrison but his stout-heartedspouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, and a strapping negrowench, called Dinah, that an armed vessel came to anchor off the Roost, and a boat full of men pulled to shore. The garrison flew to arms, thatis to say, to mops, broom-sticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds ofdomestic weapons; for, unluckily, the great piece of ordnance, thegoose-gun, was absent with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence wasmade with that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never didinvaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all in vain. Thehouse was sacked and plundered, fire was set to each corner, and in afew moments its blaze shed a baleful light far over the Tappan Sea. Theinvaders then pounced upon the blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty ofthe Roost, and endeavored to bear her off to the boat. But here was thereal tug of war. The mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench, all flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to the very water'sedge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered the spoilersto let go their hold; they relinquished their prize, jumped into theirboats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a mererumpling of the feathers. 

The fear of tiring my readers, who may not take such an interest asmyself in these heroic themes, induces me to close here my extracts fromthis precious chronicle of the venerable Diedrich. Suffice it briefly tosay, that shortly after the catastrophe of the Roost, Jacob Van Tassel, in the course of one of his forays, fell into the hands of the British;was sent prisoner to New York, and was detained in captivity forthe greater part of the war. In the mean time, the Roost remained amelancholy ruin; its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing, blackened by fire, and the resort of bats and owlets. It was not untilthe return of peace, when this belligerent neighborhood once moreresumed its quiet agricultural pursuits, that the stout Jacob sought thescene of his triumphs and disasters; rebuilt the Roost, and reared againon high its glittering weather-cocks. 

Does any one want further particulars of the fortunes of this eventfullittle pile? Let him go to the fountain-head, and drink deep of historictruth. Reader! the stout Jacob Van Tassel still lives, a venerable, gray-headed patriarch of the revolution, now in his ninety-fifth year!He sits by his fireside, in the ancient city of the Manhattoes, andpasses the long winter evenings, surrounded by his children, andgrand-children, and great-grand-children, all listening to his tales ofthe border wars, and the heroic days of the Roost. His great goose-gun, too, is still in existence, having been preserved for many years in ahollow tree, and passed from hand to hand among the Dutch burghers, as aprecious relique of the revolution. It is now actually in possession ofa contemporary of the stout Jacob, one almost his equal in years, whotreasures it up at his house in the Bowerie of New-Amsterdam, hard bythe ancient rural retreat of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant. I am notwithout hopes of one day seeing this formidable piece of ordinancerestored to its proper station in the arsenal of the Roost. Beforeclosing this historic document, I cannot but advert to certain notionsand traditions concerning the venerable pile in question. Old-timeedifices are apt to gather odd fancies and superstitions about them, asthey do moss and weather-stains; and this is in a neighborhood a littlegiven to old-fashioned notions, and who look upon the Roost as somewhatof a fated mansion. A lonely, rambling, down-hill lane leads to it, overhung with trees, with a wild brook dashing along, and crossingand re-crossing it. This lane I found some of the good people of theneighborhood shy of treading at night; why, I could not for a long timeascertain; until I learned that one or two of the rovers of the TappanSea, shot by the stout Jacob during the war, had been buried hereabout, in unconsecrated ground. 

Another local superstition is of a less gloomy kind, and one which Iconfess I am somewhat disposed to cherish. The Tappan Sea, in front ofthe Roost, is about three miles wide, bordered by a lofty line of wavingand rocky hills. Often, in the still twilight of a summer evening, whenthe sea is like glass, with the opposite hills throwing their purpleshadows half across it, a low sound is heard, as of the steady, vigorouspull of oars, far out in the middle of the stream, though not a boatis to be descried. This I should have been apt to ascribe to some boatrowed along under the shadows of the western shore, for sounds areconveyed to a great distance by water, at such quiet hours, and I candistinctly hear the baying of the watch-dogs at night, from the farms onthe sides of the opposite mountains. The ancient traditionists of theneighborhood, however, religiously ascribed these sounds to a judgmentupon one Rumbout Van Dam, of Spiting Devil, who danced and drank lateone Saturday night, at a Dutch quilting frolic, at Kakiat, and set offalone for home in his boat, on the verge of Sunday morning; swearing hewould not land till he reached Spiting Devil, if it took him a month ofSundays. He was never seen afterward, but is often heard plying his oarsacross the Tappan Sea, a Flying Dutchman on a small scale, suited tothe size of his cruising-ground; being doomed to ply between Kakiat andSpiting Devil till the day of judgment, but never to reach the land. 

There is one room in the mansion which almost overhangs the river, andis reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a young lady who died of loveand green apples. I have been awakened at night by the sound of oars andthe tinkling of guitars beneath the window; and seeing a boat loiteringin the moonlight, have been tempted to believe it the Flying Dutchman ofSpiting Devil, and to try whether a silver bullet might not put an endto his unhappy cruisings; but, happening to recollect that there was aliving young lady in the haunted room, who might be terrified by thereport of fire-arms, I have refrained from pulling trigger. 

As to the enchanted fountain, said to have been gifted by the wizardsachem with supernatural powers, it still wells up at the foot of thebank, on the margin of the river, and goes by the name of the Indianspring; but I have my doubts as to its rejuvenating powers, for thoughI have drank oft and copiously of it, I cannot boast that I find myselfgrowing younger. 

GEOFFREY CRAYON. 

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SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 

HAVING pitched my tent, probably for the remainder of my days, in theneighborhood of Sleepy Hollow, I am tempted to give some few particularsconcerning that spell-bound region; especially as it has risen tohistoric importance under the pen of my revered friend and master, thesage historian of the New Netherlands. Beside, I find the very existenceof the place has been held in question by many; who, judging from itsodd name and from the odd stories current among the vulgar concerningit, have rashly deemed the whole to be a fanciful creation, like theLubber Land of mariners. I must confess there is some apparent cause fordoubt, in consequence of the coloring given by the worthy Diedrich tohis descriptions of the Hollow; who, in this instance, has departeda little from his usually sober if not severe style; beguiled, veryprobably, by his predilection for the haunts of his youth, and by acertain lurking taint of romance whenever any thing connected with theDutch was to be described. I shall endeavor to make up for this amiableerror on the part of my venerable and venerated friend by presenting thereader with a more precise and statistical account of the Hollow; thoughI am not sure that I shall not be prone to lapse in the end into thevery error I am speaking of, so potent is the witchery of the theme. 

I believe it was the very peculiarity of its name and the idea ofsomething mystic and dreamy connected with it that first led me in myboyish ramblings into Sleepy Hollow. The character of the valley seemedto answer to the name; the slumber of past ages apparently reigned overit; it had not awakened to the stir of improvement which had put all therest of the world in a bustle. Here reigned good, old long-forgottenfashions; the men were in home-spun garbs, evidently the product oftheir own farms and the manufacture of their own wives; the women werein primitive short gowns and petticoats, with the venerable sun-bonnetsof Holland origin. The lower part of the valley was cut up into smallfarms, each consisting of a little meadow and corn-field; an orchardof sprawling, gnarled apple-trees, and a garden, where the rose, themarigold, and the hollyhock were permitted to skirt the domains of thecapacious cabbage, the aspiring pea, and the portly pumpkin. Each hadits prolific little mansion teeming with children; with an old hatnailed against the wall for the housekeeping wren; a motherly hen, undera coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep around her a brood of vagrantchickens; a cool, stone well, with the moss-covered bucket suspendedto the long balancing-pole, according to the antediluvian idea ofhydraulics; and its spinning-wheel humming within doors, the patriarchalmusic of home manufacture. 

The Hollow at that time was inhabited by families which had existedthere from the earliest times, and which, by frequent intermarriage, hadbecome so interwoven, as to make a kind of natural commonwealth. Asthe families had grown larger the farms had grown smaller; every newgeneration requiring a new subdivision, and few thinking of swarmingfrom the native hive. In this way that happy golden mean had beenproduced, so much extolled by the poets, in which there was no gold andvery little silver. One thing which doubtless contributed to keep upthis amiable mean was a general repugnance to sordid labor. The sageinhabitants of Sleepy Hollow had read in their Bible, which was the onlybook they studied, that labor was originally inflicted upon man as apunishment of sin; they regarded it, therefore, with pious abhorrence, and never humiliated themselves to it but in cases of extremity. Thereseemed, in fact, to be a league and covenant against it throughoutthe Hollow as against a common enemy. Was any one compelled by direnecessity to repair his house, mend his fences, build a barn, or get ina harvest, he considered it a great evil that entitled him to call inthe assistance or his friend? He accordingly proclaimed a 'bee' orrustic gathering, whereupon all his neighbors hurried to his aid likefaithful allies; attacked the task with the desperate energy of lazy meneager to overcome a job; and, when it was accomplished, fell to eatingand drinking, fiddling and dancing for very joy that so great an amountof labor had been vanquished with so little sweating of the brow. 

Yet, let it not be supposed that this worthy community was without itsperiods of arduous activity. Let but a flock of wild pigeons fly acrossthe valley and all Sleepy Hollow was wide awake in an instant. The pigeon season had arrived. Every gun and net was forthwith inrequisition. The flail was thrown down on the barn floor; the spaderusted in the garden; the plough stood idle in the furrow; every one wasto the hillside and stubble-field at daybreak to shoot or entrap thepigeons in their periodical migrations. 

So, likewise, let but the word be given that the shad were ascending theHudson, and the worthies of the Hollow were to be seen launched in boatsupon the river setting great stakes, and stretching their nets likegigantic spider-webs half across the stream to the great annoyanceof navigators. Such are the wise provisions of Nature, by which sheequalizes rural affairs. A laggard at the plough is often extremelyindustrious with the fowling-piece and fishing-net; and, whenever a manis an indifferent farmer, he is apt to be a first-rate sportsman. Forcatching shad and wild pigeons there were none throughout the country tocompare with the lads of Sleepy Hollow. 

As I have observed, it was the dreamy nature of the name that firstbeguiled me in the holiday rovings of boyhood into this sequesteredregion. I shunned, however, the populous parts of the Hollow, and soughtits retired haunts far in the foldings of the hills, where the Pocantico"winds its wizard stream" sometimes silently and darkly through solemnwoodlands; sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in fresh, greenmeadows; sometimes stealing along the feet of rugged heights underthe balancing sprays of beech and chestnut trees. A thousand crystalsprings, with which this neighborhood abounds, sent down from thehill-sides their whimpering rills, as if to pay tribute to thePocantico. In this stream I first essayed my unskilful hand at angling. I loved to loiter along it with rod in hand, watching my float as itwhirled amid the eddies or drifted into dark holes under twisted rootsand sunken logs, where the largest fish are apt to lurk. I delightedto follow it into the brown accesses of the woods; to throw by myfishing-gear and sit upon rocks beneath towering oaks and clamberinggrape-vines; bathe my feet in the cool current, and listen to the summerbreeze playing among the tree-tops. My boyish fancy clothed all naturearound me with ideal charms, and peopled it with the fairy beings Ihad read of in poetry and fable. Here it was I gave full scope to myincipient habit of day dreaming, and to a certain propensity, to weaveup and tint sober realities with my own whims and imaginings, which hassometimes made life a little too much like an Arabian tale to me, andthis "working-day world" rather like a region of romance. 

The great gathering-place of Sleepy Hollow in those days was the church. It stood outside of the Hollow, near the great highway, on a green bankshaded by trees, with the Pocantico sweeping round it and emptyingitself into a spacious mill-pond. At that time the Sleepy Hollowchurch was the only place of worship for a wide neighborhood. It wasa venerable edifice, partly of stone and partly of brick, the latterhaving been brought from Holland in the early days of the province, before the arts in the New Netherlands could aspire to such afabrication. On a stone above the porch were inscribed the names of thefounders, Frederick Filipsen, a mighty patroon of the olden time, whoreigned over a wide extent of this neighborhood and held his seat ofpower at Yonkers; and his wife, Katrina Van Courtlandt, of the no lesspotent line of the Van Courtlandts of Croton, who lorded it over a greatpart of the Highlands. 

The capacious pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding-board, werelikewise early importations from Holland; as also the communion-table, of massive form and curious fabric. The same might be said of aweather-cock perched on top of the belfry, and which was consideredorthodox in all windy matters, until a small pragmatical rival was setup on the other end of the church above the chancel. This latter bore, and still bears, the initials of Frederick Filipsen, and assumed greatairs in consequence. The usual contradiction ensued that always existsamong church weather-cocks, which can never be brought to agree as tothe point from which the wind blows, having doubtless acquired, fromtheir position, the Christian propensity to schism and controversy. 

Behind the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, was its capaciousburying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of this ruralneighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest sculpture; on whichwere inscribed, in Dutch, the names and virtues of many of the firstsettlers, with their portraitures curiously carved in similitude ofcherubs. Long rows of grave-stones, side by side, of similar names, but various dates, showed that generation after generation of the samefamilies had followed each other and been garnered together in this lastgathering-place of kindred. 

Let me speak of this quiet grave-yard with all due reverence, for I oweit amends for the heedlessness of my boyish days. I blush to acknowledgethe thoughtless frolic with which, in company with other whipsters, Ihave sported within its sacred bounds during the intervals of worship;chasing butterflies, plucking wild flowers, or vying with each otherwho could leap over the tallest tomb-stones, until checked by the sternvoice of the sexton. 

The congregation was, in those days, of a really rural character. Cityfashions were as yet unknown, or unregarded, by the country peopleof the neighborhood. Steam-boats had not as yet confounded town withcountry. A weekly market-boat from Tarry town, the "Farmers' Daughter, "navigated by the worthy Gabriel Requa, was the only communicationbetween all these parts and the metropolis. A rustic belle in those daysconsidered a visit to the city in much the same light as one of ourmodern fashionable ladies regards a visit to Europe; an event that maypossibly take place once in the course of a lifetime, but to be hopedfor, rather than expected. Hence the array of the congregation waschiefly after the primitive fashions existing in Sleepy Hollow; or if, by chance, there was a departure from the Dutch sun-bonnet, or theapparition of a bright gown of flowered calico, it caused quite asensation throughout the church. As the dominie generally preached bythe hour, a bucket of water was providently placed on a bench near thedoor, in summer, with a tin cup beside it, for the solace of those whomight be athirst, either from the heat of the weather, or the drouth ofthe sermon. 

Around the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat the elders of thechurch, reverend, gray-headed, leathern-visaged men, whom I regardedwith awe, as so many apostles. They were stern in their sanctity, kepta vigilant eye upon my giggling companions and myself, and shook arebuking finger at any boyish device to relieve the tediousness ofcompulsory devotion. Vain, however, were all their efforts at vigilance. Scarcely had the preacher held forth for half an hour, on one of hisinterminable sermons, than it seemed as if the drowsy influence ofSleepy Hollow breathed into the place; one by one the congregation sankinto slumber; the sanctified elders leaned back in their pews, spreadingtheir handkerchiefs over their faces, as if to keep off the flies; whilethe locusts in the neighboring trees would spin out their sultry summernotes, as if in imitation of the sleep-provoking tones of the dominie. 

I have thus endeavored to give an idea of Sleepy Hollow and its church, as I recollect them to have been in the days of my boyhood. It was inmy stripling days, when a few years had passed over my head, that Irevisited them, in company with the venerable Diedrich. I shall neverforget the antiquarian reverence with which that sage and excellent mancontemplated the church. It seemed as if all his pious enthusiasm forthe ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his bosom at the sight. The tears stood in his eyes, as he regarded the pulpit and thecommunion-table; even the very bricks that had come from the mothercountry, seemed to touch a filial chord within his bosom. He almostbowed in deference to the stone above the porch, containing the namesof Frederick Filipsen and Katrina Van Courtlandt, regarding it as thelinking together of those patronymic names, once so famous along thebanks of the Hudson; or rather as a key-stone, binding that mighty Dutchfamily connexion of yore, one foot of which rested on Yonkers, and theother on the Groton. Nor did he forbear to notice with admiration, thewindy contest which had been carried on, since time immemorial, and withreal Dutch perseverance, between the two weather-cocks; though I couldeasily perceive he coincided with the one which had come from Holland. 

Together we paced the ample church-yard. With deep veneration wouldhe turn down the weeds and brambles that obscured the modest browngrave-stones, half sunk in earth, on which were recorded, in Dutch, thenames of the patriarchs of ancient days, the Ackers, the Van Tassels, and the Van Warts. As we sat on one of the tomb-stones, he recounted tome the exploits of many of these worthies; and my heart smote me, when Iheard of their great doings in days of yore, to think how heedlessly Ihad once sported over their graves. 

From the church, the venerable Diedrich proceeded in his researches upthe Hollow. The genius of the place seemed to hail its future historian. All nature was alive with gratulation. The quail whistled a greetingfrom the corn-field; the robin carolled a song of praise from theorchard; the loquacious catbird flew from bush to bush, with restlesswing, proclaiming his approach in every variety of note, and anon wouldwhisk about, and perk inquisitively into his face, as if to get aknowledge of his physiognomy; the wood-pecker, also, tapped a tattoo onthe hollow apple-tree, and then peered knowingly round the trunk, tosee how the great Diedrich relished his salutation; while theground-squirrel scampered along the fence, and occasionally whisked histail over his head, by way of a huzza!

The worthy Diedrich pursued his researches in the valley withcharacteristic devotion; entering familiarly into the various cottages, and gossiping with the simple folk, in the style of their ownsimplicity. I confess my heart yearned with admiration, to see so greata man, in his eager quest after knowledge, humbly demeaning himselfto curry favor with the humblest; sitting patiently on a three-leggedstool, patting the children, and taking a purring grimalkin on his lap, while he conciliated the good-will of the old Dutch housewife, and drewfrom her long ghost stories, spun out to the humming accompaniment ofher wheel. 

His greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was discovered in anold goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks and waterfalls, withclanking wheels, and rushing streams, and all kinds of uncouth noises. A horse-shoe, nailed to the door to keep off witches and evil spirits, showed that this mill was subject to awful visitations. As we approachedit, an old negro thrust his head, all dabbled with flour, out of a holeabove the water-wheel, and grinned, and rolled his eyes, and looked likethe very hobgoblin of the place. The illustrious Diedrich fixed uponhim, at once, as the very one to give him that invaluable kind ofinformation never to be acquired from books. He beckoned him from hisnest, sat with him by the hour on a broken mill-stone, by the side ofthe waterfall, heedless of the noise of the water, and the clatterof the mill; and I verily believe it was to his conference with thisAfrican sage, and the precious revelations of the good dame of thespinning-wheel, that we are indebted for the surprising though truehistory of Ichabod Crane and the headless horseman, which has sinceastounded and edified the world. 

But I have said enough of the good old times of my youthful days; let mespeak of the Hollow as I found it, after an absence of many years, when it was kindly given me once more to revisit the haunts of myboyhood. It was a genial day, as I approached that fated region. Thewarm sunshine was tempered by a slight haze, so as to give a dreamyeffect to the landscape. Not a breath of air shook the foliage. Thebroad Tappan Sea was without a ripple, and the sloops, with droopingsails, slept on its grassy bosom. Columns of smoke, from burningbrush-wood, rose lazily from the folds of the hills, on the oppositeside of the river, and slowly expanded in mid-air. The distant lowingof a cow, or the noontide crowing of a cock, coming faintly to the ear, seemed to illustrate, rather than disturb, the drowsy quiet of thescene. 

I entered the hollow with a beating heart. Contrary to my apprehensions, I found it but little changed. The march of intellect, which hadmade such rapid strides along every river and highway, had not yet, apparently, turned down into this favored valley. Perhaps the wizardspell of ancient days still reigned over the place, binding up thefaculties of the inhabitants in happy contentment with things as theyhad been handed down to them from yore. There were the same little farmsand farmhouses, with their old hats for the housekeeping wren; theirstone wells, moss-covered buckets, and long balancing poles. There werethe same little rills, whimpering down to pay their tributes to thePocantico; while that wizard stream still kept on its course, as of old, through solemn woodlands and fresh green meadows: nor were there wantingjoyous holiday boys to loiter along its banks, as I have done; throwtheir pin-hooks in the stream, or launch their mimic barks. I watchedthem with a kind of melancholy pleasure, wondering whether they wereunder the same spell of the fancy that once rendered this valley a fairyland to me. Alas! alas! to me every thing now stood revealed in itssimple reality. The echoes no longer answered with wizard tongues; thedream of youth was at an end; the spell of Sleepy Hollow was broken!

I sought the ancient church on the following Sunday. There it stood, onits green bank, among the trees; the Pocantico swept by it in a deepdark stream, where I had so often angled; there expanded the mill-pond, as of old, with the cows under the willows on its margin, knee-deep inwater, chewing the cud, and lashing the flies from their sides withtheir tails. The hand of improvement, however, had been busy with thevenerable pile. The pulpit, fabricated in Holland, had been supersededby one of modern construction, and the front of the semi-Gothicedifice was decorated by a semi-Grecian portico. Fortunately, the twoweather-cocks remained undisturbed on their perches at each end of thechurch, and still kept up a diametrical opposition to each other on allpoints of windy doctrine. 

On entering the church the changes of time continued to be apparent. Theelders round the pulpit were men whom I had left in the gamesome frolicof their youth, but who had succeeded to the sanctity of station ofwhich they once had stood so much in awe. What most struck my eye wasthe change in the female part of the congregation. Instead of theprimitive garbs of homespun manufacture and antique Dutch fashion, I beheld French sleeves, French capes, and French collars, and afearful-fluttering of French ribbands. 

When the service was ended I sought the church-yard, in which I hadsported in my unthinking days of boyhood. Several of the modest brownstones, on which were recorded in Dutch the names and virtues of thepatriarchs, had disappeared, and had been succeeded by others of whitemarble, with urns and wreaths, and scraps of English tomb-stone poetry, marking the intrusion of taste and literature and the English languagein this once unsophisticated Dutch neighborhood. 

As I was stumbling about among these silent yet eloquent memorials ofthe dead, I came upon names familiar to me; of those who had paidthe debt of nature during the long interval of my absence. Some, Iremembered, my companions in boyhood, who had sported with me on thevery sod under which they were now mouldering; others who in those dayshad been the flower of the yeomanry, figuring in Sunday finery on thechurch green; others, the white-haired elders of the sanctuary, oncearrayed in awful sanctity around the pulpit, and ever ready to rebukethe ill-timed mirth of the wanton stripling who, now a man, sobered byyears and schooled by vicissitudes, looked down pensively upon theirgraves. "Our fathers, " thought I, "where are they!--and the prophets, can they live for ever!"

I was disturbed in my meditations by the noise of a troop of idleurchins, who came gambolling about the place where I had so oftengambolled. They were checked, as I and my playmates had often been, bythe voice of the sexton, a man staid in years and demeanor. I lookedwistfully in his face; had I met him any where else, I should probablyhave passed him by without remark; but here I was alive to the traces offormer times, and detected in the demure features of this guardian ofthe sanctuary the lurking lineaments of one of the very playmates I havealluded to. We renewed our acquaintance. He sat down beside me, on oneof the tomb-stones over which we had leaped in our juvenile sports, andwe talked together about our boyish days, and held edifying discourseon the instability of all sublunary things, as instanced in the scenearound us. He was rich in historic lore, as to the events of the lastthirty years and the circumference of thirty miles, and from him Ilearned the appalling revolution that was taking place throughout theneighborhood. All this I clearly perceived he attributed to the boastedmarch of intellect, or rather to the all-pervading influence of steam. He bewailed the times when the only communication with town was by theweekly market-boat, the "Farmers' Daughter, " which, under the pilotageof the worthy Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the Tappan Sea. Alas!Gabriel and the "Farmer's Daughter" slept in peace. Two steamboats nowsplashed and paddled up daily to the little rural port of Tarrytown. Thespirit of speculation and improvement had seized even upon that oncequiet and unambitious little dorp. The whole neighborhood was laid outinto town lots. Instead of the little tavern below the hill, wherethe farmers used to loiter on market days and indulge in cider andgingerbread, an ambitious hotel, with cupola and verandas, now crestedthe summit, among churches built in the Grecian and Gothic styles, showing the great increase of piety and polite taste in theneighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun-bonnets, they were no longertolerated, or even thought of; not a farmer's daughter but now went totown for the fashions; nay, a city milliner had recently set up in thevillage, who threatened to reform the heads of the whole neighborhood. 

I had heard enough! I thanked my old playmate for his intelligence, anddeparted from the Sleepy Hollow church with the sad conviction that Ihad beheld the last lingerings of the good old Dutch times in this oncefavored region. If any thing were wanting to confirm this impression, it would be the intelligence which has just reached me, that a bank isabout to be established in the aspiring little port just mentioned. Thefate of the neighborhood is therefore sealed. I see no hope of avertingit. The golden mean is at an end, The country is suddenly to be delugedwith wealth. The late simple farmers are to become bank directors anddrink claret and champagne; and their wives and daughters to figure inFrench hats and feathers; for French wines and French fashions commonlykeep pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow canescape the general inundation? In a little while, I fear the slumber ofages will be at end--the strum of the piano will succeed to the hum ofthe spinning-wheel; the trill of the Italian opera to the nasal quaverof Ichabod Crane; and the antiquarian visitor to the Hollow, in thepetulance of his disappointment, may pronounce all that I have recordedof that once favored region a fable. 

 * * * * *

THE BIRDS OF SPRING. 

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 

My quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, politics, and themoney market, leaves me rather at a loss for important occupation, anddrives me to the study of nature, and other low pursuits. Having fewneighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch, and exercise my habits ofobservation, I am fain to amuse myself with prying into the domesticconcerns and peculiarities of the animals around me; and, during thepresent season, have derived considerable entertainment from certainsociable little birds, almost the only visitors we have, during thisearly part of the year. 

Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible of thedelightful influences that accompany the earliest indications of spring;and of these, none are more delightful than the first notes of thebirds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird, much resembling awren, which came about the house just on the skirts of winter, when nota blade of grass was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm dayshad given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in thedawning, long before sun-rise, and late in the evening, just before theclosing in of night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sangoccasionally throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song wasmore remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, andwarbled forth his notes, free and simple, but singularly sweet, withsomething of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect. The firstmorning that he was heard, was a joyous one among the young folks of myhousehold. The long, deathlike sleep of winter was at an end; naturewas once more awakening; they now promised themselves the immediateappearance of buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossedcrew of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birdscame singing round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing themwith the belief of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return ofwinter almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity ofthe household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintivenotes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshinebetween wintry clouds. 

I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out the nameof this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor and favor farbeyond his modest pretensions. He comes like the lowly violet, the mostunpretending, but welcomest of flowers, breathing the sweet promise ofthe early year. 

Another of our feathered visitors, who follows close upon the steps ofwinter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phoebe-bird; for he is called byeach of these names, from a fancied resemblance to the sound of hismonotonous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks the habitationof man. A pair of them have built beneath my porch, and have rearedseveral broods there for two years past, their nest being neverdisturbed. They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus andthe snow-drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladnessthrough the house. "The Phoebe-birds have come!" is heard on all sides;they are welcomed back like members of the family, and speculations aremade upon where they have been, and what countries they have seenduring their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it ispronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the country, the sure signthat the severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resumehis labors with confidence. 

About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet trulydescribed by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole landscape. You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably approaches yourhabitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. But why shouldI attempt to describe him, when I have Wilson's own graphic verses toplace him before the reader?

 When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, Green meadows and brown furrowed fields re-appearing: The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering; When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring, And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 

 The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring; Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm glows the weather; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, And spice-wood and sassafras budding together; O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair, Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure; The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air, That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. 

 He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms; He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be, And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, The worms from the webs where they riot and welter; His song and his services freely are ours, And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter. 

 The ploughman is pleased when he gleams in his train, Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him; The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain, And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him. The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid, While gazing intent, as he warbles before them, In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red, That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 

The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals theEuropean lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he iscommonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, sooften given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter isapt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties ofthe year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, anddissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, nature is inall her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, theflowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. " The trees are now intheir fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with theclustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-briarand the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms; whilethe young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherryto glow, among the green leaves. 

This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He comes amidst thepomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility andenjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosomsof the freshest and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when theclover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or onsome long flaunting weed; and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one uponanother, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing thesame rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of atree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutterstremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his ownmusic. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour; always in fullsong, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the sameappearance of intoxication and delight. 

Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was the envy ofmy boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetestseason of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the ruralfeeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomedto be mewed up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, aschool-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flewby in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, howI envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no hateful school; nothing butholiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then moreversed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words of Logan tothe cuckoo:

 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy note, No winter in thy year. 

 Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee; We'd make, on joyful wing, Our annual visit round the globe, Companions of the spring!

Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea ofthis little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart, forthe benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the sameunqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. I have shown himonly as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of hiscareer, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuitsand enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, andsensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred frominjury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and themerest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark thedifference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, andthe spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate on the ear. Hegradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical andprofessional suit of black, assumes a russet or rather dusty garb, andenters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes abon-vivant, a mere gourmand; thinking of nothing but good cheer, andgormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he lately swung, and chaunted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like "thejoys of the table, " if I may be allowed to apply that convivial phraseto his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-dayfare, and sets out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreignluxuries. He is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Delaware, banqueting on their seeds; grows corpulent with good feeding, and soonacquires the unlucky renown of the ortolan. Whereever he goes, pop! pop!pop! the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side;he sees his companions falling by the thousands around him; he isthe _reed-bird_, the much-sought-for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanianepicure. 

Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight stillfarther south, in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorginghimself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost tobursting; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career, we hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of thegourmand, the most vaunted of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of theCarolinas. 

Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensualand persecuted Boblink. It contains a moral, worthy the attention of alllittle birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refinedand intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch ofpopularity, during the early part of his career; but to eschew alltendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence, which brought thismistaken little bird to an untimely end. 

Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and littlebirds, GEOFFREY CRAYON. 

 * * * * *

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

During a summer's residence in the old Moorish palace of the Alhambra, of which I have already given numerous anecdotes to the public, I usedto pass much of my time in the beautiful hall of the Abencerrages, beside the fountain celebrated in the tragic story of that devotedrace. Here it was, that thirty-six cavaliers of that heroic line weretreacherously sacrificed, to appease the jealousy or allay the fears ofa tyrant. The fountain which now throws up its sparkling jet, and shedsa dewy freshness around, ran red with the noblest blood of Granada, and a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed out, by thecicerones of the pile, as a sanguinary record of the massacre. I haveregarded it with the same determined faith with which I have regardedthe traditional stains of Rizzio's blood on the floor of the chamber ofthe unfortunate Mary, at Holyrood. I thank no one for endeavoring toenlighten my credulity, on such points of popular belief. It is likebreaking up the shrine of the pilgrim; it is robbing a poor traveller ofhalf the reward of his toils; for, strip travelling of its historicalillusions, and what a mere fag you make of it!

For my part, I gave myself up, during my sojourn in the Alhambra, to allthe romantic and fabulous traditions connected with the pile. I lived inthe midst of an Arabian tale, and shut my eyes, as much as possible, toevery thing that called me back to every-day life; and if there is anycountry in Europe where one can do so, it is in poor, wild, legendary, proud-spirited, romantic Spain; where the old magnificent barbaricspirit still contends against the utilitarianism of modern civilization. 

In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra; surrounded with theinsignia of regal sway, and the still vivid, though dilapidated tracesof oriental voluptuousness, I was in the strong-hold of Moorish story, and every thing spoke and breathed of the glorious days of Granada, when under the dominion of the crescent. When I sat in the hall of theAbencerrages, I suffered my mind to conjure up all that I had read ofthat illustrious line. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, theAbencerrages were the soul of every thing noble and chivalrous. Theveterans of the family, who sat in the royal council, were the foremostto devise those heroic enterprises, which carried dismay into theterritories of the Christians; and what the sages of the family devised, the young men of the name were the foremost to execute. In all servicesof hazard; in all adventurous forays, and hair-breadth hazards; theAbencerrages were sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noblerecreations, too, which bear so close an affinity to war; in the tiltand tourney, the riding at the ring, and the daring bull-fight; stillthe Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them for thesplendor of their array, the gallantry of their devices; for their noblebearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed munificence madethem the idols of the populace, while their lofty magnanimity, andperfect faith, gained them golden opinions from the generous andhigh-minded. Never were they known to decry the merits of a rival, or tobetray the confidings of a friend; and the "word of an Abencerrage" wasa guarantee that never admitted of a doubt. 

And then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish beauty considerthe fame of her charms established, until she had an Abencerrage for alover; and never did an Abencerrage prove recreant to his vows. LovelyGranada! City of delights! Who ever bore the favors of thy dames moreproudly on their casques, or championed them more gallantly in thechivalrous tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-litbalconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons, andpomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?

I speak with enthusiasm on this theme; for it is connected with therecollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes thatever I enjoyed in Spain. One of the greatest pleasures of the Spaniardsis, to sit in the beautiful summer evenings, and listen to traditionalballads, and tales about the wars of the Moors and Christians, and the"buenas andanzas" and "grandes hechos, " the "good fortunes" and "greatexploits" of the hardy warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, also, that many of these songs, or romances, as they are called, celebratethe prowess and magnanimity in war, and the tenderness and, fidelity inlove, of the Moorish cavaliers, once their most formidable and hatedfoes. But centuries have elapsed, to extinguish the bigotry of thezealot; and the once detested warriors of Granada are now held up bySpanish poets, as the mirrors of chivalric virtue. 

Such was the amusement of the evening in question. A number of us wereseated in the Hall of the Abencerrages, listening to one of the mostgifted and fascinating beings that I had ever met with in my wanderings. She was young and beautiful; and light and ethereal; full of fire, andspirit, and pure enthusiasm. She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress;touched the guitar with speaking eloquence; improvised with wonderfulfacility; and, as she became excited by her theme, or by the raptattention of her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest andmost melodious strains, a succession of couplets, full of strikingdescription, or stirring narration, and composed, as I was assured, atthe moment. Most of these were suggested by the place, and related tothe ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry. TheAbencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a woman's admiration oftheir gallant courtesy, and high-souled honor; and it was touching andinspiring to hear the praises of that generous but devoted race, chantedin this fated hall of their calamity, by the lips of Spanish beauty. 

Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Moslem honor, andold-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a strong impression on me. She disclaimed all merit of invention, however, and said she had merelydilated into verse a popular tradition; and, indeed, I have since foundthe main facts inserted at the end of Conde's History of the Dominationof the Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode inthe Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn it forth, andendeavored to shape it according to my recollection of the version ofthe beautiful minstrel; but, alas! what can supply the want of thatvoice, that look, that form, that action, which gave magical effect toher chant, and held every one rapt in breathless admiration! Should thismere travestie of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, in her statelyabode at Granada, may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to herbenignant nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her bosomone kind recollection of the lonely stranger and sojourner, forwhose gratification she did not think it beneath her to exert thosefascinating powers which were the delight of brilliant circles; and whowill ever recall with enthusiasm the happy evening passed in listeningto her strains, in the moon-lit halls of the Alhambra. 

 * * * * *

GEOFFREY CRAYON. 

THE ABENCERRAGE. 

A SPANISH TALE. 

On the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the mountains of Ronda, standsthe castle of Allora, now a mere ruin, infested by bats and owlets, butin old times one of the strong border holds of the Christians, to keepwatch upon the frontiers of the warlike kingdom of Granada, and to holdthe Moors in check. It was a post always confided to some well-triedcommander; and, at the time of which we treat, was held by Rodrigo deNarvaez, a veteran, famed, both among Moors and Christians, not only forhis hardy feats of arms, but also for that magnanimous courtesy whichshould ever be entwined with the sterner virtues of the soldier. 

The castle of Allora was a mere part of his command; he was Alcayde, ormilitary governor of Antiquera, but he passed most of his time at thisfrontier post, because its situation on the borders gave more frequentopportunity for those adventurous exploits which were the delight of theSpanish chivalry. His garrison consisted of fifty chosen cavaliers, allwell mounted and well appointed: with these he kept vigilant watchupon the Moslems; patrolling the roads, and paths, and defiles of themountains, so that nothing could escape his eye; and now and thensignalizing himself by some dashing foray into the very Vega of Granada. 

On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the freshness of theevening breeze had tempered the heat of day, the worthy Alcayde salliedforth, with nine of his cavaliers, to patrol the neighborhood, andseek adventures. They rode quietly and cautiously, lest they should beoverheard by Moorish scout or traveller; and kept along ravines andhollow ways, lest they should be betrayed by the glittering of the fullmoon upon their armor. Coming to where the road divided, the Alcaydedirected five of his cavaliers to take one of the branches, while he, with the remaining four, would take the other. Should either party be indanger, the blast of a horn was to be the signal to bring their comradesto their aid. 

The party of five had not proceeded far, when, in passing through adefile, overhung with trees, they heard the voice of a man, singing. They immediately concealed themselves in a grove, on the brow of adeclivity, up which the stranger would have to ascend. The moonlight, which left the grove in deep shadow, lit up the whole person of thewayfarer, as he advanced, and enabled them to distinguish his dress andappearance with perfect accuracy. He was a Moorish cavalier, and hisnoble demeanor, graceful carriage, and splendid attire showed him tobe of lofty rank. He was superbly mounted, on a dapple-gray steed, ofpowerful frame, and generous spirit, and magnificently caparisoned. His dress was a marlota, or tunic, and an Albernoz of crimson damask, fringed with gold. His Tunisian turban, of many folds, was of silk andcotton, striped, and bordered with golden fringe. At his girdle hung ascimitar of Damascus steel, with loops and tassels of silk and gold. Onhis left arm he bore an ample target, and his right hand grasped a longdouble-pointed lance. Thus equipped, he sat negligently on his steed, asone who dreamed of no danger, gazing on the moon, and singing, with asweet and manly voice, a Moorish love ditty. 

Just opposite the place where the Spanish cavaliers were concealed, wasa small fountain in the rock, beside the road, to which the horse turnedto drink; the rider threw the reins on his neck, and continued his song. 

The Spanish cavaliers conferred together; they were all so pleased withthe gallant and gentle appearance of the Moor, that they resolved not toharm, but to capture him, which, in his negligent mood, promised to bean easy task; rushing, therefore, from their concealment, they thoughtto surround and seize him. Never were men more mistaken. To gather uphis reins, wheel round his steed, brace his buckler, and couch hislance, was the work of an instant; and there he sat, fixed like a castlein his saddle, beside the fountain. 

The Christian cavaliers checked their steeds and reconnoitered himwarily, loth to come to an encounter, which must end in his destruction. 

The Moor now held a parley: "If you be true knights, " said he, "and seekfor honorable fame, come on, singly, and I am ready to meet each insuccession; but if you be mere lurkers of the road, intent on spoil, come all at once, and do your worst!"

The cavaliers communed for a moment apart, when one, advancing singly, exclaimed: "Although no law of chivalry obliges us to risk the loss of aprize, when clearly in our power, yet we willingly grant, as a courtesy, what we might refuse as a right. Valiant Moor! defend thyself!" Sosaying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched his lance, and puttingspurs to his horse, made at the stranger. The latter met him in midcareer, transpierced him with his lance, and threw him headlong from hissaddle. A second and a third succeeded, but were unhorsed with equalfacility, and thrown to the earth, severely wounded. The remainingtwo, seeing their comrades thus roughly treated, forgot all compact ofcourtesy, and charged both at once upon the Moor. He parried the thrustof one, but was wounded by the other in the thigh, and, in the shock andconfusion, dropped his lance. Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, hepretended to fly, and was hotly pursued. Having drawn the two cavalierssome distance from the spot, he suddenly wheeled short about, withone of those dexterous movements for which the Moorish horsemen arerenowned; passed swiftly between them, swung himself down from hissaddle, so as to catch up his lance, then, lightly replacing himself, turned to renew the combat. 

Seeing him thus fresh for the encounter, as if just issued from histent, one of the cavaliers put his lips to his horn, and blew a blast, that soon brought the Alcayde and his four companions to the spot. 

The valiant Narvaez, seeing three of his cavaliers extended on theearth, and two others hotly engaged with the Moor, was struck withadmiration, and coveted a contest with so accomplished a warrior. Interfering in the fight, he called upon his followers to desist, andaddressing the Moor, with courteous words, invited him to a more equalcombat. The latter readily accepted the challenge. For some time, theircontest was fierce and doubtful; and the Alcayde had need of all hisskill and strength to ward off the blows of his antagonist. The Moor, however, was exhausted by previous fighting, and by loss of blood. Heno longer sat his horse firmly, nor managed him with his wonted skill. Collecting all his strength for a last assault, he rose in his stirrups, and made a violent thrust with his lance; the Alcayde received it uponhis shield, and at the same time wounded the Moor in the right arm; thenclosing, in the shock, he grasped him in his arms, dragged him from hissaddle, and fell with him to the earth: when putting his knee upon hisbreast, and his dagger to his throat, "Cavalier, " exclaimed he, "renderthyself my prisoner, for thy life is in my hands!"

"Kill me, rather, " replied the Moor, "for death would be less grievousthan loss of liberty. " The Alcayde, however, with the clemency of thetruly brave, assisted the Moor to rise, ministered to his wounds withhis own hands, and had him conveyed with great care to the castle ofAllora. His wounds were slight, and in a few days were nearly cured; butthe deepest wound had been inflicted on his spirit. He was constantlyburied in a profound melancholy. 

The Alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for him, treated him moreas a friend than a captive, and tried in every way to cheer him, but invain; he was always sad and moody, and, when on the battlements ofthe castle, would keep his eyes turned to the south, with a fixed andwistful gaze. 

"How is this?" exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, "that you, who wereso hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all spirit in prison? Ifany secret grief preys on your heart, confide it to me, as to a friend, and I promise you, on the faith of a cavalier, that you shall have nocause to repent the disclosure. "

The Moorish knight kissed the hand of the Alcayde. "Noble cavalier, "said he "that I am cast down in spirit, is not from my wounds, which areslight, nor from my captivity, for your kindness has robbed it of allgloom; nor from my defeat, for to be conquered by so accomplished andrenowned a cavalier, is no disgrace. But to explain to you the cause ofmy grief, it is necessary to give you some particulars of my story; andthis I am moved to do, by the great sympathy you have manifested towardme, and the magnanimity that shines through all your actions. "

"Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez, and that I am of the noble butunfortunate line of the Abencerrages of Granada. You have doubtlessheard of the destruction that fell upon our race. Charged withtreasonable designs, of which they were entirely innocent, many ofthem were beheaded, the rest banished; so that not an Abencerrages waspermitted to remain in Granada, excepting my father and my uncle, whoseinnocence was proved, even to the satisfaction of their persecutors. Itwas decreed, however, that, should they have children, the sons shouldbe educated at a distance from Granada, and the daughters should bemarried out of the kingdom. 

"Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet an infant, to bereared in the fortress of Cartama, the worthy Alcayde of which was anancient friend of my father. He had no children, and received me intohis family as his own child, treating me with the kindness and affectionof a father; and I grew up in the belief that he really was such. A fewyears afterward, his wife gave birth to a daughter, but his tendernesstoward me continued undiminished. I thus grew up with Xarisa, for sothe infant daughter of the Alcayde was called, as her own brother, andthought the growing passion which I felt for her, was mere fraternalaffection. I beheld her charms unfolding, as it were, leaf by leaf, likethe morning rose, each moment disclosing fresh beauty and sweetness. 

"At this period, I overheard a conversation between the Alcayde and hisconfidential domestic, and found myself to be the subject. 'It is time, 'said he, 'to apprise him of his parentage, that he may adopt a careerin life. I have deferred the communication as long as possible, throughreluctance to inform him that he is of a proscribed and an unluckyrace. '

"This intelligence would have overwhelmed me at an earlier period, butthe intimation that Xarisa was not my sister, operated like magic, andin an instant transformed my brotherly affection into ardent love. 

"I sought Xarisa, to impart to her the secret I had learned. I found herin the garden, in a bower of jessamines, arranging her beautiful hair bythe mirror of a crystal fountain. The radiance of her beauty dazzledme. I ran to her with open arms, and she received me with a sister'sembraces. When we had seated ourselves beside the fountain, she began toupbraid me for leaving her so long alone. 

"In reply, I informed her of the conversation I had overheard. Therecital shocked and distressed her. 'Alas!' cried she, 'then is ourhappiness at an end!'

"'How!' exclaimed I; 'wilt thou cease to love me, because I am not thybrother?'

"'Not so, ' replied she; 'but do you not know that when it is once knownwe are not brother and sister, we can no longer be permitted to be thusalways together?'

"In fact, from that moment our intercourse took a new character. Wemet often at the fountain among the jessamines, but Xarisa no longeradvanced with open arms to meet me. She became reserved and silent, andwould blush, and cast down her eyes, when I seated myself beside her. Myheart became a prey to the thousand doubts and fears that ever attendupon true love. I was restless and uneasy, and looked back with regretto the unreserved intercourse that had existed between us, when wesupposed ourselves brother and sister; yet I would not have had therelationship true, for the world. 

"While matters were in this state between us, an order came from theKing of Granada for the Alcayde to take command of the fortress of Coyn, which lies directly on the Christian frontier. He prepared to remove, with all his family, but signified that I should remain at Cartama. Iexclaimed against the separation, and declared that I could not beparted from Xarisa. 'That is the very cause, ' said he, 'why I leave theebehind. It is time, Abendaraez, that thou shouldst know the secret ofthy birth; that thou art no son of mine, neither is Xarisa thy sister. ''I know it all, ' exclaimed I, 'and I love her with tenfold theaffection of a brother. You have brought us up together; you have madeus necessary to each other's happiness; our hearts have entwinedthemselves with our growth; do not now tear them asunder. Fill up themeasure of your kindness; be indeed a father to me, by giving me Xarisafor my wife. '

"The brow of the Alcayde darkened as I spoke. 'Have I then beendeceived?' said he. 'Have those nurtured in my very bosom, beenconspiring against me? Is this your return for my paternaltenderness?--to beguile the affections of my child, and teach her todeceive her father? It was cause enough to refuse thee the hand of mydaughter, that thou wert of a proscribed race, who can never approachthe walls of Granada; this, however, I might have passed over; but neverwill I give my daughter to a man who has endeavored to win her from meby deception. '

"All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa were unavailing. Iretired in anguish from his presence, and seeking Xarisa, told her ofthis blow, which was worse than death to me. 'Xarisa, ' said I, 'wepart for ever! I shall never see thee more! Thy father will guard theerigidly. Thy beauty and his wealth will soon attract some happier rival, and I shall be forgotten!'

"Xarisa reproached me with my want of faith, and promised me eternalconstancy. I still doubted and desponded, until, moved by my anguish anddespair, she agreed to a secret union. Our espousals made, we parted, with a promise on her part to send me word from Coyn, should herfather absent himself from the fortress. The very day after our secretnuptials, I beheld the whole train of the Alcayde depart from Cartama, nor would he admit me to his presence, or permit me to bid farewellto Xarisa. I remained at Cartama, somewhat pacified in spirit by thissecret bond of union; but every thing around me fed my passion, andreminded me of Xarisa. I saw the windows at which I had so often beheldher. I wandered through the apartment she had inhabited; the chamber inwhich she had slept. I visited the bower of jessamines, and lingeredbeside the fountain in which she had delighted. Every thing recalled herto my imagination, and filled my heart with tender melancholy. 

"At length, a confidential servant brought me word, that her fatherwas to depart that day for Granada, on a short absence, inviting me tohasten to Coyn, describing a secret portal at which I should apply, andthe signal by which I would obtain admittance. 

"If ever you have loved, most valiant Alcayde, you may judge of thetransport of my bosom. That very night I arrayed myself in my mostgallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride; and arming myself againstany casual attack, issued forth privately from Cartama. You know therest, and by what sad fortune of war I found myself, instead of a happybridegroom, in the nuptial bower of Coyn, vanquished, wounded, and aprisoner, withing the walls of Allora. The term of absence of the fatherof Xarisa is nearly expired. Within three days he will return to Coyn, and our meeting will no longer be possible. Judge, then, whether Igrieve without cause, and whether I may not well be excused for showingimpatience under confinement. "

Don Rodrigo de Narvaez was greatly moved by this recital; for, thoughmore used to rugged war, than scenes of amorous softness, he was of akind and generous nature. 

"Abendaraez, " said he, "I did not seek thy confidence to gratify an idlecuriosity. It grieves me much that the good fortune which delivered theeinto my hands, should have marred so fair an enterprise. Give me thyfaith, as a true knight, to return prisoner to my castle, within threedays, and I will grant thee permission to accomplish thy nuptials. "

The Abencerrage would have thrown himself at his feet, to pour outprotestations of eternal gratitude, but the Alcayde prevented him. Calling in his cavaliers, he took the Abencerrage by the right hand, intheir presence, exclaiming solemnly, "You promise, on the faith of acavalier, to return to my castle of Allora within three days, and renderyourself my prisoner?" And the Abencerrage said, "I promise. "

Then said the Alcayde, "Go! and may good fortune attend you. Ifyou require any safeguard, I and my cavaliers are ready to be yourcompanions. "

The Abencerrage kissed the hand of the Alcayde, in gratefulacknowledgment. "Give me, " said he, "my own armor, and my steed, andI require no guard. It is not likely that I shall again meet with sovalorous a foe. "

The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple-gray steedsounded over the drawbridge, and immediately afterward the light clatterof hoofs along the road, bespoke the fleetness with which the youthfullover hastened to his bride. It was deep night when the Moor arrived atthe castle of Coyn. He silently and cautiously walked his panting steedunder its dark walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to theportal denoted by Xarisa. He paused and looked around to see that he wasnot observed, and then knocked three times with the butt of his lance. In a little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the duenna ofXarisa. "Alas! senor, " said she, "what has detained you thus long? Everynight have I watched for you; and my lady is sick at heart with doubtand anxiety. "

The Abencerrage hung his lance, and shield, and scimitar against thewall, and then followed the duenna, with silent steps, up a windingstair-case, to the apartment of Xarisa. Vain would be the attempt todescribe the raptures of that meeting. Time flew too swiftly, and theAbencerrage had nearly forgotten, until too late, his promise to returna prisoner to the Alcayde of Allora. The recollection of it came to himwith a pang, and suddenly awoke him from his dream of bliss. Xarisasaw his altered looks, and heard with alarm his stifled sighs; but hercountenance brightened, when she heard the cause. "Let not thy spirit becast down, " said she, throwing her white arms around him. "I have thekeys of my father's treasures; send ransom more than enough to satisfythe Christian, and remain with me. "

"No, " said Abendaraez, "I have given my word to return in person, andlike a true knight, must fulfil my promise. After that, fortune must dowith me as it pleases. "

"Then, " said Xarisa, "I will accompany thee. Never shall you return aprisoner, and I remain at liberty. "

The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof of devotionin his beautiful bride. All preparations were speedily made for theirdeparture. Xarisa mounted behind the Moor, on his powerful steed; theyleft the castle walls before daybreak, nor did they pause, until theyarrived at the gate of the castle of Allora, which was flung wide toreceive them. 

Alighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported the steps of histrembling bride, who remained closely veiled, into the presence ofRodrigo de Narvaez. "Behold, valiant Alcayde!" said he, "the way inwhich an Abencerrage keeps his word. I promised to return to thee aprisoner, but I deliver two captives into your power. Behold Xarisa, and judge whether I grieved without reason, over the loss of such atreasure. Receive us as your own, for I confide my life and her honor toyour hands. "

The Alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of the lady, and thenoble spirit of the Moor. "I know not, " said he, "which of you surpassesthe other; but I know that my castle is graced and honored by yourpresence. Enter into it, and consider it your own, while you deign toreside with me. "

For several days the lovers remained at Allora, happy in each other'slove, and in the friendship of the brave Alcayde. The latter wrote aletter, full of courtesy, to the Moorish king of Granada, relating thewhole event, extolling the valor and good faith of the Abencerrage, andcraving for him the royal countenance. 

The king was moved by the story, and was pleased with an opportunity ofshowing attention to the wishes of a gallant and chivalrous enemy; forthough he had often suffered from the prowess of Don Rodigro de Narvaez, he admired the heroic character he had gained throughout the land. Calling the Alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the letter toread. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with rage, on the perusal. "Restrain thine anger, " said the king; "there is nothing that theAlcayde of Allora could ask, that I would not grant, if in my power. Gothou to Allora; pardon thy children; take them to thy home. I receivethis Abencerrage into my favor, and it will be my delight to heapbenefits upon you all. "

The kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He hastened toAllora; and folded his children to his bosom, who would have fallen athis feet. The gallant Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty to his prisonerwithout ransom, demanding merely a promise of his friendship. Heaccompanied the youthful couple and their father to Coyn, where theirnuptials were celebrated with great rejoicings. When the festivitieswere over, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez returned to his fortress of Allora. 

After his departure, the Alcayde of Coyn addressed his children: "Toyour hands, " said he, "I confide the disposition of my wealth. One ofthe first things I charge you, is not to forget the ransom you owe tothe Alcayde of Allora. His magnanimity you can never repay, but you canprevent it from wronging him of his just dues. Give him, moreover, yourentire friendship, for he merits it fully, though of a different faith. "

The Abencerrage thanked him for his generous proposition, which so trulyaccorded with his own wishes. He took a large sum of gold, and enclosedit in a rich coffer; and, on his own part, sent six beautiful horses, superbly caparisoned; with six shields and lances, mounted and embossedwith gold. The beautiful Xarisa, at the same time, wrote a letter to theAlcayde, filled with expressions of gratitude and friendship, and senthim a box of fragrant cypress-wood, containing linen, of the finestquality, for his person. The valiant Alcayde disposed of the presentin a characteristic manner. The horses and armor he shared among thecavaliers who had accompanied him on the night of the skirmish. Thebox of cypress-wood and its contents he retained, for the sake of thebeautiful Xarisa; and sent her, by the hands of a messenger, the sumof gold paid as a ransom, entreating her to receive it as a weddingpresent. This courtesy and magnanimity raised the character of theAlcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still higher in the estimation of the Moors, who extolled him as a perfect mirror of chivalric virtue; and from thattime forward, there was a continual exchange of good offices betweenthem. 

 * * * * *

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

 Break, Phantsie, from thy cave of cloud, And wave thy purple wings, Now all thy figures are allowed, And various shapes of things. Create of airy forms a stream; It must have blood and nought of phlegm; And though it be a walking dream, Yet let it like an odor rise To all the senses here, And fall like sleep upon their eyes, Or music on their ear. --BEN JONSON. 

"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in ourphilosophy, " and among these may be placed that marvel and mystery ofthe seas, the island of St. Brandan. Every school-boy can enumerate andcall by name the Canaries, the Fortunate Islands of the ancients; which, according to some ingenious speculative minds, are mere wrecks andremnants of the vast island of Atalantis, mentioned by Plato, as havingbeen swallowed up by the ocean. Whoever has read the history of thoseisles, will remember the wonders told of another island, still morebeautiful, seen occasionally from their shores, stretching away in theclear bright west, with long shadowy promontories, and high, sun-giltpeaks. Numerous expeditions, both in ancient and modern days, havelaunched forth from the Canaries in quest of that island; but, on theirapproach, mountain and promontory have gradually faded away, untilnothing has remained but the blue sky above, and the deep blue waterbelow. Hence it was termed by the geographers of old, Aprositus, or theInaccessible; while modern navigators have called its very existence inquestion, pronouncing it a mere optical illusion, like the Fata Morganaof the Straits of Messina; or classing it with those unsubstantialregions known to mariners as Cape Flyaway, and the Coast of Cloud Land. 

Let not, however, the doubts of the worldly-wise sceptics of modern daysrob us of all the glorious realms owned by happy credulity in days ofyore. Be assured, O reader of easy faith!--thou for whom I delight tolabor--be assured, that such an island does actually exist, and has, from time to time, been revealed to the gaze, and trodden by the feet, of favored mortals. Nay, though doubted by historians and philosophers, its existence is fully attested by the poets, who, being an inspiredrace, and gifted with a kind of second sight, can see into the mysteriesof nature, hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals. To this gifted raceit has ever been a region of fancy and romance, teeming with all kindsof wonders. Here once bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the famousgarden of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit. Here, too, was theenchanted garden of Armida, in which that sorceress held the Christianpaladin, Rinaldo, in delicious but inglorious thraldom; as is set forthin the immortal lay of Tasso. It was on this island, also, that Sycorax, the witch, held sway, when the good Prospero, and his infant daughterMiranda, were wafted to its shores. The isle was then

 ---"full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. "

Who does not know the tale, as told in the magic page of Shakspeare?

In fact, the island appears to have been, at different times, under thesway of different powers, genii of earth, and air, and ocean; who madeit their shadowy abode; or rather, it is the retiring place of oldworn-out deities and dynasties, that once ruled the poetic world, but are now nearly shorn of all their attributes. Here Neptune andAmphitrite hold a diminished court, like sovereigns in exile. Theirocean-chariot lies bottom upward, in a cave of the island, almost aperfect wreck, while their pursy Tritons and haggard Nereids basklistlessly, like seals about the rocks. Sometimes they assume a shadowof their ancient pomp, and glide in state about the glassy sea; whilethe crew of some tall Indiaman, that lies becalmed with flapping sails, hear with astonishment the mellow note of the Triton's shell swellingupon the ear, as the invisible pageant sweeps by. Sometimes the quondammonarch of the ocean is permitted to make himself visible to mortaleyes, visiting the ships that cross the line, to exact a tribute fromnew-comers; the only remnant of his ancient rule, and that, alas!performed with tattered state, and tarnished splendor. 

On the shores of this wondrous island, the mighty kraken heaves hisbulk, and wallows many a rood; here, too, the sea-serpent lies coiledup, during the intervals of his much-contested revelations to theeyes of true believers; and here it is said, even the Flying Dutchmanfinds a port and casts his anchor, and furls his shadowy sail, andtakes a short repose from his eternal wanderings. 

Here all the treasures lost in the deep are safely garnered. The cavernsof the shores are piled with golden ingots, hexes of pearls, rich balesof oriental silks; and their deep recesses sparkle with diamonds, orflame with carbuncles. Here, in deep bays and harbors, lies many aspell-bound ship, long given up as lost by the ruined merchant. Here, too, its crew, long bewailed as swallowed up in ocean, lie sleeping inmossy grottoes, from age to age, or wander about enchanted shores andgroves, in pleasing oblivion of all things. 

Such are some of the marvels related of this island, and which may serveto throw some light on the following legend, of unquestionable truth, which I recommend to the entire belief of the reader. 

 * * * * *

_THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES_. 

A LEGEND OF ST. BRANDAN. 

In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry ofPortugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery alongthe western coast of Africa, and the world was resounding with reportsof golden regions on the main land, and new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who hadbeen driven by tempests, he knew not whither, and who raved about anisland far in the deep, on which he had landed, and which he had foundpeopled with Christians, and adorned with noble cities. 

The inhabitants, he said, gathered round, and regarded him withsurprise, having never before been visited by a ship. They told him theywere descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when thatcountry was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the stateof their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still heldpossession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the oldnavigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, eitherthrough lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declinedtheir invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He wasproperly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him from his anchorage, hurried him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island. 

This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere. Thoseversed in history, remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle, that, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, whenthe blessed cross was cast down, and the crescent erected in its place, and when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, sevenbishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from thepeninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land, where they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faithunmolested. 

The fate of these pious saints errant had hitherto remained amystery, and their story had faded from memory; the report of the oldtempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; andit was determined by the pious and enthusiastic, that the island thusaccidentally discovered, was the identical place of refuge, whither thewandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and wherethey had folded their flocks. 

This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object ofchimerical enterprise: the "Island of the Seven Cities" now awakened asmuch interest and longing among zealous Christians, as has the renownedcity of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers, or the North-eastPassage among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of thedevout, that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian familymight be discovered, and reunited to the great body of Christendom. 

No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal of DonFernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing in the Portuguesecourt, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recentlycome to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds of pleasures andexcitements, when this new theme of popular talk and wonder presenteditself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant subjectof his thoughts by day and his dreams by night; it even rivalled hispassion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, towhom he was betrothed. At length his imagination became so inflamed onthe subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his ownexpense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not bea cruise of any great extent; for according to the calculations of thetempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude of theCanaries; which at that time, when the new world was as yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Don Fernando applied to thecrown for countenance and protection. As he was a favorite at court, theusual patronage was readily extended to him; that is to say, he receiveda commission from the king, Don Ioam II. , constituting him Adelantado, or military governor, of any country he might discover, with the singleproviso, that he should bear all the expenses of the discovery and pay atenth of the profits to the crown. 

Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector. He soldacre after acre of solid land, and invested the proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon wasmortgaged without scruple, for "he looked forward to a palace in one ofthe Seven Cities of which he was to be Adelantado. " This was the age ofnautical romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers wereturned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore, drewadventurers of every kind. The merchant promised himself new marts ofopulent traffic; the soldier hoped to sack and plunder some one or otherof those Seven Cities; even the fat monk shook off the sleep and slothof the cloister, to join in a crusade which promised such increase tothe possessions of the church. 

One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contemptand growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of thebeautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one ofthose perverse, matter-of-fact old men who are prone to oppose everything speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of theSeven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak;looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of hisintended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the moon, and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Lubberland. In fact, he hadnever really relished the intended match, to which his consent had beenslowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is truehe could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don Fernandowas the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel him atthe tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold anddexterous in the bull-fight; none composed more gallant madrigals inpraise of his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to theaccompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanetsand dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirablequalities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient towin the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonablefather. O Cupid, god of Love! why will fathers always be sounreasonable!

The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstaclein the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexedhim in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady; buthe was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How shouldhe reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and obviousarrangement at length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portionof the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from thediscovery of the Seven Cities!

He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth in a stormabout his ears. He reproached him with being the dupe of wanderingvagabonds and wild schemers, and of squandering all his real possessionsin pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too young a man, to listen tamely to such language. He acted withwhat is technically called "becoming spirit. " A high quarrel ensued; DonRamiro pronounced him a mad man, and forbade all farther intercoursewith his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity byabandoning this mad-cap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out ofthe house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea oftriumphing over the incredulity of the gray-beard when he should returnsuccessful. 

Don Ramiro repaired to his daughter's chamber the moment the youth haddeparted. He represented to her the sanguine, unsteady character of herlover and the chimerical nature of his schemes; showed her the proprietyof suspending all intercourse with him until he should recover from hispresent hallucination; folded her to his bosom with parental fondness, kissed the tear that stole down her cheek, and, as he left the chamber, gently locked the door; for although he was a fond father, and had ahigh opinion of the submissive temper of his child, he had a stillhigher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock and key. Whether thedamsel had been in any wise shaken in her faith as to the schemes of herlover, and the existence of the Island of the Seven Cities, by the sagerepresentations of her father, tradition does not say; but it is certainthat she became a firm believer the moment she heard him turn the key inthe lock. 

Notwithstanding the interdict of Don Ramiro, therefore, and hisshrewd precautions, the intercourse of the lovers continued, althoughclandestinely. Don Fernando toiled all day, hurrying forward hisnautical enterprise, while at night he would repair, beneath thegrated balcony of his mistress, to carry on at equal pace the no lessinteresting enterprise of the heart. At length the preparations for theexpedition were completed. Two gallant caravels lay anchored in theTagus, ready to sail with the morning dawn; while late at night, by thepale light of a waning moon, Don Fernando sought the stately mansion ofAlvarez to take a last farewell of Serafina. The customary signal of afew low touches of a guitar brought her to the balcony. She was sad atheart and full of gloomy forebodings; but her lover strove to impart toher his own buoyant hope and youthful confidence. "A few short months, "said he, "and I shall return in triumph. Thy father will then blush athis incredulity, and will once more welcome me to his house, whenI cross its threshold a wealthy suitor and Adelantado of the SevenCities. "

The beautiful Serafina shook her head mournfully. It was not on thosepoints that she felt doubt or dismay. She believed most implicitly inthe Island of the Seven Cities, and trusted devoutly in the success ofthe enterprise; but she had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, andthe inconstancy of those who roam them. Now, let the truth be spoken, Don Fernando, if he had any fault in the world, it was that he was alittle too inflammable; that is to say, a little too subject to takefire from the sparkle of every bright eye: he had been somewhat of arover among the sex on shore, what might he not be on sea? Might henot meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might he not behold somepeerless beauty in one or other of those seven cities, who might effacethe image of Serafina from his thoughts?

At length she ventured to hint her doubts; but Don Fernando spurned atthe very idea. Never could his heart be false to Serafina! Never couldanother be captivating in his eyes!--never--never! Repeatedly did hebend his knee, and smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon towitness the sincerity of his vows. But might not Serafina, herself, beforgetful of her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present, while he was tossing on the sea, and, backed by the authority of herfather, win the treasure of her hand? Alas, how little did he knowSerafina's heart! The more her father should oppose, the more would shebe fixed in her faith. Though years should pass before his return, hewould find her true to her vows. Even should the salt seas swallow himup, (and her eyes streamed with salt tears at the very thought, ) neverwould she be the wife of another--never--never! She raised her beautifulwhite arms between the iron bars of the balcony, and invoked the moon asa testimonial of her faith. 

Thus, according to immemorial usage, the lovers parted, with many a vowof eternal constancy. But will they keep those vows? Perish the doubt!Have they not called the constant moon to witness?

With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus and putto sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions ofnautical romance. Scarcely had they reached those latitudes, when aviolent tempest arose. Don Fernando soon lost sight of the accompanyingcaravel, and was driven out of all reckoning by the fury of the storm. For several weary days and nights he was tossed to and fro, at the mercyof the elements, expecting each moment to be swallowed up. At length, one day toward evening, the storm subsided; the clouds cleared up, asthough a veil had suddenly been withdrawn from the face of heaven, andthe setting sun shone gloriously upon a fair and mountainous island, that seemed close at hand. The tempest-tossed mariners rubbed theireyes, and gazed almost incredulously upon this land, that had emerged sosuddenly from the murky gloom; yet there it lay, spread out in lovelylandscapes; enlivened by villages, and towers, and spires, while thelate stormy sea rolled in peaceful billows to its shores. About a leaguefrom the sea, on the banks of a river, stood a noble city, with loftywalls and towers, and a protecting castle. Don Fernando anchored offthe mouth of the river, which appeared to form a spacious harbor. In alittle while a barge was seen issuing from the river. It was evidentlya barge of ceremony, for it was richly though quaintly carved and gilt, and decorated with a silken awning and fluttering streamers, while abanner, bearing the sacred emblem of the cross, floated to the breeze. The barge advanced slowly, impelled by sixteen oars, painted of a brightcrimson. The oarsmen were uncouth, or rather antique, in their garb, andkept stroke to the regular cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Beneath theawning sat a cavalier, in a rich though old-fashioned doublet, with anenormous sombrero and feather. When the barge reached the caravel, thecavalier stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt, with a long, Spanishvisage, and lack-lustre eyes, and an air of lofty and somewhat pompousgravity. His mustaches were curled up to his ears, his beard was forkedand precise; he wore gauntlets that reached to his elbows, and a Toledoblade that strutted out behind, while, in front, its huge basket-hiltmight have served for a porringer. 

Thrusting out a long spindle leg, and taking off his sombrero with agrave and stately sweep, he saluted Don Fernando by name, and welcomedhim, in old Castilian language, and in the style of old Castiliancourtesy. 

Don Fernando was startled at hearing himself accosted by name, by anutter stranger, in a strange land. As soon as he could recover from hissurprise, he inquired what land it was at which he had arrived. 

"The Island of the Seven Cities!"

Could this be true? Had he indeed been thus tempest-driven upon the veryland of which he was in quest? It was even so. The other caravel, fromwhich he had been separated in the storm, had made a neighboring port ofthe island, and announced the tidings of this expedition, which came torestore the country to the great community of Christendom. The wholeisland, he was told, was given up to rejoicings on the happy event; andthey only awaited his arrival to acknowledge allegiance to the crown ofPortugal, and hail him as Adelantado of the Seven Cities. A grand fêtewas to be solemnized that very night in the palace of the Alcayde orgovernor of the city; who, on beholding the most opportune arrival ofthe caravel, had despatched his grand chamberlain, in his barge ofstate, to conduct the future Adelantado to the ceremony. 

Don Fernando could scarcely believe but that this was all a dream. He fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon the grand chamberlain, who, havingdelivered his message, stood in buckram dignity, drawn up to his fullstature, curling his whiskers, stroking his beard, and looking down uponhim with inexpressible loftiness through his lack-lustre eyes. There wasno doubting the word of so grave and ceremonious a hidalgo. 

Don Fernando now arrayed himself in gala attire. He would have launchedhis boat, and gone on shore with his own men, but he was informed thebarge of state was expressly provided for his accommodation, and, afterthe fête, would bring him back to his ship; in which, on the followingday, he might enter the harbor in befitting style. He accordinglystepped into the barge, and took his seat beneath the awning. The grandchamberlain seated himself on the cushion opposite. The rowers bent totheir oars, and renewed their mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous, butunwieldy barge moved slowly and solemnly through the water. 

The night closed in, before they entered the river. They swept along, past rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. The sentinels atevery post challenged them as they passed by. 

"Who goes there?"

"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities. "

"He is welcome. Pass on. "

On entering the harbor, they rowed close along an armed galley, of themost ancient form. Soldiers with cross-bows were stationed on the deck. 

"Who goes there?" was again demanded. 

"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities. "

"He is welcome. Pass on. "

They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up, between twomassive towers, to the water-gate of the city, at which they knocked foradmission. A sentinel, in an ancient steel casque, looked over the wall. "Who is there?"

"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities. "

The gate swung slowly open, grating upon its rusty hinges. They enteredbetween two rows of iron-clad warriors, in battered armor, withcross-bows, battle-axes, and ancient maces, and with faces asold-fashioned and rusty as their armor. They saluted Don Fernando inmilitary style, but with perfect silence, as he passed between theirranks. The city was illuminated, but in such manner as to give a moreshadowy and solemn effect to its old-time architecture. There werebonfires in the principal streets, with groups about them in suchold-fashioned garbs, that they looked like the fantastic figures thatroam the streets in carnival time. Even the stately dames who gazed fromthe balconies, which they had hung with antique tapestry, looked morelike effigies dressed up for a quaint mummery, than like ladies in theirfashionable attire. Every thing, in short, bore the stamp of formerages, as if the world had suddenly rolled back a few centuries. Nor wasthis to be wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been forseveral hundred years cut off from all communication with the rest ofthe world, and was it not natural that the inhabitants should retainmany of the modes and customs brought here by their ancestors?

One thing certainly they had conserved; the old-fashioned Spanishgravity and stateliness. Though this was a time of public rejoicing, andthough Don Fernando was the object of their gratulations, every thingwas conducted with the most solemn ceremony, and wherever he appeared, instead of acclamations, he was received with profound silence, and themost formal reverences and swayings of their sombreros. 

Arrived at the palace of the Alcayde, the usual ceremonial was repeated. The chamberlain knocked for admission. 

"Who is there?" demanded the porter. 

"The Adelantado of the Seven Cities. "

"He is welcome. Pass on. "

The grand portal was thrown open. The chamberlain led the way up a vastbut heavily moulded marble stair-case, and so through one of thoseinterminable suites of apartments, that are the pride of Spanishpalaces. All were furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. As theypassed through the chambers, the title of Don Fernando was forwarded onby servants stationed at every door; and every where produced the mostprofound reverences and courtesies. At length they reached a magnificentsaloon, blazing with tapers, in which the Alcayde, and the principaldignitaries of the city, were waiting to receive their illustriousguest. The grand chamberlain presented Don Fernando in due form, andfalling back among the other officers of the household, stood as usualcurling his whiskers and stroking his forked beard. 

Don Fernando was received by the Alcayde and the other dignitaries withthe same stately and formal courtesy that he had every where remarked. In fact, there was so much form and ceremonial, that it seemed difficultto get at any thing social or substantial. Nothing but bows, andcompliments, and old-fashioned courtesies. The Alcayde and his courtiersresembled, in face and form, those quaint worthies to be seen in thepictures of old illuminated manuscripts; while the cavaliers and dameswho thronged the saloon, might have beep taken for the antique figuresof gobelin tapestry suddenly vivified and put in motion. 

The banquet, which had been kept back until the arrival of Don Fernando, was now announced; and such a feast! such unknown dishes and obsoletedainties; with the peacock, that bird of state and ceremony, served upin full plumage, in a golden dish, at the head of the table. And then, as Don Fernando cast his eyes over the glittering board, what a vista ofodd heads and head-dresses, of formal bearded dignitaries, and statelydames, with castellated locks and towering plumes!

As fate would have it, on the other side of Don Fernando, was seated thedaughter of the Alcayde. She was arrayed, it is true, in a dress thatmight have been worn before the flood; but then, she had a melting blackAndalusian eye, that was perfectly irresistible. Her voice, too, hermanner, her movements, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how femalefascination may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime, without ever losing its power, or going out of fashion. Those who knowthe witchery of the sex, in that most amorous region of old Spain, mayjudge what must have been the fascination to which Don Fernandowas exposed, when seated beside one of the most captivating of itsdescendants. He was, as has already been hinted, of an inflammabletemperament; with a heart ready to get in a light blaze at everyinstant. And then he had been so wearied by pompous, tedious oldcavaliers, with their formal bows and speeches; is it to be wondered atthat he turned with delight to the Alcayde's daughter, all smiles, anddimples, and melting looks, and melting accents? Beside, for I wish togive him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitablemood, from the novelty of the scene before him, and his head was almostturned with this sudden and complete realization of all his hopes andfancies; and then, in the flurry of the moment, he had taken frequentdraughts at the wine-cup, presented him at every instant by officiouspages, and all the world knows the effect of such draughts in givingpotency to female charms. In a word, there is no concealing the matter, the banquet was not half over, before Don Fernando was making love, outright, to the Alcayde's daughter. It was his cold habitude, contracted long before his matrimonial engagement. The young lady hungher head coyly; her eye rested upon a ruby heart, sparkling in a ring onthe hand of Don Fernando, a parting gage of love from Serafina. A blushcrimsoned her very temples. She darted a glance of doubt at thering, and then at Don Fernando. He read her doubt, and in the giddyintoxication of the moment, drew off the pledge of his affianced bride, and slipped it on the finger of the Alcayde's daughter. 

At this moment the banquet broke up. The chamberlain with his loftydemeanor, and his lack-lustre eyes, stood before him, and announced thatthe barge was waiting to conduct him back to the caravel. Don Fernandotook a formal leave of the Alcayde and his dignitaries, and a tenderfarewell of the Alcayde's daughter, with a promise to throw himself ather feet on the following day. He was rowed back to his vessel in thesame slow and stately manner, to the cadence of the same mournful oldditty. He retired to his cabin, his brain whirling with all that he hadseen, and his heart now and then giving him a twinge as he recollectedhis temporary infidelity to the beautiful Serafina. He flung himself onhis bed, and soon fell into a feverish sleep. His dreams were wild andincoherent. How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke he foundhimself in a strange cabin, with persons around him of whom he had noknowledge. He rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether he were really awake. In reply to his inquiries, he was informed that he was on board of aPortuguese ship, bound to Lisbon; having been taken senseless from awreck drifting about the ocean. 

Don Fernando was confounded and perplexed. He retraced every thingdistinctly that had happened to him in the Island of the Seven Cities, and until he had retired to rest on board of the caravel. Had his vesselbeen driven from her anchors, and wrecked during his sleep? The peopleabout him could give him no information on the subject. He talked tothem of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of all that had befallen himthere. They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in theirhonest solicitude, administered such rough remedies, that he was fain todrop the subject, and observe a cautious taciturnity. 

At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before the famous cityof Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened to hisancestral mansion. To his surprise, it was inhabited by strangers; andwhen he asked about his family, no one could give him any informationconcerning them. 

He now sought the mansion of Don Ramiro, for the temporary flame kindledby the bright eyes of the Alcayde's daughter had long since burnt itselfout, and his genuine passion for Serafina had revived with all itsfervor. He approached the balcony, beneath which he had so oftenserenaded her. Did his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herselfat the balcony. An exclamation of rapture burst from him, as he raisedhis arms toward her. She cast upon him a look of indignation, andhastily retiring, closed the casement. Could she have heard of hisflirtation with the Alcayde's daughter? He would soon dispel every doubtof his constancy. The door was open. He rushed up-stairs, and enteringthe room, threw himself at her feet. She shrank back with affright, andtook refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier. 

"What mean you, Sir, " cried the latter, "by this intrusion?"

"What right have you, " replied Don Fernando, "to ask the question?"

"The right of an affianced suitor!"

Don Fernando started, and turned pale. "Oh, Serafina! Serafina!" criedhe in a tone of agony, "is this thy plighted constancy?"

"Serafina?--what mean you by Serafina? If it be this young lady youintend, her name is Maria. "

"Is not this Serafina Alvarez, and is not that her portrait?" cried DonFernando, pointing to a picture of his mistress. 

"Holy Virgin!" cried the young lady; "he is talking of mygreat-grandmother!"

An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation, whichplunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity. If he mightbelieve his eyes, he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he mightbelieve his ears, it was merely her hereditary form and features, perpetuated in the person of her great-granddaughter. 

His brain began to spin. He sought tho office of the Minister of Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the Island of the SevenCities, which he had so fortunately discovered. No body knew any thingof such an expedition, or such an island. He declared that he hadundertaken the enterprise under a formal contract with the crown, andhad received a regular commission, constituting him Adelantado. Thismust be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of thedepartment should be consulted. The wordy strife at length attracted theattention of an old, gray-headed clerk, who sat perched on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into an enormous folio. He had winteredand summered in the department for a great part of a century, until hehad almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memorywas a mere index of official facts and documents, and his brain waslittle better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a timefrom his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy, heput his pen behind his ear, and descended. He remembered to have heardsomething from his predecessor about an expedition of the kind inquestion, but then it had sailed during the reign of Don Ioam II. , andhe had been dead at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyonddispute, however, the archives of the Torve do Tombo, that sepulchre ofold Portuguese documents, were diligently searched, and a record wasfound of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de Ulmo, for thediscovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of a commission securedto him as Adelantado of the country he might discover. 

"There!" cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, "there you have proof, beforeyour own eyes, of what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo specifiedin that record. I have discovered the Island of the Seven Cities, and amentitled to be Adelantado, according to contract. "

The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced the bestof historical foundation, documentary evidence; but when a man, in thebloom of youth, talked of events that had taken place above a centurypreviously, as having happened to himself, it is no wonder that he wasset down for a mad man. 

The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles, shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his lofty stool, took the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his daily and eternaltask, copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of giganticfolios. The other clerks winked at each other shrewdly, and dispersed totheir several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flungout of the office, almost driven wild by these repeated perplexities. 

In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the mansionof Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break the delusion underwhich the youth apparently labored, and to convince him that theSerafina about whom he raved was really dead, he was conducted to hertomb. There she lay, a stately matron, cut out in alabaster; and therelay her husband beside her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and thereknelt, on each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving thatshe had been a fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave proof of thelapse of time, for the hands of her husband, which were folded as if inprayer, had lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely Serafinawas noseless. 

Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding thismonumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but who couldexpect a mistress to remain constant during a whole century of absence?And what right had he to rail about constancy, after what had passedbetween him and the Alcayde's daughter? The unfortunate cavalierperformed one pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose ofSerafina restored by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from thetomb. 

He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or other, he hadskipped over a whole century, during the night he had spent at theIsland of the Seven Cities; and he was now as complete a stranger in hisnative city, as if he had never been there. A thousand times did hewish himself back to that wonderful island, with its antiquated banquethalls, where he had been so courteously received; and now that the onceyoung and beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother inmarble, with generations of descendants, a thousand times would herecall the melting black eyes of the Alcayde's daughter, who doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility, and breathe asecret wish that he were seated by her side. 

He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his ownexpense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his means wereexhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, settingforth the certainty of profitable results, of which his own experiencefurnished such unquestionable proof. Alas! no one would give faith tohis tale; but looked upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwreckedman. He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all places andall companies, until he became an object of jest and jeer to thelight-minded, who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof ofinsanity; and the very children in the streets bantered him with thetitle of "The Adelantado of the Seven Cities. "

Finding all his efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he tookshipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of his formercruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure. Here hefound ready listeners to his story; for the old pilots and mariners ofthose parts were notorious island-hunters and devout believers in allthe wonders of the seas. Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as acommon occurrence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod ofthe head, observed, "He has been at the Island of St. Brandan. "

They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and enigma ofthe ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants of theirislands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been madein search of it. They took him to a promontory of the island of Palma, from whence the shadowy St. Brandan had oftenest been descried, and theypointed out the very tract in the west where its mountains had beenseen. 

Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer a doubt thatthis mysterious and fugacious island must be the same with that ofthe Seven Cities; and that there must be some supernatural influenceconnected with it, that had operated upon himself, and made the eventsof a night occupy the space of a century. 

He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another attempt atdiscovery; they had given up the phantom island as indeed inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged. The idea wore itselfdeeper and deeper in his mind, until it became the engrossing subject ofhis thoughts and object of his being. Every morning he would repair tothe promontory of Palma, and sit there throughout the live-long day, inhopes of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above thehorizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed man, butready to resume his post on the following morning. 

His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual attempt;and was at length found dead at his post. His grave is still shown inthe island of Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he usedto sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the reappearance of theenchanted island. 

 * * * * *

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir: I am somewhat of the same way of thinking, in regard to names, withthat profound philosopher, Mr. Shandy, the elder, who maintained thatsome inspired high thoughts and heroic aims, while others entailedirretrievable meanness and vulgarity; insomuch that a man might sinkunder the insignificance of his name, and be absolutely "Nicodemusedinto nothing. " I have ever, therefore, thought it a great hardship for aman to be obliged to struggle through life with some ridiculous orignoble _Christian_ name, as it is too often falsely called, inflictedon him in infancy, when he could not choose for himself; and would givehim free liberty to change it for one more to his taste, when he hadarrived at years of discretion. 

I have the same notion with respect to local names. Some at onceprepossess us in favor of a place; others repel us, by unluckyassociations of the mind; and I have known scenes worthy of being thevery haunt of poetry and romance, yet doomed to irretrievable vulgarity, by some ill-chosen name, which not even the magic numbers of a Halleckor a Bryant could elevate into poetical acceptation. 

This is an evil unfortunately too prevalent throughout our country. Nature has stamped the land with features of sublimity and beauty; butsome of our noblest mountains and loveliest streams are in danger ofremaining for ever unhonored and unsung, from bearing appellationstotally abhorrent to the Muse. In the first place, our country isdeluged with names taken from places in the old world, and applied toplaces having no possible affinity or resemblance to their namesakes. This betokens a forlorn poverty of invention, and a second-hand spirit, content to cover its nakedness with borrowed or cast-off clothes ofEurope. 

Then we have a shallow affectation of scholarship: the whole catalogueof ancient worthies is shaken out from the back of Lempriere's ClassicalDictionary, and a wide region of wild country sprinkled over with thenames of the heroes, poets, and sages of antiquity, jumbled into themost whimsical juxtaposition. Then we have our political god-fathers;topographical engineers, perhaps, or persons employed by government tosurvey and lay out townships. These, forsooth, glorify the patrons thatgive them bread; so we have the names of the great official men of theday scattered over the land, as if they were the real "salt of theearth, " with which it was to be seasoned. Well for us is it, when theseofficial great men happen to have names of fair acceptation; but wo untous, should a Tubbs or a Potts be in power: we are sure, in a littlewhile, to find Tubbsvilles and Pottsylvanias springing up in everydirection. 

Under these melancholy dispensations of taste and loyalty, therefore, Mr. Editor, it is with a feeling of dawning hope, that I have latelyperceived the attention of persons of intelligence beginning to beawakened on this subject. I trust if the matter should once be takenup, it will not be readily abandoned. We are yet young enough, as acountry, to remedy and reform much of what has been done, and to releasemany of our rising towns and cities, and our noble streams, from namescalculated to vulgarize the land. 

I have, on a former occasion, suggested the expediency of searching outthe original Indian names of places, and wherever they are striking andeuphonious, and those by which they have been superseded are glaringlyobjectionable, to restore them. They would have the merit oforiginality, and of belonging to the country; and they would remain asreliques of the native lords of the soil, when every other vestige haddisappeared. Many of these names may easily be regained, by reference toold title deeds, and to the archives of states and counties. In my owncase, by examining the records of the county clerk's office, I havediscovered the Indian names of various places and objects in theneighborhood, and have found them infinitely superior to the trite, poverty-stricken names which had been given by the settlers. A beautifulpastoral stream, for instance, which winds for many a mile through oneof the loveliest little valleys in the state, has long been known by thecommon-place name of the "Saw-mill River. " In the old Indian grants, itis designated as the Neperan. Another, a perfectly wizard stream, whichwinds through the wildest recesses of Sleepy Hollow, bears the hum-drumname of Mill Creek: in the Indian grants, it sustains the euphonioustitle of the Pocantico. 

Similar researches have released Long-Island from many of those paltryand vulgar names which fringed its beautiful shores; their Cow Bays, andCow Necks, and Oyster Ponds, and Mosquito Coves, which spread a spell ofvulgarity over the whole island, and kept persons of taste and fancy ata distance. 

It would be an object worthy the attention of the historical societies, which are springing up in various parts of the Union, to have mapsexecuted of their respective states or neighborhoods, in which all theIndian local names should, as far as possible, be restored. In fact, it appears to me that the nomenclature of the country is almost ofsufficient importance for the foundation of a distinct society; orrather, a corresponding association of persons of taste and judgment, ofall parts of the Union. Such an association, if properly constituted andcomposed, comprising especially all the literary talent of the country, though it might not have legislative power in its enactments, yetwould have the all-pervading power of the press; and the changes innomenclature which it might dictate, being at once adopted by elegantwriters in prose and poetry, and interwoven with the literature of thecountry, would ultimately pass into popular currency. 

Should such a reforming association arise, I beg to recommend to itsattention all those mongrel names that have the adjective _New_ prefixedto them, and pray they may be one and all kicked out of the country. I am for none of these second-hand appellations, that stamp us asecond-hand people, and that are to perpetuate us a new country to theend of time. Odds my life! Mr. Editor, I hope and trust we are to liveto be an old nation, as well as our neighbors, and have no idea thatour cities, when they shall have attained to venerable antiquity, shallstill be dubbed _New_-York, and _New_-London, and _new_ this and _new_that, like the Pont-Neuf, (the New Bridge, ) at Paris, which is theoldest bridge in that capital, or like the Vicar of Wakefield's horse, which continued to be called "the colt, " until he died of old age. 

Speaking of New-York, reminds me of some observations which I met withsome time since, in one of the public papers, about the name of ourstate and city. The writer proposes to substitute for the present names, those of the State of Ontario, and the CITY OF MANHATTAN. I concur inhis suggestion most heartily. Though born and brought up in the city ofNew-York, and though I love every stick and stone about it, yet I donot, nor ever did, relish its name. I like neither its sound nor itssignificance. As to its _significance_, the very adjective _new_ givesto our great commercial metropolis a second-hand character, as ifreferring to some older, more dignified, and important place, of whichit was a mere copy; though in fact, if I am rightly informed, the wholename commemorates a grant by Charles II. To his brother, the duke ofYork, made in the spirit of royal munificence, of a tract of countrywhich did not belong to him. As to the _sound_, what can you make of it, either in poetry or prose? New-York! Why, Sir, if it were to share thefate of Troy itself; to suffer a ten years' siege, and be sacked andplundered; no modern Homer would ever be able to elevate the name toepic dignity. 

Now, Sir, ONTARIO would be a name worthy of the empire state. It bearswith it the majesty of that internal sea which washes our northwesternshore. Or, if any objection should be made, from its not beingcompletely embraced within our boundaries, there is the MOHEGAN, oneof the Indian names for that glorious river, the Hudson, which wouldfurnish an excellent state appellation. So also New-York might be calledManhatta, as it is named in some of the early records, and Manhattanused as the adjective. Manhattan, however, stands well as a substantive, and "Manhattanese, " which I observe Mr. COOPER has adopted in some ofhis writings, would be a very good appellation for a citizen of thecommercial metropolis. 

A word or two more, Mr. Editor, and I have done. We want a NATIONALNAME. We want it poetically, and we want it politically. With thepoetical necessity of the case I shall not trouble myself. I leave it toour poets to tell how they manage to steer that collocation of words, "The United States of North America, " down the swelling tide of song, and to float the whole raft out upon the sea of heroic poesy. I am nowspeaking of the mere purposes of common life. How is a citizen of thisrepublic to designate himself? As an American? There are two Americas, each subdivided into various empires, rapidly rising in importance. As acitizen of the United States? It is a clumsy, lumbering title, yet stillit is not distinctive; for we have now the United States of CentralAmerica; and heaven knows how many "United States" may spring up underthe Proteus changes of Spanish America. 

This may appear matter of small concernment; but any one that hastravelled in foreign countries must be conscious of the embarrassmentand circumlocution sometimes occasioned by the want of a perfectlydistinct and explicit national appellation. In France, when I haveannounced myself as an American, I have been supposed to belong to oneof the French colonies; in Spain, to be from Mexico, or Peru, or someother Spanish-American country. Repeatedly have I found myself involvedin a long geographical and political definition of my national identity. 

Now, Sir, meaning no disrespect to any of our co-heirs of this greatquarter of the world, I am for none of this coparceny in a name that isto mingle us up with the riff-raff colonies and off-sets of every nationof Europe. The title of American may serve to tell the quarter of theworld to which I belong, the same as a Frenchman or an Englishman maycall himself a European; but I want my own peculiar national name torally under. I want an appellation that shall tell at once, and in away not to be mistaken, that I belong to this very portion of America, geographical and political, to which it is my pride and happiness tobelong; that I am of the Anglo-Saxon race which founded this Anglo-Saxonempire in the wilderness; and that I have no part or parcel with anyother race or empire, Spanish, French, or Portuguese, in either of theAmericas. Such an appellation, Sir, would have magic in it. It wouldbind every part of the confederacy together as with a keystone; it wouldbe a passport to the citizen of our republic throughout the world. 

We have it in our power to furnish ourselves with such a nationalappellation, from one of the grand and eternal features of our country;from that noble chain of mountains which formed its back-bone, and ranthrough the "old confederacy, " when it first declared our nationalindependence. I allude to the Appalachian or Alleghany mountains. Wemight do this without any very inconvenient change in our presenttitles. We might still use the phrase, "The United States, " substitutingAppalachia, or Alleghania, (I should prefer the latter, ) in place ofAmerica. The title of Appalachian, or Alleghanian, would still announceus as Americans, but would specify us as citizens of the Great Republic. Even our old national cypher of U. S. A. Might remain unaltered, designating the United States of Alleghania. 

These are crude ideas, Mr. Editor, hastily thrown out to elicit theideas of others, and to call attention to a subject of more nationalimportance than may at first be supposed. 

Very respectfully yours, Geoffrey Crayon. 

 * * * * *

DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 

"Let a man write never so well, there are now-a-days a sort of personsthey call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so manyhobby-horses: but they'll laugh at you, Sir, and find fault, and censurethings, that, egad, I'm sure they are not able to do themselves; a sortof envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts, andthink to build their fame by calumniation of persons that, egad, to myknowledge, of all persons in the world, are in nature the persons thatdo as much despise all that, as--a--In fine, I'll say no more of 'em!"-REHEARSAL. 

All the world knows the story of the tempest-tossed voyager, who, comingupon a strange coast, and seeing a man hanging in chains, hailed it withjoy, as the sign of a civilized country. In like manner we may hail, asa proof of the rapid advancement of civilization and refinement inthis country, the increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbetedfor the edification of the public. 

In this respect, as in every other, we are "going ahead" withaccelerated velocity, and promising to outstrip the superannuatedcountries of Europe. It is really astonishing to see the number oftribunals incessantly springing up for the trial of literary offences. Independent of the high courts of Oyer and Terminer, the great quarterlyreviews, we have innumerable minor tribunals, monthly and weekly, downto the Pie-poudre courts in the daily papers; insomuch that no culpritstands so little chance of escaping castigation, as an unlucky author, guilty of an unsuccessful attempt to please the public. 

Seriously speaking, however, it is questionable whether our nationalliterature is sufficiently advanced, to bear this excess of criticism;and whether it would not thrive better, if allowed to spring up, forsome time longer, in the freshness and vigor of native vegetation. Whenthe worthy Judge Coulter, of Virginia, opened court for the first timein one of the upper counties, he was for enforcing all the rules andregulations that had grown into use in the old, long-settled counties. "This is all very well, " said a shrewd old farmer; "but let me tell you, Judge Coulter, you set your coulter too deep for a new soil. "

For my part, I doubt whether either writer or reader is benefited bywhat is commonly called criticism. The former is rendered cautious anddistrustful; he fears to give way to those kindling emotions, and bravesallies of thought, which bear him up to excellence; the latter is madefastidious and cynical; or rather, he surrenders his own independenttaste and judgment, and learns to like and dislike at second hand. 

Let us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing calledcriticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary world. The pronounwe, used by critics, has a most imposing and delusive sound. The readerpictures to himself a conclave of learned men, deliberating gravely andscrupulously on the merits of the book in question; examining it page bypage, comparing and balancing their opinions, and when they have unitedin a conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit of the world:whereas the criticism is generally the crude and hasty production ofan individual, scribbling to while away an idle hour, to oblige abook-seller, or to defray current expenses. How often is it thepassing notion of the hour, affected by accidental circumstances; byindisposition, by peevishness, by vapors or indigestion; by personalprejudice, or party feeling. Sometimes a work is sacrificed, becausethe reviewer wishes a satirical article; sometimes because he wantsa humorous one; and sometimes because the author reviewed has becomeoffensively celebrated, and offers high game to the literary marksman. 

How often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man, reverse hisopinion, had he time to revise it in a more sunny moment; but the pressis waiting, the printer's devil is at his elbow; the article is wantedto make the requisite variety for the number of the review, or theauthor has pressing occasion for the sum he is to receive for thearticle, so it is sent off, all blotted and blurred; with a shrug ofthe shoulders, and the consolatory ejaculation: "Pshaw! curse it! it'snothing but a review!"

The critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is perhapssome dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were he to speak byword of mouth, would be disregarded, if not scoffed at; but such is themagic of types; such the mystic operation of anonymous writing; such thepotential effect of the pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminatedthrough the press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinionsof the world, and give or destroy reputation. 

Many readers have grown timorous in their judgments since theall-pervading currency of criticism. They fear to express a revised, frank opinion about any new work, and to relish it honestly andheartily, lest it should be condemned in the next review, and they standconvicted of bad taste. Hence they hedge their opinions, like a gamblerhis bets, and leave an opening to retract, and retreat, and qualify, and neutralise every unguarded expression of delight, until their verypraise declines into a faintness that is damning. 

Were every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and speak hismind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more true criticism in theworld than at present. Whenever a person is pleased with a work, he maybe assured that it has good qualities. An author who pleases a varietyof readers, must possess substantial powers of pleasing; or, in otherwords, intrinsic merits; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect, anddeny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer himself to bereadily shaken from the conviction of his own feelings, by the sweepingcensures of pseudo critics. The author he has admired, may be chargeablewith a thousand faults; but it is nevertheless beauties and excellenciesthat have excited his admiration; and he should recollect that tasteand judgment are as much evinced in the perception of beauties amongdefects, as in a detection of defects among beauties. For my part, Ihonor the blessed and blessing spirit that is quick to discover andextol all that is pleasing and meritorious. Give me the honest bee, thatextracts honey from the humblest weed, but save me from the ingenuityof the spider, which traces its venom, even in the midst of aflower-garden. 

If the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imperfections is tocondemn an author, who is to escape? The greatest writers of antiquityhave, in this way, been obnoxious to criticism. Aristotle himself hasbeen accused of ignorance; Aristophanes of impiety and buffoonery;Virgil of plagiarism, and a want of invention; Horace of obscurity;Cicero has been, said to want vigor and connexion, and Demosthenes tobe deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have allsurvived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a gloriousimmortality. Every now and then the world is startled by some newdoctrines in matters of taste, some levelling attacks on establishedcreeds; some sweeping denunciations of whole generations, or schools ofwriters, as they are called, who had seemed to be embalmed and canonizedin public opinion. Such has been the case, for instance, with Pope, andDryden, and Addison, who for a time have almost been shaken from theirpedestals, and treated as false idols. 

It is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with respectto its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and prepares the wayfor dislike. The public is always for positive sentiments, and newsensations. When wearied of admiring, it delights to censure; thuscoining a double set of enjoyments out of the same subject. Scott andByron are scarce cold in their graves, and already we find criticismbeginning to call in question those powers which held the world in magicthraldom. Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses hashad some rough passages with the censors of the press; and instantlycriticism begins to unsay all that it has repeatedly said in his praise;and the public are almost led to believe that the pen which has so oftendelighted them, is absolutely destitute of the power to delight!

If, then, such reverses in opinion as to matters of taste can be soreadily brought about, when may an author feel himself secure? Where isthe anchoring-ground of popularity, when he may thus be driven from hismoorings, and foundered even in harbor? The reader, too, when he is toconsider himself safe in admiring, when he sees long-established altarsoverthrown, and his household deities dashed to the ground!

There is one consolatory reflection. Every abuse carries with it itsown remedy or palliation. Thus the excess of crude and hasty criticism, which has of late prevailed throughout the literary world, andthreatened to overrun our country, begins to produce its own antidote. Where there is a multiplicity of contradictory paths, a man must makehis choice; in so doing, he has to exercise his judgment, and that isone great step to mental independence. He begins to doubt all, where alldiffer, and but one can be in the right. He is driven to trust to hisown discernment, and his natural feelings; and here he is most likelyto be safe. The author, too, finding that what is condemned at onetribunal, is applauded at another, though perplexed for a time, givesway at length to the spontaneous impulse of his genius, and the dictatesof his taste, and writes in the way most natural to himself. It is thusthat criticism, which by its severity may have held the little world ofwriters in check, may, by its very excess, disarm itself of its terrors, and the hardihood of talent become restored. 

G. C. 

 * * * * *

SPANISH ROMANCE. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir: I have already given you a legend or two drawn from ancient Spanishsources, and may occasionally give you a few more. I love these oldSpanish themes, especially when they have a dash of the Morisco in them, and treat of the times when the Moslems maintained a foot-hold in thepeninsula. They have a high, spicy, oriental flavor, not to be found inany other themes that are merely European. In fact, Spain is a countrythat stands alone in the midst of Europe; severed in habits, manners, and modes of thinking, from all its continental neighbors. It is aromantic country; but its romance has none of the sentimentality ofmodern European romance: it is chiefly derived from the brilliantregions of the East, and from the high-minded school of Saracenicchivalry. 

The Arab invasion and conquest brought a higher civilization anda nobler style of thinking into Gothic Spain. The Arabs were aquick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical people, and wereimbued with oriental science and literature. Wherever they established aseat of power, it became a rallying place for the learned and ingenious;and they softened and refined the people whom they conquered. Bydegrees, occupancy seemed to give them a hereditary right to theirfoothold in the land; they ceased to be looked upon as invaders, andwere regarded as rival neighbors. The peninsula, broken up into avariety of states, both Christian and Moslem, became for centuriesa great campaigning ground, where the art of war seemed to be theprincipal business of man, and was carried to the highest pitch ofromantic chivalry. The original ground of hostility, a difference offaith, gradually lost its rancor. Neighboring states, of oppositecreeds, were occasionally linked together in alliances, offensive anddefensive; so that the cross and crescent were to be seen side by sidefighting against some common enemy. In times of peace, too, the nobleyouth of either faith resorted to the same cities, Christian or Moslem, to school themselves in military science. Even in the temporary trucesof sanguinary wars, the warriors who had recently striven together inthe deadly conflicts of the field, laid aside their animosity, met attournaments, jousts, and other military festivities, and exchanged thecourtesies of gentle and generous spirits. Thus the opposite racesbecame frequently mingled together in peaceful intercourse, or if anyrivalry took place, it was in those high courtesies and nobler actswhich bespeak the accomplished cavalier. Warriors of opposite creedsbecame ambitious of transcending each other in magnanimity as well asvalor. Indeed, the chivalric virtues were refined upon to a degreesometimes fastidious and constrained; but at other times, inexpressiblynoble and affecting. The annals of the times teem with illustriousinstances of high-wrought courtesy, romantic generosity, loftydisinterestedness, and punctilious honor, that warm the very soul toread them. These have furnished themes for national plays and poems, orhave been celebrated in those all-pervading ballads which are as thelife-breath of the people, and thus have continued to exercise aninfluence on the national character which centuries of vicissitude anddecline have not been able to destroy; so that, with all their faults, and they are many, the Spaniards, even at the present day, are on manypoints the most high-minded and proud-spirited people of Europe. It is true, the romance of feeling derived from the sources I havementioned, has, like all other romance, its affectations and extremes. It renders the Spaniard at times pompous and grandiloquent; prone tocarry the "pundonor, " or point of honor, beyond the bounds of sobersense and sound morality; disposed, in the midst of poverty, to affectthe "grande caballero, " and to look down with sovereign disdain upon"arts mechanical, " and all the gainful pursuits of plebeian life; butthis very inflation of spirit, while it fills his brain with vapors, lifts him above a thousand meannesses; and though it often keeps him inindigence, ever protects him from vulgarity. 

In the present day, when popular literature is running into the lowlevels of life and luxuriating on the vices and follies of mankind, andwhen the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early growthof poetic feeling and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I questionwhether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally to turnto these records of prouder times and loftier modes of thinking, and tosteep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance. 

For my own part, I have a shelf or two of venerable, parchment-boundtomes, picked up here and there about the peninsula, and filled withchronicles, plays, and ballads, about Moors and Christians, which I keepby me as mental tonics, in the same way that a provident housewife hasher cupboard of cordials. Whenever I find my mind brought below par bythe commonplace of every-day life, or jarred by the sordid collisionsof the world, or put out of tune by the shrewd selfishness of modernutilitarianism, I resort to these venerable tomes, as did the worthyhero of La Mancha to his books of chivalry, and refresh and tone up myspirit by a deep draught of their contents. They have some such effectupon me as Falstaff ascribes to a good Sherris sack, "warming the bloodand filling the brain with fiery and delectable shapes. "

I here subjoin, Mr. Editor, a small specimen of the cordials I havementioned, just drawn from my Spanish cupboard, which I recommend toyour palate. If you find it to your taste, you may pass it on to yourreaders. 

 Your correspondent and well-wisher, GEOFFREY CRAYON. 

 * * * * *

LEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In the cloisters of the ancient Benedictine convent of San Domingo, atSilos, in Castile, are the mouldering yet magnificent monuments of theonce powerful and chivalrous family of Hinojosa. Among these, reclinesthe marble figure of a knight, in complete armor, with the hands pressedtogether, as if in prayer. On one side of his tomb is sculptured inrelief a band of Christian cavaliers, capturing a cavalcade of male andfemale Moors; on the other side, the same cavaliers are representedkneeling before an altar. The tomb, like most of the neighboringmonuments, is almost in ruins, and the sculpture is nearlyunintelligible, excepting to the keen eye of the antiquary. The storyconnected with the sepulchre, however, is still preserved in the oldSpanish chronicles, and is to the following purport. 

 * * * * *

In old times, several hundred years ago, there was a noble Castiliancavalier, named Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, lord of a border castle, which had stood the brunt of many a Moorish foray. He had seventyhorsemen as his household troops, all of the ancient Castilian proof;stark warriors, hard riders, and men of iron; with these he scoured theMoorish lands, and made his name terrible throughout the borders. Hiscastle hall was covered with banners, and scimitars, and Moslem helms, the trophies of his prowess. Don Munio was, moreover, a keen huntsman;and rejoiced in hounds of all kinds, steeds for the chase, and hawks forthe towering sport of falconry. When not engaged in warfare, his delightwas to beat up the neighboring forests; and scarcely ever did he rideforth, without hound and horn, a boar-spear in his hand, or a hawk uponhis fist, and an attendant train of huntsmen. 

His wife, Donna Maria Palacin, was of a gentle and timid nature, littlefitted to be the spouse of so hardy and adventurous a knight; and manya tear did the poor lady shed, when he sallied forth upon his daringenterprises, and many a prayer did she offer up for his safety. 

As this doughty cavalier was one day hunting, he stationed himself in athicket, on the borders of a green glade of the forest, and dispersedhis followers to rouse the game, and drive it toward his stand. He hadnot been here long, when a cavalcade of Moors, of both sexes, cameprankling over the forest lawn. They were unarmed, and magnificentlydressed in robes of tissue and embroidery, rich shawls of India, bracelets and anklets of gold, and jewels that sparkled in the sun. 

At the head of this gay cavalcade, rode a youthful cavalier, superiorto the rest in dignity and loftiness of demeanor, and in splendor ofattire; beside him was a damsel, whose veil, blown aside by the breeze, displayed a face of surpassing beauty, and eyes cast down in maidenmodesty, yet beaming with tenderness and joy. 

Don Munio thanked his stars for sending him such a prize, and exulted atthe thought of bearing home to his wife the glittering spoils of theseinfidels. Putting his hunting-horn to his lips, he gave a blast thatrung through the forest. His huntsmen came running from all quarters, and the astonished Moors were surrounded and made captives. 

The beautiful Moor wrung her hands in despair, and her female attendantsuttered the most piercing cries. The young Moorish cavalier aloneretained self-possession. He inquired the name of the Christian knight, who commanded this troop of horsemen. When told that it was Don MunioSancho de Hinojosa, his countenance lighted up. Approaching thatcavalier, and kissing his hand, "Don Munio Sancho, " said he, "I haveheard of your fame as a true and valiant knight, terrible in arms, butschooled in the noble virtues of chivalry. Such do I trust to find you. In me you behold Abadil, son of a Moorish Alcayde. I am on the way tocelebrate my nuptials with this lady; chance has thrown us in yourpower, but I confide in your magnanimity. Take all our treasure andjewels; demand what ransom you think proper for our person, but sufferus not to be insulted or dishonored. "

When the good knight heard this appeal, and beheld the beauty of theyouthful pair, his heart was touched with tenderness and courtesy. "God forbid, " said he, "that I should disturb such happy nuptials. Myprisoners in troth shall ye be, for fifteen days, and immured withinmy castle, where I claim, as conqueror, the right of celebrating yourespousals. "

So saying, he despatched one of his fleetest horsemen in advance, tonotify Donna Maria Palacin of the coming of this bridal party; while heand his huntsmen escorted the cavalcade, not as captors, but as a guardof honor. As they drew near to the castle, the banners were hung out, and the trumpets sounded from the battlements; and on their nearerapproach, the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria came forthto meet them, attended by her ladies and knights, her pages and herminstrels. She took the young bride, Allifra, in her arms, kissed herwith the tenderness of a sister, and conducted her into the castle. Inthe mean time, Don Munio sent forth missives in every direction, and hadviands and dainties of all kinds collected from the country round; andthe wedding of the Moorish lovers was celebrated with all possible stateand festivity. For fifteen days, the castle was given up to joy andrevelry. There were tiltings and jousts at the ring, and bullfights, andbanquets, and dances to the sound of minstrelsy. When the fifteen dayswere at an end, he made the bride and bridegroom magnificent presents, and conducted them and their attendants safely beyond the borders. Such, in old times, were the courtesy and generosity of a Spanish cavalier. 

Several years after this event, the King of Castile summoned his noblesto assist him in a campaign against the Moors. Don Munio Sancho wasamong the first to answer to the call, with seventy horsemen, allstaunch and well-tried warriors. His wife, Donna Maria, hung about hisneck. "Alas, my lord!" exclaimed she, "how often wilt thou tempt thyfate, and when will thy thirst for glory be appeased?"

"One battle more, " replied Don Munio, "one battle more, for the honor ofCastile, and I here make a vow, that when this is over, I will lay by mysword, and repair with my cavaliers in pilgrimage to the sepulchre ofour Lord at Jerusalem. " The cavaliers all joined with him in the vow, and Donna Maria felt in some degree soothed in spirit: still, she sawwith a heavy heart the departure of her husband, and watched his bannerwith wistful eyes, until it disappeared among the trees of the forest, The King of Castile led his army to the plains of Almanara, where theyencountered the Moorish host, near to Ucles. The battle was long andbloody; the Christians repeatedly wavered, and were as often rallied bythe energy of their commanders. Don Munio was covered with wounds, butrefused to leave the field. The Christians at length gave way, and theking was hardly pressed, and in danger of being captured. 

Don Munio called upon his cavaliers to follow him to the rescue. "Now isthe time, " cried he, "to prove your loyalty. Fall to, like brave men!We fight for the true faith, and if we lose our lives here, we gain abetter life hereafter. "

Rushing with his men between the king and his pursuers, they checked thelatter in their career, and gave time for their monarch to escape; butthey fell victims to their loyalty. They all fought to the last gasp. Don Munio was singled out by a powerful Moorish knight, but having beenwounded in the right arm, he fought to disadvantage, and was slain. Thebattle being over, the Moor paused to possess himself of the spoils ofthis redoubtable Christian warrior. When he unlaced the helmet, however, and beheld the countenance of Don Munio, he gave a great cry, and smotehis breast. "Woe is me!" cried he: "I have slain my benefactor! Theflower of knightly virtue! the most magnanimous of cavaliers!"

 * * * * *

While the battle had been raging on the plain of Salmanara, Donna MariaPalacin remained in her castle, a prey to the keenest anxiety. Her eyeswere ever fixed on the road that led from the country of the Moors, andoften she asked the watchman of the tower, "What seest thou?"

One evening, at the shadowy hour of twilight, the warden sounded hishorn. "I see, " cried he, "a numerous train winding up the valley. Thereare mingled Moors and Christians. The banner of my lord is in theadvance. Joyful tidings!" exclaimed the old seneschal: "my lord returnsin triumph, and brings captives!" Then the castle courts rang withshouts of joy; and the standard was displayed, and the trumpets weresounded, and the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria went forthwith her ladies, and her knights, and her pages, and her minstrels, towelcome her lord from the wars. But as the train drew nigh, she beheld asumptuous bier, covered with black velvet, and on it lay a warrior, asif taking his repose: he lay in his armor, with his helmet on his head, and his sword in his hand, as one who had never been conquered, andaround the bier were the escutcheons of the house of Hinojosa. 

A number of Moorish cavaliers attended the bier, with emblems ofmourning, and with dejected countenances: and their leader cast himselfat the feet of Donna Maria, and hid his face in his hands. She beheld inhim the gallant Abadil, whom she had once welcomed with his bride toher castle, but who now came with the body of her lord, whom he hadunknowingly slain in battle!

The sepulchre erected in the cloisters of the Convent of San Domingo wasachieved at the expense of the Moor Abadil, as a feeble testimony of hisgrief for the death of the good knight Don Munio, and his reverence forhis memory. The tender and faithful Donna Maria soon followed her lordto the tomb. On one of the stones of a small arch, beside his sepulchre, is the following simple inscription: "_Hic jacet Maria Palacin, uxorMunonis Sancij de Finojosa_:" Here lies Maria Palacin, wife of MunioSancho de Hinojosa. 

The legend of Don Munio Sancho does not conclude with his death. On thesame day on which the battle took place on the plain of Salmanara, achaplain of the Holy Temple at Jerusalem, while standing at the outergate, beheld a train of Christian cavaliers advancing, as if inpilgrimage. The chaplain was a native of Spain, and as the pilgrimsapproached, he knew the foremost to be Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, with whom he had been well acquainted in former times. Hastening to thepatriarch, he told him of the honorable rank of the pilgrims at thegate. The patriarch, therefore, went forth with a grand procession ofpriests and monks, and received the pilgrims with all due honor. Therewere seventy cavaliers, beside their leader, all stark and loftywarriors. They carried their helmets in their hands, and their faceswere deadly pale. They greeted no one, nor looked either to the right orto the left, but entered the chapel, and kneeling before the Sepulchreof our Saviour, performed their orisons in silence. When they hadconcluded, they rose as if to depart, and the patriarch and hisattendants advanced to speak to them, but they were no more to be seen. Every one marvelled what could be the meaning of this prodigy. Thepatriarch carefully noted down the day, and sent to Castile to learntidings of Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa. He received for reply, thaton the very day specified, that worthy knight, with seventy of hisfollowers, had been slain in battle. These, therefore, must have beenthe blessed spirits of those Christian warriors, come to fulfil theirvow of a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. Such wasCastilian faith, in the olden time, which kept its word, even beyond thegrave. 

If any one should doubt of the miraculous apparition of these phantomknights, let him consult the History of the Kings of Castile and Leon, by the learned and pious Fray Prudencio de Sandoval, Bishop of Pamplona, where he will find it recorded in the History of the King Don AlonzoVI. , on the hundred and second page. It is too precious a legend to belightly abandoned to the doubter. 

 * * * * *

COMMUNIPAW. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir: I observe, with pleasure, that you are performing from time to timea pious duty, imposed upon you, I may say, by the name you have adoptedas your titular standard, in following in the footsteps of the venerableKNICKERBOCKER, and gleaning every fact concerning the early times of theManhattoes which may have escaped his hand. I trust, therefore, a fewparticulars, legendary and statistical, concerning a place whichfigures conspicuously in the early pages of his history, will not beunacceptable. I allude, Sir, to the ancient and renowned village ofCommunipaw, which, according to the veracious Diedrich, and to equallyveracious tradition, was the first spot where our ever-to-be-lamentedDutch progenitors planted their standard and cast the seeds of empire, and from whence subsequently sailed the memorable expedition underOloffe the Dreamer, which landed on the opposite island of Manhatta, and founded the present city of New-York, the city of dreams andspeculations. 

Communipaw, therefore, may truly be called the parent of New-York; yetit is an astonishing fact, that though immediately opposite to the greatcity it has produced, from whence its red roofs and tin weather-cockscan actually be descried peering above the surrounding apple orchards, it should be almost as rarely visited, and as little known by theinhabitants of the metropolis, as if it had been locked up among theRocky Mountains. Sir, I think there is something unnatural in this, especially in these times of ramble and research, when our citizens areantiquity-hunting in every part of the world. Curiosity, like charity, should begin at home; and I would enjoin it on our worthy burghers, especially those of the real Knickerbocker breed, before they send theirsons abroad to wonder and grow wise among the remains of Greece andRome, to let them make a tour of ancient Pavonia, from Weehawk evento the Kills, and meditate, with filial reverence, on the moss-grownmansions of Communipaw. Sir, I regard this much neglected village as oneof the most remarkable places in the country. The intelligent traveller, as he looks down upon it from the Bergen Heights, modestly nestled amongits cabbage-gardens, while the great flaunting city it has begotten isstretching far and wide on the opposite side of the bay, the intelligenttraveller, I say, will be filled with astonishment; not, Sir, at thevillage of Communipaw, which in truth is a very small village, but atthe almost incredible fact that so small a village should have producedso great a city. It looks to him, indeed, like some squat littledame, with a tall grenadier of a son strutting by her side; or somesimple-hearted hen that has unwittingly hatched out a long-leggedturkey. 

But this is not all for which Communipaw is remarkable. Sir, it isinteresting on another account. It is to the ancient province ofthe New-Netherlands and the classic era of the Dutch dynasty, whatHerculaneum and Pompeii are to ancient Rome and the glorious days of theempire. Here every thing remains in statu quo, as it was in the days ofOloffe the Dreamer, Walter the Doubter, and the other worthies of thegolden age; the same broad-brimmed hats and broad-bottomed breeches;the same knee-buckles and shoe-buckles; the same close-quilled capsand linsey-woolsey short-gowns and petticoats; the same implements andutensils and forms and fashions; in a word, Communipaw at the presentday is a picture of what New-Amsterdam was before the conquest. The"intelligent traveller" aforesaid, as he treads its streets, is struckwith the primitive character of every thing around him. Instead ofGrecian temples for dwelling-houses, with a great column of pine boardsin the way of every window, he beholds high peaked roofs, gable endsto the street, with weather-cocks at top, and windows of all sorts andsizes; large ones for the grown-up members of the family, and littleones for the little folk. Instead of cold marble porches, withclose-locked doors and brass knockers, he sees the doors hospitablyopen; the worthy burgher smoking his pipe on the old-fashioned stoop infront, with his "vrouw" knitting beside him; and the cat and her kittensat their feet sleeping in the sunshine. 

Astonished at the obsolete and "old world" air of every thing aroundhim, the intelligent traveller demands how all this has come to pass. Herculaneum and Pompeii remain, it is true, unaffected by the varyingfashions of centuries; but they were buried by a volcano and preservedin ashes. What charmed spell has kept this wonderful little placeunchanged, though in sight of the most changeful city in the universe?Has it, too, been buried under its cabbage-gardens, and only dug outin modern days for the wonder and edification of the world? The replyinvolves a point of history, worthy of notice and record, and reflectingimmortal honor on Communipaw. 

At the time when New-Amsterdam was invaded and conquered by Britishfoes, as has been related in the history of the venerable Diedrich, agreat dispersion took place among the Dutch inhabitants. Many, like theillustrious Peter Stuyvesant, buried themselves in rural retreats in theBowerie; others, like Wolfert Acker, took refuge in various remoteparts of the Hudson; but there was one staunch, unconquerable band thatdetermined to keep together, and preserve themselves, like seed corn, for the future fructification and perpetuity of the Knickerbocker race. These were headed by one Garret Van Horne, a gigantic Dutchman, thePelayo of the New-Netherlands. Under his guidance, they retreated acrossthe bay and buried themselves among the marshes of ancient Pavonia, asdid the followers of Pelayo among the mountains of Asturias, when Spainwas overrun by its Arabian invaders. 

The gallant Van Horne set up his standard at Communipaw, and invitedall those to rally under it, who were true Nederlanders at heart, anddetermined to resist all foreign intermixture or encroachment. A strictnon-intercourse was observed with the captured city; not a boat evercrossed to it from Communipaw, and the English language was rigorouslytabooed throughout the village and its dependencies. Every man was swornto wear his hat, cut his coat, build his house, and harness his horses, exactly as his father had done before him; and to permit nothing but theDutch language to be spoken in his household. 

As a citadel of the place, and a strong-hold for the preservation anddefence of every thing Dutch, the gallant Van Horne erected a lordlymansion, with a chimney perched at every corner, which thence derivedthe aristocratical name of "The House of the Four Chimneys. " Hither hetransferred many of the precious reliques of New-Amsterdam; the greatround-crowned hat that once covered the capacious head of Walter theDoubter, and the identical shoe with which Peter the Headstrong kickedhis pusillanimous councillors down-stairs. St. Nicholas, it is said, took this loyal house under his especial protection; and a Dutchsoothsayer predicted, that as long as it should stand, Communipaw wouldbe safe from the intrusion either of Briton or Yankee. 

In this house would the gallant Van Home and his compeers hold frequentcouncils of war, as to the possibility of re-conquering the provincefrom the British; and here would they sit for hours, nay, days, togethersmoking their pipes and keeping watch upon the growing city of New-York;groaning in spirit whenever they saw a new house erected or shiplaunched, and persuading themselves that Admiral Van Tromp would oneday or other arrive to sweep out the invaders with the broom which hecarried at his mast-head. 

Years rolled by, but Van Tromp never arrived. The British strengthenedthemselves in the land, and the captured city flourished under theirdomination. Still, the worthies of Communipaw would not despair;something or other, they were sure, would turn up to restore the powerof the Hogen Mogens, the Lord States-General; so they kept smoking andsmoking, and watching and watching, and turning the same few thoughtsover and over in a perpetual circle, which is commonly calleddeliberating. In the mean time, being hemmed up within a narrow compass, between the broad bay and the Bergen hills, they grew poorer and poorer, until they had scarce the wherewithal to maintain their pipes in fuelduring their endless deliberations. 

And now must I relate a circumstance which will call for a littleexertion of faith on the part of the reader; but I can only say that ifhe doubts it, he had better not utter his doubts in Communipaw, as it isamong the religious beliefs of the place. It is, in fact, nothing morenor less than a miracle, worked by the blessed St. Nicholas, for therelief and sustenance of this loyal community. 

It so happened, in this time of extremity, that in the course ofcleaning the House of the Four Chimneys, by an ignorant housewife whoknew nothing of the historic value of the reliques it contained, the oldhat of Walter the Doubter and the executive shoe of Peter the Headstrongwere thrown out of doors as rubbish. But mark the consequence. The goodSt. Nicholas kept watch over these precious reliques, and wrought out ofthem a wonderful providence. 

The hat of Walter the Doubter falling on a stercoraceous heap ofcompost, in the rear of the house, began forthwith to vegetate. Itsbroad brim, spread forth grandly and exfoliated, and its round crownswelled and crimped and consolidated until the whole became a prodigiouscabbage, rivalling in magnitude the capacious head of the Doubter. In aword, it was the origin of that renowned species of cabbage known, byall Dutch epicures, by the name of the Governor's Head, and which is tothis day the glory of Communipaw. 

On the other hand, the shoe of Peter Stuyvesant being thrown into theriver, in front of the house, gradually hardened and concreted, andbecame covered with barnacles, and at length turned into a giganticoyster; being the progenitor of that illustrious species knownthroughout the gastronomical world by the name of the Governor's Foot. 

These miracles were the salvation of Communipaw. The sages of the placeimmediately saw in them the hand of St. Nicholas, and understood theirmystic signification. They set to work with all diligence to cultivateand multiply these great blessings; and so abundantly did thegubernatorial hat and shoe fructify and increase, that in a little timegreat patches of cabbages were to be seen extending from the village ofCommunipaw quite to the Bergen Hills; while the whole bottom of thebay in front became a vast bed of oysters. Ever since that time thisexcellent community has been divided into two great classes: those whocultivate the land and those who cultivate the water. The former havedevoted themselves to the nurture and edification of cabbages, rearingthem in all their varieties; while the latter have formed parks andplantations, under water, to which juvenile oysters are transplantedfrom foreign parts, to finish their education. 

As these great sources of profit multiplied upon their hands, the worthyinhabitants of Communipaw began to long for a market at which todispose of their superabundance. This gradually produced once more anintercourse with New-York; but it was always carried on by the oldpeople and the negroes; never would they permit the young folks, ofeither sex, to visit the city, lest they should get tainted with foreignmanners and bring home foreign fashions. Even to this day, if you see anold burgher in the market, with hat and garb of antique Dutch fashion, you may be sure he is one of the old unconquered race of the "bitterblood, " who maintain their strong-hold at Communipaw. 

In modern days, the hereditary bitterness against the English has lostmuch of its asperity, or rather has become merged in a new source ofjealousy and apprehension: I allude to the incessant and wide-spreadingirruptions from New-England. Word has been continually brought back toCommunipaw, by those of the community who return from their tradingvoyages in cabbages and oysters, of the alarming power which the Yankeesare gaining in the ancient city of New-Amsterdam; elbowing the genuineKnickerbockers out of all civic posts of honor and profit; bargainingthem out of their hereditary homesteads; pulling down the venerablehouses, with crow-step gables, which have stood since the time of theDutch rule, and erecting, instead, granite stores, and marble banks; ina word, evincing a deadly determination to obliterate every vestige ofthe good old Dutch times. 

In consequence of the jealousy thus awakened, the worthy traders fromCommunipaw confine their dealings, as much as possible, to the genuineDutch families. If they furnish the Yankees at all, it is with inferiorarticles. Never can the latter procure a real "Governor's Head, " or"Governor's Foot, " though they have offered extravagant prices for thesame, to grace their table on the annual festival of the New-EnglandSociety. 

But what has carried this hostility to the Yankees to the highest pitch, was an attempt made by that all-pervading race to get possession ofCommunipaw itself. Yes, Sir; during the late mania for land speculation, a daring company of Yankee projectors landed before the village; stoppedthe honest burghers on the public highway, and endeavored to bargainthem out of their hereditary acres; displayed lithographic maps, in which their cabbage-gardens were laid out into town lots: theiroyster-parks into docks and quays; and even the House of the FourChimneys metamorphosed into a bank, which was to enrich the wholeneighborhood with paper money. 

Fortunately, the gallant Van Hornes came to the rescue, just as some ofthe worthy burghers were on the point of capitulating. The Yankees wereput to the rout, with signal confusion, and have never since dared toshow their faces in the place. The good people continue to cultivatetheir cabbages, and rear their oysters; they know nothing of banks, norjoint stock companies, but treasure up their money in stocking-feet, atthe bottom of the family chest, or bury it in iron pots, as did theirfathers and grandfathers before them. 

As to the House of the Four Chimneys, it still remains in the great andtall family of the Van Hornes. Here are to be seen ancient Dutch cornercupboards, chests of drawers, and massive clothes-presses, quaintlycarved, and carefully waxed and polished; together with divers thick, black-letter volumes, with brass clasps, printed of yore in Leydon andAmsterdam, and handed down from generation to generation, in the family, but never read. They are preserved in the archives, among sundry oldparchment deeds, in Dutch and English, bearing the seals of the earlygovernors of the province. 

In this house, the primitive Dutch holidays of Paas and Pinxterare faithfully kept up; and New-Year celebrated with cookies andcherry-bounce; nor is the festival of the blessed St. Nicholasforgotten, when all the children are sure to hang up their stockings, and to have them filled according to their deserts; though, it is said, the good saint is occasionally perplexed in his nocturnal visits, whichchimney to descend. 

Of late, this portentous mansion has begun to give signs of dilapidationand decay. Some have attributed this to the visits made by the youngpeople to the city, and their bringing thence various modern fashions;and to their neglect of the Dutch language, which is gradually becomingconfined to the older persons in the community. The house, too, wasgreatly shaken by high winds, during the prevalence of the speculationmania, especially at the time of the landing of the Yankees. Seeing howmysteriously the fate of Communipaw is identified with this venerablemansion, we cannot wonder that the older and wiser heads of thecommunity should be filled with dismay, whenever a brick is toppleddown from one of the chimneys, or a weather-cock is blown off from agable-end. 

The present lord of this historic pile, I am happy to say, is calculatedto maintain it in all its integrity. He is of patriarchal age, and isworthy of the days of the patriarchs. He has done his utmost to increaseand multiply the true race in the land. His wife has not been inferiorto him in zeal, and they are surrounded by a goodly progeny of children, and grand-children, and great-grand-children, who promise to perpetuatethe name of Van Horne, until time shall be no more. So be it! Long maythe horn of the Van Hornes continue to be exalted in the land! Tall asthey are, may their shadows never be less! May the House of the FourChimneys remain for ages, the citadel of Communipaw, and the smoke ofits chimneys continue to ascend, a sweet-smelling incense in the hose ofSt. Nicholas!

With great respect, Mr. Editor, Your ob't servant, HERMANUS VANDERDONK. 

 * * * * *

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir: I have read with great satisfaction the valuable paper of yourcorrespondent, Mr. HERMANUS VANDERDONK, (who, I take it, is a descendantof the learned Adrian Vanderdonk, one of the early historians of theNieuw-Nederlands, ) giving sundry particulars, legendary and statistical, touching the venerable village of Communipaw and its fate-bound citadel, the House of the Four Chimneys. It goes to prove what I have repeatedlymaintained, that we live in the midst of history and mystery andromance; and that there is no spot in the world more rich in themes forthe writer of historic novels, heroic melodramas, and rough-shod epics, than this same business-looking city of the Manhattoes and its environs. He who would find these elements, however, must not seek them among themodern improvements and modern people of this moneyed metropolis, butmust dig for them, as for Kidd the pirate's treasures, in out-of-the-wayplaces, and among the ruins of the past. 

Poetry and romance received a fatal blow at the overthrow of the ancientDutch dynasty, and have ever since been gradually withering under thegrowing domination of the Yankees. They abandoned our hearths when theold Dutch tiles were superseded by marble chimney-pieces; when brassandirons made way for polished grates, and the crackling and blazingfire of nut-wood gave place to the smoke and stench of Liverpool coal;and on the downfall of the last gable-end house, their requiem wastolled from the tower of the Dutch church in Nassau-street by the oldbell that came from Holland. But poetry and romance still live unseenamong us, or seen only by the enlightened few, who are able tocontemplate this city and its environs through the medium of tradition, and clothed with the associations of foregone ages. 

Would you seek these elements in the country, Mr. Editor, avoid allturnpikes, rail-roads, and steamboats, those abominable inventions bywhich the usurping Yankees are strengthening themselves in the land, andsubduing every thing to utility and common-place. Avoid all towns andcities of white clapboard palaces and Grecian temples, studded with"Academics, " "Seminaries, " and "Institutes, " which glisten along ourbays and rivers; these are the strong-holds of Yankee usurpation; but ifhaply you light upon some rough, rambling road, winding between stonefences, gray with moss, and overgrown with elder, poke-berry, mullein, and sweet-briar, with here and there a low, red-roofed, whitewashedfarm-house, cowering among apple and cherry trees; an old stone church, with elms, willows, and button-woods, as old-looking as itself, andtombstones almost buried in their own graves; and, peradventure, a smalllog school-house at a cross-road, where the English is still taught witha thickness of the tongue, instead of a twang of the nose; should you, I say, light upon such a neighborhood, Mr. Editor, you may thank yourstars that you have found one of the lingering haunts of poetry andromance. 

Your correspondent, Sir, has touched upon that sublime and affectingfeature in the history of Communipaw, the retreat of the patriotic bandof Nederlanders, led by Van Horne, whom he justly terms the Pelayo ofthe New-Netherlands. He has given you a picture of the manner in whichthey ensconced themselves in the House of the Four Chimneys, and awaitedwith heroic patience and perseverance the day that should see the flagof the Hogen Mogens once more floating on the fort of New-Amsterdam. 

Your correspondent, Sir, has but given you a glimpse over the threshold;I will now let you into the heart of the mystery of this most mysteriousand eventful village. 

 Yes, sir, I will now--"unclasp a secret book; And to your quick conceiving discontents, I'll read you matter deep and dangerous, As full of peril and adventurous spirit, As to o'er walk a current, roaring loud, On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. "

Sir, it is one of the most beautiful and interesting facts connectedwith the history of Communipaw, that the early feeling of resistance toforeign rule, alluded to by your correspondent, is still kept up. Yes, sir, a settled, secret, and determined conspiracy has been going onfor generations among this indomitable people, the descendants of therefugees from New-Amsterdam; the object of which is to redeem theirancient seat of empire, and to drive the losel Yankees out of the land. 

Communipaw, it is true, has the glory of originating this conspiracy;and it was hatched and reared in the House of the Four Chimneys; but ithas spread far and wide over ancient Pavonia, surmounted the heights ofBergen, Hoboken, and Weehawk, crept up along the banks of the Passaicand the Hackensack, until it pervades the whole chivalry of the countryfrom Tappan Slote in the north to Piscataway in the south, including thepugnacious village of Rahway, more heroically denominated Spank-town. 

Throughout all these regions a great "in-and-in confederacy" prevails, that is to say, a confederacy among the Dutch families, by dint ofdiligent and exclusive intermarriage, to keep the race pure and tomultiply. If ever, Mr. Editor, in the course of your travels betweenSpank-town and Tappan Slote, you should see a cosey, low-eavedfarm-house, teeming with sturdy, broad-built little urchins, you may setit down as one of the breeding places of this grand secret confederacy, stocked with the embryo deliverers of New-Amsterdam. 

Another step in the progress of this patriotic conspiracy, is theestablishment, in various places within the ancient boundaries of theNieuw-Nederlands, of secret, or rather mysterious associations, composedof the genuine sons of the Nederlanders, with the ostensible object ofkeeping up the memory of old times and customs, but with the real objectof promoting the views of this dark and mighty plot, and extending itsramifications throughout the land. 

Sir, I am descended from a long line of genuine Nederlanders, who, though they remained in the city of New-Amsterdam after the conquest, and throughout the usurpation, have never in their hearts been able totolerate the yoke imposed upon them. My worthy father, who was one ofthe last of the cocked hats, had a little knot of cronies, of his ownstamp, who used to meet in our wainscoted parlor, round a nut-wood fire, talk over old times, when the city was ruled by its native burgomasters, and groan over the monopoly of all places of power and profit by theYankees. I well recollect the effect upon this worthy little conclave, when the Yankees first instituted then New-England Society, held their"national festival, " toasted their "father land, " and sang their foreignsongs of triumph within the very precincts of our ancient metropolis. Sir, from that day, my father held the smell of codfish and potatoes, and the sight of pumpkin pie, in utter abomination; and whenever theannual dinner of the New-England Society came round, it was a soreanniversary for his children. He got up in an ill humor, grumbled andgrowled throughout the day, and not one of us went to bed that night, without having had his jacket well trounced, to the tune of "The PilgrimFathers. "

You may judge, then, Mr. Editor, of the exaltation of all true patriotsof this stamp, when the Society of Saint Nicholas was set up among us, and intrepidly established, cheek by jole, alongside of the society ofthe invaders. Never shall I forget the effect upon my father and hislittle knot of brother groaners, when tidings were brought them that theancient banner of the Manhattoes was actually floating from the windowof the City Hotel. Sir, they nearly jumped out of their silver-buckledshoes for joy. They took down their cocked hats from the pegs on whichthey had hanged them, as the Israelites of yore hung their harps uponthe willows, in token of bondage, clapped them resolutely once more upontheir heads, and cocked them in the face of every Yankee they met on theway to the banqueting-room. 

The institution of this society was hailed with transport throughout thewhole extent of the New-Netherlands; being considered a secret footholdgained in New-Amsterdam, and a flattering presage of future triumph. Whenever that society holds its annual feast, a sympathetic hilarityprevails throughout the land; ancient Pavonia sends over itscontributions of cabbages and oysters; the House of the Four Chimneys issplendidly illuminated, and the traditional song of St. Nicholas, themystic bond of union and conspiracy, is chaunted with closed doors, inevery genuine Dutch family. 

I have thus, I trust, Mr. Editor, opened your eyes to some of the grandmoral, poetical, and political phenomena with which you are surrounded. You will now be able to read the "signs of the times. " You willnow understand what is meant by those "Knickerbocker Halls, " and"Knickerbocker Hotels, " and "Knickerbocker Lunches, " that are dailyspringing up in our city and what all these "Knickerbocker Omnibuses"are driving at. You will see in them so many clouds before a storm; somany mysterious but sublime intimations of the gathering vengeance of agreat though oppressed people. Above all, you will now contemplateour bay and its portentous borders, with proper feelings of awe andadmiration. Talk of the Bay of Naples, and its volcanic mountains! Why, Sir, little Communipaw, sleeping among its cabbage gardens, "quiet asgunpowder, " yet with this tremendous conspiracy brewing in its bosom isan object ten times as sublime (in a moral point of view, mark me) asVesuvius in repose, though charged with lava and brimstone, and readyfor an eruption. 

Let me advert to a circumstance connected with this theme, whichcannot but be appreciated by every heart of sensibility. You must haveremarked, Mr. Editor, on summer evenings, and on Sunday afternoons, certain grave, primitive-looking personages, walking the Battery, inclose confabulation, with their canes behind their backs, and ever andanon turning a wistful gaze toward the Jersey shore. These, Sir, are thesons of Saint Nicholas, the genuine Nederlanders; who regard Communipawwith pious reverence, not merely as the progenitor, but the destinedregenerator, of this great metropolis. Yes, Sir; they are looking withlonging eyes to the green marshes of ancient Pavonia, as did the poorconquered Spaniards of yore toward the stern mountains of Asturias, wondering whether the day of deliverance is at hand. Many is the time, when, in my boyhood, I have walked with my father and his confidentialcompeers on the Battery, and listened to their calculations andconjectures, and observed the points of their sharp cocked hats evermoreturned toward Pavonia. Nay, Sir, I am convinced that at this moment, ifI were to take down the cocked hat of my lamented father from the peg onwhich it has hung for years, and were to carry it to the Battery, itscentre point, true as the needle to the pole, would turn to Communipaw. 

Mr. Editor, the great historic drama of New-Amsterdam, is but halfacted. The reigns of Walter the Doubter, William the Testy, and Peterthe Headstrong, with the rise, progress, and decline of the Dutchdynasty, are but so many parts of the main action, the triumphantcatastrophe of which is yet to come. Yes, Sir! the deliverance ofthe New-Nederlands from Yankee domination will eclipse the far-famedredemption of Spain from the Moors, and the oft-sung conquest of Granadawill fade before the chivalrous triumph of New-Amsterdam. Would thatPeter Stuyvesant could rise from his grave to witness that day!

Your humble servant, ROLOFF VAN RIPPER. 

 * * * * *

P. S. Just as I had concluded the foregoing epistle, I received a pieceof intelligence, which makes me tremble for the fate of Communipaw. I fear, Mr. Editor, the grand conspiracy is in danger of beingcountermined and counteracted, by those all-pervading andindefatigable Yankees. Would you think it, Sir! one of them has actuallyeffected an entry in the place by covered way; or in other words, undercover of the petticoats. Finding every other mode ineffectual, hesecretly laid siege to a Dutch heiress, who owns a great cabbage-gardenin her own right. Being a smooth-tongued varlet, he easily prevailed onher to elope with him, and they were privately married at Spank-town!The first notice the good people of Communipaw had of this awful event, was a lithographed map of the cabbage garden laid out in town lots, andadvertised for sale! On the night of the wedding, the main weather-cockof the House of the Four Chimneys was carried away in a whirlwind! Thegreatest consternation reigns throughout the village!

 * * * * *

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. 

Sir: I observed in your last month's periodical, a communication froma Mr. VANDERDONK, giving some information concerning Communipaw. Iherewith send you, Mr. Editor, a legend connected with that place; andam much surprised it should have escaped the researches of your veryauthentic correspondent, as it relates to an edifice scarcely less fatedthan the House of the Four Chimneys. I give you the legend in its crudeand simple state, as I heard it related; it is capable, however, ofbeing dilated, inflated, and dressed up into very imposing shape anddimensions. Should any of your ingenious contributors in this line feelinclined to take it in hand, they will find ample materials, collateraland illustrative, among the papers of the late Reinier Skaats, manyyears since crier of the court, and keeper of the City Hall, in thecity of the Manhattoes; or in the library of that important and utterlyrenowned functionary, Mr. Jacob Hays, long time high constable, who, in the course of his extensive researches, has amassed an amount ofvaluable facts, to be rivalled only by that great historical collection, "The Newgate Calendar. "

Your humble servant, BARENT VAN SCHAICK. 

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_GUESTS FROM GIBBET-ISLAND_. 

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW. 

Whoever has visited the ancient and renowned village of Communipaw, may have noticed an old stone building, of most ruinous and sinisterappearance. The doors and window-shutters are ready to drop from theirhinges; old clothes are stuffed in the broken panes of glass, whilelegions of half-starved dogs prowl about the premises, and rush out andbark at every passer-by; for your beggarly house in a village is mostapt to swarm with profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. What adds to thesinister appearance of this mansion, is a tall frame in front, nota little resembling a gallows, and which looks as if waiting toaccommodate some of the inhabitants with a well-merited airing. It isnot a gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post; for this dwelling, inthe golden days of Communipaw, was one of the most orderly and peacefulof village taverns, where all the public affairs of Communipaw weretalked and smoked over. In fact, it was in this very building thatOloffe the Dreamer, and his companions, concerted that great voyage ofdiscovery and colonization, in which they explored Buttermilk Channel, were nearly shipwrecked in the strait of Hell-gate, and finally landedon the Island of Manhattan, and founded the great city of New-Amsterdam. 

Even after the province had been cruelly wrested from the sway of theirHigh Mightinesses, by the combined forces of the British and Yankees, this tavern continued its ancient loyalty. It is true, the head of thePrince of Orange disappeared from the sign; a strange bird being paintedover it, with the explanatory legend of "DIE WILDE GANS, " or The WildGoose; but this all the world knew to be a sly riddle of the landlord, the worthy Teunis Van Gieson, a knowing man in a small way, who laidhis finger beside his nose and winked, when any one studied thesignification of his sign, and observed that his goose was hatching, butwould join the flock whenever they flew over the water; an enigma whichwas the perpetual recreation and delight of the loyal but fat-headedburghers of Communipaw. 

Under the sway of this patriotic, though discreet and quiet publican, the tavern continued to flourish in primeval tranquillity, and wasthe resort of all true-hearted Nederlanders, from all parts of Pavonia;who met here quietly and secretly, to smoke and drink the downfall ofBriton and Yankee, and success to Admiral Van Tromp. 

The only drawback on the comfort of the establishment, was a nephew ofmine host, a sister's son, Yan Yost Vanderscamp by name, and a realscamp by nature. This unlucky whipster showed an early propensity tomischief, which he gratified in a small way, by playing tricks upon thefrequenters of the Wild Goose; putting gunpowder in their pipes, orsquibs in their pockets, and astonishing them with an explosion, whilethey sat nodding round the fire-place in the bar-room; and if perchancea worthy burgher from some distant part of Pavonia had lingered untildark over his potation, it was odds but that young Vanderscamp wouldslip a briar under his horse's tail, as he mounted, and send himclattering along the road, in neck-or-nothing style, to his infiniteastonishment and discomfiture. 

It may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild Goose did not turnsuch a graceless varlet out of doors; but Teunis Van Gieson was aneasy-tempered man, and, having no child of his own, looked upon hisnephew with almost parental indulgence. His patience and good-naturewere doomed to be tried by another inmate of his mansion. This was across-grained curmudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, who was a kind ofenigma in Communipaw. Where he came from, nobody knew. He was found onemorning, after a storm, cast like a sea-monster on the strand, in frontof the Wild Goose, and lay there, more dead than alive. The neighborsgathered round, and speculated on this production of the deep; whetherit were fish or flesh, or a compound of both, commonly yclept a merman. The kind-hearted Teunis Van Gieson, seeing that he wore the human form, took him into his house, and warmed him into life. By degrees, he showedsigns of intelligence, and even uttered sounds very much like language, but which no one in Communipaw could understand. Some thought him anegro just from Guinea, who had either fallen overboard, or escaped froma slave-ship. Nothing, however, could ever draw from him any accountof his origin. When questioned on the subject, he merely pointed toGibbet-Island, a small rocky islet, which lies in the open bay, justopposite to Communipaw, as if that were his native place, though everybody knew it had never been inhabited. 

In the process of time, he acquired something of the Dutch language, that is to say, he learnt all its vocabulary of oaths and maledictions, with just words sufficient to string them together. "Donder enblicksen!" (thunder and lightning, ) was the gentlest of hisejaculations. For years he kept about the Wild Goose, more like one ofthose familiar spirits, or household goblins, that we read of, thanlike a human being. He acknowledged allegiance to no one, but performedvarious domestic offices, when it suited his humor; waiting occasionallyon the guests; grooming the horses, cutting wood, drawing water; and allthis without being ordered. Lay any command on him, and the stubbornsea-urchin was sure to rebel. He was never so much at home, however, as when on the water, plying about in skiff or canoe, entirely alone, fishing, crabbing, or grabbing for oysters, and would bring homequantities for the larder of the Wild Goose, which he would throw downat the kitchen door, with a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him fromlaunching forth on his favorite element: indeed, the wilder the weather, the more he seemed to enjoy it. If a storm was brewing, he was sure toput off from shore; and would be seen far out in the bay, his lightskiff dancing like a feather on the waves, when sea and sky were allin a turmoil, and the stoutest ships were fain to lower their sails. Sometimes, on such occasions, he would be absent for days together. Howhe weathered the tempest, and how and where he subsisted, no onecould divine, nor did any one venture to ask, for all had an almostsuperstitious awe of him. Some of the Communipaw oystermen declared thatthey had more than once seen him suddenly disappear, canoe and all, asif they plunged beneath the waves, and after a while come up again, inquite a different part of the bay; whence they concluded that he couldlive under water like that notable species of wild duck, commonly calledthe Hell-diver. All began to consider him in the light of a foul-weatherbird, like the Mother Carey's Chicken, or Stormy Petrel; and wheneverthey saw him putting far out in his skiff, in cloudy weather, made uptheir minds for a storm. 

The only being for whom he seemed to have any liking, was Yan YostVanderscamp, and him he liked for his very wickedness. He in a mannertook the boy under his tutelage, prompted him to all kinds of mischief, aided him in every wild, harum-scarum freak, until the lad became thecomplete scapegrace of the village; a pest to his uncle, and to everyone else. Nor were his pranks confined to the land; he soon learned toaccompany old Pluto on the water. Together these worthies would cruiseabout the broad bay, and all the neighboring straits and rivers; pokingaround in skiffs and canoes; robbing the set-nets of the fishermen;landing on remote coasts, and laying waste orchards and water-melonpatches; in short, carrying on a complete system of piracy, on a smallscale, Piloted by Pluto, the youthful Vanderscamp soon became acquaintedwith all the bays, rivers, creeks, and inlets of the watery world aroundhim; could navigate from the Hook to Spiting-devil on the darkest night, and learned to set even the terrors of Hell-gate at defiance. 

At length, negro and boy suddenly disappeared, and days and weekselapsed, but without tidings of them. Some said they must have run awayand gone to sea; others jocosely hinted, that old Pluto, being no otherthan his namesake in disguise, had spirited away the boy to the netherregions. All, however, agreed in one thing, that the village was wellrid of them. 

In the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson slept with hisfathers, and the tavern remained shut up, waiting for a claimant, forthe next heir was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and he had not been heard of foryears. At length, one day, a boat was seen pulling for the shore, from along, black, rakish-looking schooner, that lay at anchor in the bay. Theboat's crew seemed worthy of the craft from which they debarked. Neverhad such a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering varlets landed inpeaceful Communipaw. They were outlandish in garb and demeanor, and wereheaded by a rough, burly, bully ruffian, with fiery whiskers, a coppernose, a scar across his face, and a great Flaunderish beaver slouched onone side of his head, in whom, to their dismay, the quiet inhabitantswere made to recognize their early pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. The rearof this hopeful gang was brought up by old Pluto, who had lost aneye, grown grizzly-headed, and looked more like a devil than ever. Vanderscamp renewed his acquaintance with the old burghers, much againsttheir will, and in a manner not at all to their taste. He slapped themfamiliarly on the back, gave them an iron grip of the hand, and was hailfellow well met. According to his own account, he had been all the worldover; had made money by bags full; had ships in every sea, and now meantto turn the Wild Goose into a country seat, where he and his comrades, all rich merchants from foreign parts, might enjoy themselves in theinterval of their voyages. Sure enough, in a little while there was acomplete metamorphose of the Wild Goose. From being a quiet, peacefulDutch public house, it became a most riotous, uproarious privatedwelling; a complete rendezvous for boisterous men of the seas, who camehere to have what they called a "blow out" on dry land, and might beseen at all hours, lounging about the door, or lolling out of thewindows; swearing among themselves, and cracking rough jokes on everypasser-by. The house was fitted up, too, in so strange a manner:hammocks slung to the walls, instead of bedsteads; odd kinds offurniture, of foreign fashion; bamboo couches, Spanish chairs; pistols, cutlasses, and blunderbusses, suspended on every peg; silver crucifixeson the mantel-pieces, silver candle-sticks and porringers on thetables, contrasting oddly with the pewter and Delf ware of the originalestablishment. And then the strange amusements of these sea-monsters!Pitching Spanish dollars, instead of quoits; firing blunderbusses out ofthe window; shooting at a mark, or at any unhappy dog, or cat, or pig, or barn-door fowl, that might happen to come within reach. 

The only being who seemed to relish their rough waggery, was old Pluto;and yet he led but a dog's life of it; for they practised all kinds ofmanual jokes upon him; kicked him about like a foot-ball; shook him byhis grizzly mop of wool, and never spoke to him without coupling a curseby way of adjective to his name, and consigning him to the infernalregions. The old fellow, however, seemed to like them the better, themore they cursed him, though his utmost expression of pleasure neveramounted to more than the growl of a petted bear, when his ears arerubbed. 

Old Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of the Wild Goose;and such orgies as took place there! Such drinking, singing, whooping, swearing; with an occasional interlude of quarrelling and fighting. Thenoisier grew the revel, the more old Pluto plied the potations, untilthe guests would become frantic in their merriment, smashing every thingto pieces, and throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, after adrinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured the village, to the dismayof the worthy burghers, who gathered their women within doors, and wouldhave shut up the house. Vanderscamp, however, was not to be rebuffed. He insisted on renewing acquaintance with his old neighbors, and onintroducing his friends, the merchants, to their families; swore he wason the look-out for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to findhusbands for all their daughters. So, will-ye, nil-ye, sociable he was;swaggered about their best parlors, with his hat on one side of hishead; sat on the good wife's nicely-waxed mahogany table, kicking hisheels against the carved and polished legs; kissed and tousled the youngvrouws; and, if they frowned and pouted, gave them a gold rosary, or asparkling cross, to put them in good humor again. 

Sometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must have some of his oldneighbors to dinner at the Wild Goose. There was no refusing him, forhe had got the complete upper-hand of the community, and the peacefulburghers all stood in awe of him. But what a time would the quiet, worthy men have, among these rake-hells, who would delight to astoundthem with the most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered with allkinds of foreign oaths; clink the can with them; pledge them in deeppotations; bawl drinking songs in their ears; and occasionally firepistols over their heads, or under the table, and then laugh in theirfaces, and ask them how they liked the smell of gunpowder. 

Thus was the little village of Communipaw for a time like theunfortunate wight possessed with devils; until Vanderscamp and hisbrother merchants would sail on another trading voyage, when the WildGoose would be shut up, and every thing relapse into quiet, only to bedisturbed by his next visitation. 

The mystery of all these proceedings gradually dawned upon the tardyintellects of Communipaw. These were the times of the notoriousCaptain Kidd, when the American harbors were the resorts of piraticaladventurers of all kinds, who, under pretext of mercantile voyages, scoured the West Indies, made plundering descents upon the Spanish Main, visited even the remote Indian Seas, and then came to dispose of theirbooty, have their revels, and fit out new expeditions, in the Englishcolonies. 

Vanderscamp had served in this hopeful school, and having risen toimportance among the bucaniers, had pitched upon his native village andearly home, as a quiet, out-of-the-way, unsuspected place, where he andhis comrades, while anchored at New York, might have their feasts, andconcert their plans, without molestation. 

At length the attention of the British government was called to thesepiratical enterprises, that were becoming so frequent and outrageous. Vigorous measures were taken to check and punish them. Several ofthe most noted freebooters were caught and executed, and three ofVanderscamp's chosen comrades, the most riotous swash-bucklers of theWild Goose, were hanged in chains on Gibbet-Island, in full sight oftheir favorite resort. As to Vanderscamp himself, he and his man Plutoagain disappeared, and it was hoped by the people of Communipaw that hehad fallen in some foreign brawl, or been swung on some foreign gallows. 

For a time, therefore, the tranquillity of the village was restored;the worthy Dutchmen once more smoked their pipes in peace, eying, withpeculiar complacency, their old pests and terrors, the pirates, danglingand drying in the sun, on Gibbet-Island. 

This perfect calm was doomed at length to be ruffled. The fierypersecution of the pirates gradually subsided. Justice was satisfiedwith the examples that had been made, and there was no more talk ofKidd, and the other heroes of like kidney. On a calm summer evening, aboat, somewhat heavily laden, was seen pulling into Communipaw. Whatwas the surprise and disquiet of the inhabitants, to see Yan YostVanderscamp seated at the helm, and his man Pluto tugging at the oars!Vanderscamp, however, was apparently an altered man. He brought homewith him a wife, who seemed to be a shrew, and to have the upper-hand ofhim. He no longer was the swaggering, bully ruffian, but affected theregular merchant, and talked of retiring from business, and settlingdown quietly, to pass the rest of his days in his native place. 

The Wild Goose mansion was again opened, but with diminished splendor, and no riot. It is true, Vanderscamp had frequent nautical visitors, andthe sound of revelry was occasionally overheard in his house; but everything seemed to be done under the rose; and old Pluto was the onlyservant that officiated at these orgies. The visitors, indeed, wereby no means of the turbulent stamp of their predecessors; but quiet, mysterious traders, full of nods, and winks, and hieroglyphic signs, with whom, to use their cant phrase, "every thing was smug. " Their shipscame to anchor at night in the lower bay; and, on a private signal, Vanderscamp would launch his boat, and accompanied solely by his manPluto, would make them mysterious visits. Sometimes boats pulled in atnight, in front of the Wild Goose, and various articles of merchandisewere landed in the dark, and spirited away, nobody knew whither. One ofthe more curious of the inhabitants kept watch, and caught a glimpse ofthe features of some of these night visitors, by the casual glance ofa lantern, and declared that he recognized more than one of thefreebooting frequenters of the Wild Goose, in former times; from whencehe concluded that Vanderscamp was at his old game, and that thismysterious merchandise was nothing more nor less than piratical plunder. The more charitable opinion, however, was, that Vanderscamp and hiscomrades, having been driven from their old line of business, by the"oppressions of government, " had resorted to smuggling to make both endsmeet. 

Be that as it may: I come now to the extraordinary fact, which is thebutt-end of this story. It happened late one night, that Yan YostVanderscamp was returning across the broad bay, in his light skiff, rowed by his man Pluto. He had been carousing on board of a vessel, newly arrived, and was somewhat obfuscated in intellect, by the liquorhe had imbibed. It was a still, sultry night; a heavy mass of luridclouds was rising in the west, with the low muttering of distantthunder. Vanderscamp called on Pluto to pull lustily, that they mightget home before the gathering storm. The old negro made no reply, butshaped his course so as to skirt the rocky shores of Gibbet-Island. Afaint creaking overhead caused Vanderscamp to cast up his eyes, when, to his horror, he beheld the bodies of his three pot companions andbrothers in iniquity dangling in the moonlight, their rags fluttering, and their chains creaking, as they were slowly swung backward andforward by the rising breeze. 

"What do you mean, you blockhead!" cried Vanderscamp, "by pulling soclose to the island?"

"I thought you'd be glad to see your old friends once more, " growled thenegro; "you were never afraid of a living man, what do you fear from thedead?"

"Who's afraid?" hiccupped Vanderscamp, partly heated by liquor, partlynettled by the jeer of the negro; "who's afraid! Hang me, but I would beglad to see them once more, alive or dead, at the Wild Goose. Come, mylads in the wind!" continued he, taking a draught, and flourishing thebottle above his head, "here's fair weather to you in the other world;and if you should be walking the rounds to-night, odds fish! but I'll behappy if you will drop in to supper. "

A dismal creaking was the only reply. The wind blew loud and shrill, andas it whistled round the gallows, and among the bones, sounded as ifthere were laughing and gibbering in the air. Old Pluto chuckled tohimself, and now pulled for home. The storm burst over the voyagers, while they were yet far from shore. The rain fell in torrents, thethunder crashed and pealed, and the lightning kept up an incessantblaze. It was stark midnight, before they landed at Communipaw. 

Dripping and shivering, Vanderscamp crawled homeward. He was completelysobered by the storm; the water soaked from without, having diluted andcooled the liquor within. Arrived at the Wild Goose, he knocked timidlyand dubiously at the door, for he dreaded the reception he was toexperience from his wife. He had reason to do so. She met him at thethreshold, in a precious ill humor. 

"Is this a time, " said she, "to keep people out of their beds, and tobring home company, to turn the house upside down?"

"Company?" said Vanderscamp, meekly; "I have brought no company with me, wife. "

"No, indeed! they have got here before you, but by your invitation; andblessed-looking company they are, truly!"

Vanderscamp's knees smote together. "For the love of heaven, where arethey, wife?"

"Where?--why, in the blue-room, up-stairs, making themselves as much athome as if the house were their own. "

Vanderscamp made a desperate effort, scrambled up to the room, and threwopen the door. Sure enough, there at a table, on which burned a light asblue as brimstone, sat the three guests from Gibbet-Island, with haltersround their necks, and bobbing their cups together, as if they werehob-or-nobbing, and trolling the old Dutch freebooter's glee, sincetranslated into English:

 "For three merry lads be we, And three merry lads be we; I on the land, and thou on the sand, And Jack on the gallows-tree. "

Vanderscamp saw and heard no more. Starting back with horror, he missedhis footing on the landing-place, and fell from the top of the stairs tothe bottom. He was taken up speechless, and, either from the fall or thefright, was buried in the yard of the little Dutch church at Bergen, onthe following Sunday. 

From that day forward, the fate of the Wild Goose was sealed. It waspronounced a _haunted house_, and avoided accordingly. No one inhabitedit but Vanderscamp's shrew of a widow, and old Pluto, and they wereconsidered but little better than its hobgoblin visitors. Pluto grewmore and more haggard and morose, and looked more like an imp ofdarkness than a human being. He spoke to no one, but went aboutmuttering to himself; or, as some hinted, talking with the devil, who, though unseen, was ever at his elbow. Now and then he was seen pullingabout the bay alone, in his skiff, in dark weather, or at the approachof night-fall; nobody could tell why, unless on an errand to invite moreguests from the gallows. Indeed it was affirmed that the Wild Goosestill continued to be a house of entertainment for such guests, and thaton stormy nights, the blue chamber was occasionally illuminated, andsounds of diabolical merriment were overheard, mingling with the howlingof the tempest. Some treated these as idle stories, until on one suchnight, it was about the time of the equinox, there was a horrible uproarin the Wild Goose, that could not be mistaken. It was not so muchthe sound of revelry, however, as strife, with two or three piercingshrieks, that pervaded every part of the village. Nevertheless, no onethought of hastening to the spot. On the contrary, the honest burghersof Communipaw drew their night-caps over their ears, and buried theirheads under the bed-clothes, at the thoughts of Vanderscamp and hisgallows companions. 

The next morning, some of the bolder and more curious undertook toreconnoitre. All was quiet and lifeless at the Wild Goose. The dooryawned wide open, and had evidently been open all night, for the stormhad beaten into the house. Gathering more courage from the silence andapparent desertion, they gradually ventured over the threshold. Thehouse had indeed the air of having been possessed by devils. Every thingwas topsy-turvy; trunks had been broken open, and chests of drawers andcorner cupboards turned inside out, as in a time of general sack andpillage; but the most woful sight was the widow of Yan Yost Vanderscamp, extended a corpse on the floor of the blue-chamber, with the marks of adeadly gripe on the wind-pipe. 

All now was conjecture and dismay at Communipaw; and the disappearanceof old Pluto, who was no where to be found, gave rise to all kinds ofwild surmises. Some suggested that the negro had betrayed the house tosome of Vanderscamp's bucaniering associates, and that they had decampedtogether with the booty; others surmised that the negro was nothing morenor less than a devil incarnate, who had now accomplished his ends, andmade off with his dues. Events, however, vindicated the negro from thislast imputation. His skiff was picked up, drifting about the bay, bottomupward, as if wrecked in a tempest; and his body was found, shortlyafterward, by some Communipaw fishermen, stranded among the rocks ofGibbet-Island, near the foot of the pirates' gallows. The fishermenshook their heads, and observed that old Pluto had ventured once toooften to invite Guests from Gibbet-Island. 

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THE BERMUDAS. 

A SHAKSPERIAN RESEARCH: BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCHBOOK. 

"Who did not think, till within these foure yeares, but that theseislands had been rather a habitation for Divells, than fit for men todwell in? Who did not hate the name, when hee was on land, and shun theplace when he was on the seas? But behold the misprision and conceits ofthe world! For true and large experience hath now told us, it is one ofthe sweetest paradises that be upon earth. "--"A PLAINE DESCRIPT. OF THEBARMUDAS:" 1613. 

In the course of a voyage home from England, our ship had beenstruggling, for two or three weeks, with perverse headwinds, and astormy sea. It was in the month of May, yet the weather had at timesa wintry sharpness, and it was apprehended that we were in theneighborhood of floating islands of ice, which at that season of theyear drift out of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, and sometimes occasion thewreck of noble ships. 

Wearied out by the continued opposition of the elements, our captain atlength bore away to the south, in hopes of catching the expiring breathof the trade-winds, and making what is called the southern passage. Afew days wrought, as it were, a magical "sea change" in every thingaround us. We seemed to emerge into a different world. The late dark andangry sea, lashed up into roaring and swashing surges, became calm andsunny; the rude winds died away; and gradually a light breeze sprang updirectly aft, filling out every sail, and wafting us smoothly along onan even keel. The air softened into a bland and delightful temperature. Dolphins began to play about us; the nautilus came floating by, like afairy ship, with its mimic sail and rainbow tints; and flying-fish, fromtime to time, made their short excursive flights, and occasionally fellupon the deck. The cloaks and overcoats in which we had hitherto wrappedourselves, and moped about the vessel, were thrown aside; for a summerwarmth had succeeded to the late wintry chills. Sails were stretched asawnings over the quarter-deck, to protect us from the mid-day sun. Underthese we lounged away the day, in luxurious indolence, musing, withhalf-shut eyes, upon the quiet ocean. The night was scarcely lessbeautiful than the day. The rising moon sent a quivering column ofsilver along the undulating surface of the deep, and, gradually climbingthe heaven, lit up our towering top-sails and swelling main-sails, andspread a pale, mysterious light around. As our ship made her whisperingway through this dreamy world of waters, every boisterous sound on boardwas charmed to silence; and the low whistle, or drowsy song of a sailorfrom the forecastle, or the tinkling of a guitar, and the soft warblingof a female voice from the quarter-deck, seemed to derive a witchingmelody from the scene and hour. I was reminded of Oberon's exquisitedescription of music and moonlight on the ocean:

 --"Thou rememberest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song? And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music. "

Indeed, I was in the very mood to conjure up all the imaginary beingswith which poetry has peopled old ocean, and almost ready to fancyI heard the distant song of the mermaid, or the mellow shell of thetriton, and to picture to myself Neptune and Amphitrite with all theirpageant sweeping along the dim horizon. 

A day or two of such fanciful voyaging brought us in sight of theBermudas, which first looked like mere summer clouds, peering above thequiet ocean. All day we glided along in sight of them, with just windenough to fill our sails; and never did land appear more lovely. Theywere clad in emerald verdure, beneath the serenest of skies: not anangry wave broke upon their quiet shores, and small fishing craft, riding on the crystal waves, seemed as if hung in air. It was such ascene that Fletcher pictured to himself, when he extolled the halcyonlot of the fisherman:

 Ah! would thou knewest how much it better were To bide among the simple fisher-swains: No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here, Nor is our simple pleasure mixed with pains. Our sports begin with the beginning year; In calms, to pull the leaping fish to land, In roughs, to sing and dance along the yellow sand. 

In contemplating these beautiful islands, and the peaceful seaaround them, I could hardly realize that these were the "still vexedBermoothes" of Shakspeare, once the dread of mariners, and infamous inthe narratives of the early discoverers, for the dangers and disasterswhich beset them. Such, however, was the case; and the islands derivedadditional interest in my eyes, from fancying that I could trace intheir early history, and in the superstitious notions connected withthem, some of the elements of Shakspeare's wild and beautiful drama ofthe Tempest. I shall take the liberty of citing a few historical facts, in support of this idea, which may claim some additional attention fromthe American reader, as being connected with the first settlement ofVirginia. 

At the time when Shakspeare was in the fulness of his talent, andseizing upon everything that could furnish aliment to his imagination, the colonization of Virginia was a favorite object of enterprise amongpeople of condition in England, and several of the courtiers of thecourt of Queen Elizabeth were personally engaged in it. In the year1609 a noble armament of nine ships and five hundred men sailed for therelief of the colony. It was commanded by Sir George Somers, as admiral, a gallant and generous gentleman, above sixty years of age, andpossessed of an ample fortune, yet still bent upon hardy enterprise, andambitious of signalizing himself in the service of his country. 

On board of his flag-ship, the Sea-Vulture, sailed also Sir ThomasGates, lieutenant-general of the colony. The voyage was long andboisterous. On the twenty-fifth of July, the admiral's ship wasseparated from the rest, in a hurricane. For several days she was drivenabout at the mercy of the elements, and so strained and racked, that herseams yawned open, and her hold was half filled with water. The stormsubsided, but left her a mere foundering wreck. The crew stood in thehold to their waists in water, vainly endeavoring to bail her withkettles, buckets, and other vessels. The leaks rapidly gained on them, while their strength was as rapidly declining. They lost all hope ofkeeping the ship afloat, until they should reach the American coast; andwearied with fruitless toil, determined, in their despair, to give upall farther attempt, shut down the hatches, and abandon themselves toProvidence. Some, who had spirituous liquors, or "comfortable waters, "as the old record quaintly terms them, brought them forth, and sharedthem with their comrades, and they all drank a sad farewell to oneanother, as men who were soon to part company in this world. 

In this moment of extremity, the worthy admiral, who kept sleeplesswatch from the high stern of the vessel, gave the thrilling cry of"land!" All rushed on deck, in a frenzy of joy, and nothing now was tobe seen or heard on board, but the transports of men who felt as ifrescued from the grave. It is true the land in sight would not, inordinary circumstances, have inspired much self-gratulation. It could benothing else but the group of islands called after their discoverer, oneJuan Bermudas, a Spaniard, but stigmatized among the mariners of thosedays as "the islands of devils!" "For the islands of the Bermudas, " saysthe old narrative of this voyage, "as every man knoweth that hath heardor read of them, were never inhabited by any Christian or heathenpeople, but were ever esteemed and reputed a most prodigious andinchanted place, affording nothing but gusts, stormes, and foul weather, which made every navigator and mariner to avoide them, as Scylla andCharybdis, or as they would shun the Divell himself. " [Footnote: "APlaine Description of the Barmudas. "]

Sir George Somers and his tempest-tossed comrades, however, hailed themwith rapture, as if they had been a terrestrial paradise. Every sail wasspread, and every exertion made to urge the foundering ship to land. Before long, she struck upon a rock. Fortunately, the late stormy windshad subsided, and there was no surf. A swelling wave lifted her from offthe rock, and bore her to another; and thus she was borne on from rockto rock, until she remained wedged between two, as firmly as if set uponthe stocks. The boats were immediately lowered, and, though the shorewas above a mile distant, the whole crew were landed in safety. 

Every one had now his task assigned him. Some made all haste to unloadthe ship, before she should go to pieces; some constructed wigwams ofpalmetto leaves, and others ranged the island in quest of wood andwater. To their surprise and joy, they found it far different from thedesolate and frightful place they had been taught, by seamen's stories, to expect. It was well-wooded and fertile; there were birds of variouskinds, and herds of swine roaming about, the progeny of a number thathad swam ashore, in former years, from a Spanish wreck. The islandabounded with turtle, and great quantities of their eggs were to befound among the rocks. The bays and inlets were full of fish; so tame, that if any one stepped into the water, they would throng around him. Sir George Somers, in a little while, caught enough with hook and lineto furnish a meal to his whole ship's company. Some of them were solarge, that two were as much as a man could carry. Crawfish, also, were taken in abundance. The air was soft and salubrious, and the skybeautifully serene. Waller, in his "Summer Islands, " has given us afaithful picture of the climate:

 "For the kind spring, (which but salutes us here, ) Inhabits these, and courts them all the year: Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live; At once they promise, and at once they give: So sweet the air, so moderate the clime, None sickly lives, or dies before his time. Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed To shew how all things were created first. "

We may imagine the feelings of the shipwrecked marines on findingthemselves cast by stormy seas upon so happy a coast; where abundancewas to be had without labor; where what in other climes constituted thecostly luxuries of the rich, were within every man's reach; and wherelife promised to be a mere holiday. Many of the common sailors, especially, declared they desired no better lot than to pass the rest oftheir lives on this favored island. 

The commanders, however, were not so ready to console themselveswith mere physical comforts, for the severance from the enjoyment ofcultivated life, and all the objects of honorable ambition. Despairingof the arrival of any chance ship on these shunned and dreaded islands, they fitted out the long-boat, making a deck of the ship's hatches, and having manned her with eight picked men, despatched her, underthe command of an able and hardy mariner, named Raven, to proceed toVirginia, and procure shipping to be sent to their relief. 

While waiting in anxious idleness for the arrival of the looked-foraid, dissensions arose between Sir George Somers and Sir Thomas Gates, originating, very probably, in jealousy of the lead which the nauticalexperience and professional station of the admiral gave him in thepresent emergency. Each commander, of course, had his adherents:these dissensions ripened into a complete schism; and this handfulof shipwrecked men, thus thrown together, on an uninhabited island, separated into two parties, and lived asunder in bitter feud, as menrendered fickle by prosperity instead of being brought into brotherhoodby a common calamity. 

Weeks and months elapsed, without bringing the looked-for aid fromVirginia, though that colony was within but a few days' sail. Fears werenow entertained that the long-boat had been either swallowed up inthe sea, or wrecked on some savage coast; one or other of which mostprobably was the case, as nothing was ever heard of Raven and hiscomrades. 

Each party now set to work to build a vessel for itself out of the cedarwith which the island abounded. The wreck of the Sea-Vulture furnishedrigging, and various other articles; but they had no iron for bolts, andother fastenings; and for want of pitch and tar, they payed the seams oftheir vessels with lime and turtle's oil, which soon dried, and becameas hard as stone. 

On the tenth of May, 1610, they set sail, having been about nine monthson the island. They reached Virginia without farther accident, but foundthe colony in great distress for provisions. The account they gave ofthe abundance that reigned in the Bermudas, and especially of the herdsof swine that roamed the island, determined Lord Delaware, the governorof Virginia, to send thither for supplies. Sir George Somers, with hiswonted promptness and generosity, offered to undertake what was stillconsidered a dangerous voyage. Accordingly, on the nineteenth of June, he set sail, in his own cedar vessel of thirty tons, accompanied byanother small vessel, commanded by Captain Argall. 

The gallant Somers was doomed again to be tempest-tossed. His companionvessel was soon driven back to port, but he kept the sea; and, as usual, remained at his post on deck, in all weathers. His voyage was long andboisterous, and the fatigues and exposures which he underwent, were toomuch for a frame impaired by age, and by previous hardships. He arrivedat Bermudas completely exhausted and broken down. 

His nephew, Captain Mathew Somers, attended him in his illness withaffectionate assiduity. Finding his end approaching, the veteran calledhis men together, and exhorted them to be true to the interests ofVirginia; to procure provisions with all possible despatch, and hastenback to the relief of the colony. 

With this dying charge, he gave up the ghost, leaving us nephew and crewoverwhelmed with grief and consternation. Their first thought was topay honor to his remains. Opening the body, they took out the heart andentrails, and buried them, erecting a cross over the grave. They thenembalmed the body, and set sail with it for England; thus, while payingempty honors to their deceased commander, neglecting his earnest wishand dying injunction, that they should return with relief to Virginia. 

The little bark arrived safely at Whitechurch, in Dorsetshire, with itsmelancholy freight. The body of the worthy Somers was interred with themilitary honors due to a brave soldier, and many volleys were firedover his grave. The Bermudas have since received the name of the SomerIslands, as a tribute to his memory. 

The accounts given by Captain Mathew Somers and his crew of thedelightful climate, and the great beauty, fertility, and abundance ofthese islands, excited the zeal of enthusiasts, and the cupidity ofspeculators, and a plan was set on foot to colonize them. The Virginiacompany sold their right to the islands to one hundred and twenty oftheir own members, who erected themselves into a distinct corporation, under the name of the "Somer Island Society;" and Mr. Richard More wassent out, in 1612, as governor, with sixty men, to found a colony: andthis leads me to the second branch of this research. 

 * * * * *

_THE THREE KINGS OF BERMUDA_. 

AND THEIR TREASURE OF AMBERGRIS. 

At the time that Sir George Somers was preparing to launch hiscedar-built bark, and sail for Virginia, there were three culprits amonghis men, who had been guilty of capital offences. One of them was shot;the others, named Christopher Carter and Edward Waters, escaped. Waters, indeed, made a very narrow escape, for he had actually been tied to atree to be executed, but cut the rope with a knife, which he hadconcealed about his person, and fled to the woods, where he was joined byCarter. These two worthies kept themselves concealed in the secret partsof the island, until the departure of the two vessels. When Sir GeorgeSomers revisited the island, in quest of supplies for the Virginiacolony, these culprits hovered about the landing-place, and succeeded inpersuading another seaman, named Edward Chard, to join them, giving himthe most seductive pictures of the ease and abundance in which theyrevelled. 

When the bark that bore Sir George's body to England had faded from thewatery horizon, these three vagabonds walked forth in their majesty andmight, the lords and sole inhabitants of these islands. For a time theirlittle commonwealth went on prosperously and happily. They built ahouse, sowed corn, and the seeds of various fruits; and having plentyof hogs, wild fowl, and fish of all kinds, with turtle in abundance, carried on their tripartite sovereignty with great harmony and muchfeasting. All kingdoms, however, are doomed to revolution, convulsion, or decay; and so it fared with the empire of the three kings of Bermuda, albeit they were monarchs without subjects. In an evil hour, in theirsearch after turtle, among the fissures of the rocks, they came upon agreat treasure of ambergris, which had been cast on shore by the ocean. Beside a number of pieces of smaller dimensions, there was one greatmass, the largest that had ever been known, weighing eighty pounds, andwhich of itself, according to the market value of ambergris in thosedays, was worth about nine or ten thousand pounds!

From that moment, the happiness and harmony of the three kings ofBermuda were gone for ever. While poor devils, with nothing to sharebut the common blessings of the island, which administered to presentenjoyment, but had nothing of convertible value, they were loving andunited: but here was actual wealth, which would make them rich men, whenever they could transport it to a market. 

Adieu the delights of the island! They now became flat and insipid. Eachpictured to himself the consequence he might now aspire to, in civilizedlife, could he once get there with this mass of ambergris. No longer apoor Jack Tar, frolicking in the low taveriis of Wapping, he might rollthrough London in his coach, and perchance arrive, like Whittington, atthe dignity of Lord Mayor. 

With riches came envy and covetousness. Each was now for assuming thesupreme power, and getting the monopoly of the ambergris. A civil war atlength broke out: Chard and Waters defied each other to mortal combat, and the kingdom of the Bermudas was on the point of being deluged withroyal blood. Fortunately, Carter took no part in the bloody feud. Ambition might have made him view it with secret exultation; for ifeither or both of his brother potentates were slain in the conflict, he would be a gainer in purse and ambergris. But he dreaded to be leftalone in this uninhabited island, and to find himself the monarch ofa solitude: so he secretly purloined and hid the weapons of thebelligerent rivals, who, having no means of carrying on the war, gradually cooled down into a sullen armistice. 

The arrival of Governor More, with an overpowering force of sixty men, put an end to the empire. He took possession of the kingdom, in thename of the Somer Island Company, and forthwith proceeded to make asettlement. The three kings tacitly relinquished their sway, but stoodup stoutly for their treasure. It was determined, however, that theyhad been fitted out at the expense, and employed in the service, of theVirginia Company; that they had found the ambergis while in the serviceof that company, and on that company's land; that the ambergis, therefore, belonged to that company, or rather to the Somer IslandCompany, in consequence of their recent purchase of the island, and alltheir appurtenances. Having thus legally established their right, andbeing moreover able to back it by might, the company laid the lion's pawupon the spoil; and nothing more remains on historic record of the ThreeKings of Bermuda, and their treasure of ambergris. 

 * * * * *

The reader will now determine whether I am more extravagant than mostof the commentators on Shakspeare, in my surmise that the story of SirGeorge Somers' shipwreck, and the subsequent occurrences that took placeon the uninhabited island, may have furnished the bard with some of theelements of his drama of the Tempest. The tidings of the shipwreck, andof the incidents connected with it, reached England not long before theproduction of this drama, and made a great sensation there. A narrativeof the whole matter, from which most of the foregoing particulars areextracted, was published at the time in London, in a pamphlet form, andcould not fail to be eagerly perused by Shakspeare, and to make a vividimpression on his fancy. His expression, in the Tempest, of "the stillvext Bermoothes, " accords exactly with the storm-beaten character ofthose islands. The enchantments, too, with which he has clothed theisland of Prospero, may they not be traced to the wild and superstitiousnotions entertained about the Bermudas? I have already cited twopassages from a pamphlet published at the time, showing that theywere esteemed "a most _prodigious_ and _inchanted_ place, " and the"habitation of divells;" and another pamphlet, published shortlyafterward, observes: "And whereas it is reported that this land of theBarmudas, with the islands about, (which are many, at least a hundred, )are inchanted and kept with evil and wicked spirits, it is a most idleand false report. " [Footnote: "Newes from the Barmudas;" 1612. ]

The description, too, given in the same pamphlets, of the real beautyand fertility of the Bermudas, and of their serene and happy climate, soopposite to the dangerous and inhospitable character with which they hadbeen stigmatized, accords with the eulogium of Sebastian on the islandof Prospero:

"Though this island seem to be desert, uninhabitable, and almostinaccessible, it must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicatetemperance. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. Here is everything advantageous to life. How lush and lusty the grass looks! howgreen!"

I think too, in the exulting consciousness of ease, security, andabundance felt by the late tempest-tossed mariners, while revelling inthe plenteousness of the island, and their inclination to remain there, released from the labors, the cares, and the artificial restraints ofcivilized life, I can see something of the golden commonwealth of honestGonzalo:

 "Had I plantation of this isle, my lord, And were the king of it, what would I do? I' the commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things: for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none: No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil: No occupation; all men idle, all. 

 All things in common, nature should produce, Without sweat or endeavor: Treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foizon, all abundance, To feed my innocent people. "

But above all, in the three fugitive vagabonds who remained inpossession of the island of Bermuda, on the departure of their comrades, and in their squabbles about supremacy, on the finding of theirtreasure, I see typified Sebastian, Trinculo, and their worthy companionCaliban:

 "Trinculo, the king and all our company being drowned, we will inherit here. "

 "Monster, I will kill this man; his daughter and I will be king andqueen, (save our graces!) and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. "

I do not mean to hold up the incidents and characters in the narrativeand in the play as parallel, or as being strikingly similar: neitherwould I insinuate that the narrative suggested the play; I would onlysuppose that Shakspeare, being occupied about that time on the drama ofthe Tempest, the main story of which, I believe, is of Italian origin, had many of the fanciful ideas of it suggested to his mind by theshipwreck of Sir George Somers on the "still vext Bermothes, " and by thepopular superstitions connected with these islands, and suddenly put incirculation by that event. 

 * * * * *

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

It is the common lamentation of Spanish historiographers, that, for anobscure and melancholy space of time immediately succeeding the conquestof their country by the Moslems, its history is a mere wilderness ofdubious facts, groundless fables, and rash exaggerations. Learned men, in cells and cloisters, have worn out their lives in vainly endeavoringto connect incongruous events, and to account for startlingimprobabilities, recorded of this period. The worthy Jesuit, PadreAbarca, declares that, for more than forty years during which he hadbeen employed in theological controversies, he had never found any soobscure and inexplicable as those which rise out of this portion ofSpanish history, and that the only fruit of an indefatigable, prolix, and even prodigious study of the subject, was a melancholy andmortifying state of indecision. [Footnote: PADRE PEDRO ABARCA. Analesde Aragon, Anti Regno, F2. ] During this apocryphal period, flourishedPELAYO, the deliverer of Spain, whose name, like that of WilliamWallace, will ever be linked with the glory of his country, but linked, in like manner, by a bond in which fact and fiction are inextricablyinterwoven. 

The quaint old chronicle of the Moor Rasis, which, though wild andfanciful in the extreme, is frequently drawn upon for early facts bySpanish historians, professes to give the birth, parentage, and wholecourse of fortune of Pelayo, without the least doubt or hesitation. Itmakes him a son of the Duke of Cantabria, and descended, both by fatherand mother's side, from the Gothic kings of Spain. I shall pass over theromantic story of his childhood, and shall content myself with a sceneof his youth, which was spent in a castle among the Pyrenees, underthe eye of his widowed and noble-minded mother, who caused him to beinstructed in everything befitting a cavalier of gentle birth. While thesons of the nobility were revelling amid the pleasures of a licentiouscourt, and sunk in that vicious and effeminate indulgence which ledto the perdition of unhappy Spain, the youthful Pelayo, in his ruggedmountain school, was steeled to all kinds of hardy exercise. A greatpart of his time was spent in hunting the bears, the wild boars, and thewolves, with which the Pyrenees abounded; and so purely and chastely washe brought up, by his good lady mother, that, if the ancient chroniclefrom which I draw my facts may be relied on, he had attained hisone-and-twentieth year, without having once sighed for woman!

Nor were his hardy contests confined to the wild beasts of the forest. Occasionally he had to contend with adversaries of a more formidablecharacter. The skirts and defiles of these border mountains were ofteninfested by marauders from the Gallic plains of Gascony. The Gascons, says an old chronicler, were a people who used smooth words whenexpedient, but force when they had power, and were ready to lay theirhands on every thing they met. Though poor, they were proud; for therewas not one who did not pride himself on being a hijo-dalgo, or the sonof somebody. 

At the head of a band of these needy hijodalgos of Gascony, was oneArnaud, a broken-down cavalier. He and four of his followers were wellarmed and mounted; the rest were a set of scamper-grounds on foot, furnished with darts and javelins. They were the terror of the border;here to-day and gone to-morrow; sometimes in one pass, sometimes inanother. They would make sudden inroads into Spain, scour the roads, plunder the country, and were over the mountains and far away before aforce could be collected to pursue them. 

Now it happened one day, that a wealthy burgher of Bordeaux, who was amerchant, trading with Biscay, set out on a journey for that province. As he intended to sojourn there for a season, he took with him hiswife, who was a goodly dame, and his daughter, a gentle damsel, ofmarriageable age, and exceeding fair to look upon. He was attended by atrusty clerk from his comptoir, and a man servant; while another servantled a hackney, laden with bags of money, with which he intended topurchase merchandise. 

When the Gascons heard of this wealthy merchant and his convoy passingthrough the mountains, they thanked their stars, for they consideredall peaceful men of traffic as lawful spoil, sent by providence for thebenefit of hidalgos like themselves, of valor and gentle blood, wholived by the sword. Placing themselves in ambush, in a lonely defile, bywhich the travellers had to pass, they silently awaited their coming. Ina little while they beheld them approaching. The merchant was a fair, portly man, in a buff surcoat and velvet cap. His looks bespoke the goodcheer of his native city, and he was mounted on a stately, well-fedsteed, while his wife and daughter paced gently on palfreys by his side. 

The travellers had advanced some distance in the defile, when theBandoleros rushed forth and assailed them. The merchant, though butlittle used to the exercise of arms, and unwieldy in his form, yet madevaliant defence, having his wife and daughter and money-bags at hazard. He was wounded in two places, and overpowered; one of his servants wasslain, the other took to flight. 

The freebooters then began to ransack for spoil, but were disappointedat not finding the wealth they had expected. Putting their swords to thebreast of the trembling merchant, they demanded where he had concealedhis treasure, and learned from him of the hackney that was following, laden with, money. Overjoyed at this intelligence, they bound theircaptives to trees, and awaited the arrival of the golden spoil. 

On this same day, Pelayo was out with his huntsmen among the mountains, and had taken his stand on a rock, at a narrow pass, to await thesallying forth of a wild boar. Close by him was a page, conducting ahorse, and at the saddle-bow hung his armor, for he was always preparedfor fight among these border mountains. While thus posted, the servantof the merchant came flying from the robbers. On beholding Pelayo, hefell on his knees, and implored his life, for he supposed him to beone of the band. It was some time before he could be relieved from histerror, and made to tell his story. When Pelayo heard of the robbers, he concluded they were the crew of Gascon hidalgos, upon the scamper. Taking his armor from the page, he put on his helmet, slung his bucklerround his neck, took lance in hand, and mounting his steed, compelledthe trembling servant to guide him to the scene of action. At the sametime he ordered the page to seek his huntsmen, and summon them to hisassistance. 

When the robbers saw Pelayo advancing through the forest, with a singleattendant on foot, and beheld his rich armor sparkling in the sun, theythought a new prize had fallen into their hands, and Arnaud and two ofhis companions, mounting their horses, advanced to meet him. As theyapproached, Pelayo stationed himself in a narrow pass between two rocks, where he could only be assailed in front, and bracing his buckler, andlowering his lance, awaited their coming. 

"Who and what are ye, " cried he, "and what seek ye in this land?"

"We are huntsmen, " replied Arnaud, "and lo! our game runs into ourtoils!"

"By my faith, " replied Pelayo, "thou wilt find the game more readilyroused than taken: have at thee for a villain!"

So saying, he put spurs to his horse, and ran full speed upon him. TheGascon, not expecting so sudden an attack from a single horseman, wastaken by surprise. He hastily couched his lance, but it merely glancedon the shield of Pelayo, who sent his own through the middle of hisbreast, and threw him out of his saddle to the earth. One of the otherrobbers made at Pelayo, and wounded him slightly in the side, butreceived a blow from the sword of the latter, which cleft his skull-cap, and sank into his brain. His companion, seeing him fall, put spurs tohis steed, and galloped off through the forest. 

Beholding several other robbers on foot coming up, Pelayo returned tohis station between the rocks, where he was assailed by them all atonce. He received two of their darts on his buckler, a javelin razed hiscuirass, and glancing down, wounded his horse. Pelayo then rushed forth, and struck one of the robbers dead: the others, beholding severalhuntsmen advancing, took to flight, but were pursued, and several ofthem taken. 

The good merchant of Bordeaux and his family beheld this scene withtrembling and amazement, for never had they looked upon such feats ofarms. They considered Don Pelayo as a leader of some rival band ofrobbers; and when the bonds were loosed by which they were tied tothe trees, they fell at his feet and implored mercy. The females weresoonest undeceived, especially the daughter; for the damsel was struckwith the noble countenance and gentle demeanor of Pelayo, and said toherself: "Surely nothing evil can dwell in so goodly and gracious aform. "

Pelayo now sounded his horn, which echoed from rock to rock, and wasanswered by shouts and horns from various parts of the mountains. Themerchant's heart misgave him at these signals, and especially when hebeheld more than forty men gathering from glen and thicket. They wereclad in hunters' dresses, and armed with boar-spears, darts, andhunting-swords, and many of them led hounds in long leashes. All thiswas a new and wild scene to the astonished merchant; nor were his fearsabated, when he saw his servant approaching with the hackney, laden withmoney-bags; "for of a certainty, " said he to himself, "this will be tootempting a spoil for these wild hunters of the mountains. "

Pelayo, however, took no more notice of the gold than if it had beenso much dross; at which the honest burgher marvelled exceedingly. Heordered that the wounds of the merchant should be dressed, and his ownexamined. On taking off his cuirass, his wound was found to be butslight; but his men were so exasperated at seeing his blood, thatthey would have put the captive robbers to instant death, had he notforbidden them to do them any harm. 

The huntsmen now made a great fire at the foot of a tree, and bringinga boar which they had killed, cut off portions and roasted them, orbroiled them on the coals. Then drawing forth loaves of bread from theirwallets, they devoured their food half raw, with the hungry relish ofhuntsmen and mountaineers. The merchant, his wife, and daughter, lookedat all this, and wondered, for they had never beheld so savage a repast. 

Pelayo then inquired of them if they did not desire to eat; they weretoo much in awe of him to decline, though they felt a loathing at thethought of partaking of this hunter's fare; but he ordered a linen clothto be spread under the shade of a great oak, on the grassy margin of aclear running stream; and to their astonishment, they were served, notwith the flesh of the boar, but with dainty cheer, such as the merchanthad scarcely hoped to find out of the walls of his native city ofBordeaux. 

The good burgher was of a community renowned for gastronomic prowess:his fears having subsided, his appetite was now awakened, and headdressed himself manfully to the viands that were set before him. Hisdaughter, however, could not eat: her eyes were ever and anon stealingto gaze on Pelayo, whom she regarded with gratitude for his protection, and admiration for his valor; and now that he had laid aside his helmet, and she beheld his lofty countenance, glowing with manly beauty, she thought him something more than mortal. The heart of the gentledonzella, says the ancient chronicler, was kind and yielding; and hadPelayo thought fit to ask the greatest boon that love and beauty couldbestow--doubtless meaning her fair hand--she could not have had thecruelty to say him nay. Pelayo, however, had no such thoughts: the loveof woman had never yet entered his heart; and though he regarded thedamsel as the fairest maiden he had ever beheld, her beauty caused noperturbation in his breast. 

When the repast was over, Pelayo offered to conduct the merchant andhis family through the defiles of the mountains, lest they should bemolested by any of the scattered band of robbers. The bodies of theslain marauders were buried, and the corpse of the servant was laid uponone of the horses captured in the battle. Having formed their cavalcade, they pursued their way slowly up one of the steep and winding passes ofthe Pyrenees. 

Toward sunset, they arrived at the dwelling of a holy hermit. It washewn out of the living rock; there was a cross over the door, and beforeit was a great spreading oak, with a sweet spring of water at its foot. The body of the faithful servant who had fallen in the defence of hislord, was buried close by the wall of this sacred retreat, and thehermit promised to perform masses for the repose of his soul. ThenPelayo obtained from the holy father consent that the merchant's wifeand daughter should pass the night within his cell; and the hermit madebeds of moss for them, and gave them his benediction; but the damselfound little rest, so much were her thoughts occupied by the youthfulchampion who had rescued her from death or dishonor. 

Pelayo, however, was visited by no such wandering of the mind; but, wrapping himself in his mantle, slept soundly by the fountain under thetree. At midnight, when every thing was buried in deep repose, he wasawakened from his sleep and beheld the hermit before him, with the beamsof the moon shining upon his silver hair and beard. 

"This is no time, " said the latter, "to be sleeping; arise and listen tomy words, and hear of the great work for which thou art chosen!"

Then Pelayo arose and seated himself on a rock, and the hermit continuedhis discourse. 

"Behold, " said he, "the ruin of Spain is at hand! It will be deliveredinto the hands of strangers, and will become a prey to the spoiler. Itschildren will be slain or carried into captivity; or such as may escapethese evils, will harbor with the beasts of the forest or the eagles ofthe mountain. The thorn and bramble will spring up where now are seenthe cornfield, the vine, and the olive; and hungry wolves will roam inplace of peaceful flocks and herds. But thou, my son! tarry not thouto see these things, for thou canst not prevent them. Depart on apilgrimage to the sepulchre of our blessed Lord in Palestine; purifythyself by prayer; enroll thyself in the order of chivalry, and preparefor the great work of the redemption of thy country; for to thee it willbe given to raise it from the depth of its affliction. "

Pelayo would have inquired farther into the evils thus foretold, but thehermit rebuked his curiosity. 

"Seek not to know more, " said he, "than heaven is pleased to reveal. Clouds and darkness cover its designs, and prophecy is never permittedto lift up but in part the veil that rests upon the future. "

The hermit ceased to speak, and Pelayo laid himself down again to takerepose, but sleep was a stranger to his eyes. 

When the first rays of the rising sun shone upon the tops of themountains, the travellers assembled round the fountain beneath the treeand made their morning's repast. Then, having received the benedictionof the hermit, they departed in the freshness of the day, and descendedalong the hollow defiles leading into the interior of Spain. The goodmerchant was refreshed by sleep and by his morning's meal; and when hebeheld his wife and daughter thus secure by his side, and the hackneyladen with his treasure close behind him, his heart was light in hisbosom, and he carolled a chanson as he went, and the woodlands echoed tohis song. But Pelayo rode in silence, for he revolved in his mind theportentous words of the hermit; and the daughter of the merchant everand anon stole looks at him full of tenderness and admiration, and deepsighs betrayed the agitation of her bosom. 

At length they came to the foot of the mountains, where the forests andthe rocks terminated, and an open and secure country lay before thetravellers. Here they halted, for their roads were widely different. When they came to part, the merchant and his wife were loud in thanksand benedictions, and the good burgher would fain have given Pelayo thelargest of his sacks of gold; but the young man put it aside with asmile. "Silver and gold, " said he, "need I not, but if I have deservedaught at thy hands, give me thy prayers, for the prayers of a good manare above all price. "

In the mean time the daughter had spoken never a word. At length sheraised her eyes, which were filled with tears, and looked timidly atPelayo, and her bosom throbbed; and after a violent struggle betweenstrong affection and virgin modesty, her heart relieved itself by words. 

"Senor, " said she, "I know that I am unworthy of the notice of so noblea cavalier; but suffer me to place this ring upon a finger of that handwhich has so bravely rescued us from death; and when you regard it, youmay consider it as a memorial of your own valor, and not of one who istoo humble to be remembered by you. "

With these words, she drew a ring from her finger and put it upon thefinger of Pelayo; and having done this, she blushed and trembled at herown boldness, and stood as one abashed, with her eyes cast down upon theearth. 

Pelayo was moved at the words of the simple maiden, and at the touch ofher fair hand, and at her beauty, as she stood thus trembling and intears before him; but as yet he knew nothing of woman, and his heart wasfree from the snares of love. "Amiga, " (friend, ) said he, "I accept thypresent, and will wear it in remembrance of thy goodness;" so saying, hekissed her on the cheek. 

The damsel was cheered by these words, and hoped that she had awakenedsome tenderness in his bosom; but it was no such thing, says the graveold chronicler, for his heart was devoted to higher and more sacredmatters; yet certain it is, that he always guarded well that ring. 

When they parted, Pelayo remained with his huntsmen on a cliff, watchingthat no evil befell them, until they were far beyond the skirts of themountain; and the damsel often turned to look at him, until she could nolonger discern him, for the distance and the tears that dimmed her eyes. 

And for that he had accepted her ring, says the ancient chronicler, sheconsidered herself wedded to him in her heart, and would never marry;nor could she be brought to look with eyes of affection upon any otherman; but for the true love which she bore Pelayo, she lived and died avirgin. And she composed a book which treated of love and chivalry, and the temptations of this mortal life; and one part discoursed ofcelestial matters, and it was called "The Contemplations of Love;"because at the time she wrote it, she thought of Pelayo, and of hishaving accepted her jewel and called her by the gentle appellation of"Amiga. " And often thinking of him in tender sadness, and of her neverhaving beheld him more, she would take the book and would read it asif in his stead; and while she repeated the words of love which itcontained, she would endeavor to fancy them uttered by Pelayo, and thathe stood before her. 

 * * * * *

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER

SIR: In the course of a tour which I made in Sicily, in the days of myjuvenility, I passed some little time at the ancient city of Catania, at the foot of Mount Ætna. Here I became acquainted with the ChevalierL----, an old Knight of Malta. It was not many years after the time thatNapoleon had dislodged the knights from their island, and he still worethe insignia of his order. He was not, however, one of those reliques ofthat once chivalrous body, who had been described was "a few worn-outold men, creeping about certain parts of Europe, with the Maltese crosson their breasts;" on the contrary, though advanced in life, his formwas still light and vigorous; he had a pale, thin, intellectual visage, with a high forehead, and a bright, visionary eye. He seemed to take afancy to me, as I certainly did to him, and we soon became intimate, I visited him occasionally, at his apartments, in the wing of an oldpalace, looking toward Mount Ætna. He was an antiquary, a virtuoso, anda connoisseur. His rooms were decorated with mutilated statues, dug upfrom Grecian and Roman ruins; old vases, lachrymals, and sepulchrallamps. He had astronomical and chemical instruments, and black-letterbooks, in various languages. I found that he had dipped a little inchimerical studies and had a hankering after astrology and alchymy. Heaffected to believe in dreams and visions, and delighted in the fancifulRosicrucian doctrines. I cannot persuade myself, however, that he reallybelieved in all these: I rather think he loved to let his imaginationcarry him away into the boundless fairy land which they unfolded. 

In company with the chevalier, I took several excursions on horsebackabout the environs of Catania, and the picturesque skirts of Mount Etna. One of these led through a village, which had sprung up on the verytract of an ancient eruption, the houses being built of lava. At onetime we passed, for some distance, along a narrow lane, between two highdead convent walls. It was a cut-throat-looking place, in a countrywhere assassinations are frequent; and just about midway through it, we observed blood upon the pavement and the walls, as if a murder hadactually been committed there. 

The chevalier spurred on his horse, until he had extricated himselfcompletely from this suspicious neighborhood. He then observed, that itreminded him of a similar blind alley in Malta, infamous on account ofthe many assassinations that had taken place there; concerning oneof which, he related a long and tragical story, that lasted untilwe reached Catania. It involved various circumstances of a wild andsupernatural character, but which he assured me were handed down intradition, and generally credited by the old inhabitants of Malta. 

As I like to pick up strange stories, and as I was particularly struckwith several parts of this, I made a minute of it, on my return to mylodgings. The memorandum was lost, with several others of my travellingpapers, and the story had faded from my mind, when recently, in perusinga French memoir, I came suddenly upon it, dressed up, it is true, in avery different manner, but agreeing in the leading facts, and given uponthe word of that famous adventurer, the Count Cagliostro. 

I have amused myself, during a snowy day in the country, by rendering itroughly into English, for the entertainment of a youthful circle roundthe Christmas fire. It was well received by my auditors, who, however, are rather easily pleased. One proof of its merits is that it sentsome of the youngest of them quaking to their beds, and gave them veryfearful dreams. Hoping that it may have the same effect upon yourghost-hunting readers, I offer it, Mr. Editor, for insertion in yourMagazine. I would observe, that wherever I have modified the Frenchversion of the Story, it has been in conformity to some recollection ofthe narrative of my friend, the Knight of Malta. 

Your obt. Servt. , GEOFFREY CRAYON. 

 * * * * *

_THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA, _

A VERITABLE GHOST STORY. 

 "Keep my wits, heaven! They say spirits appear To melancholy minds, and the graves open!"--FLETCHER. 

About the middle of the last century, while the Knights of Saint John ofJerusalem still maintained something of their ancient state and sway inthe Island of Malta, a tragical event took place there, which is thegroundwork of the following narrative. 

It may be as well to premise, that at the time we are treating of, the order of Saint John of Jerusalem, grown excessively wealthy, haddegenerated from its originally devout and warlike character. Insteadof being a hardy body of "monk-knights, " sworn soldiers of the cross, fighting the Paynim in the Holy Land, or scouring the Mediterranean, andscourging the Barbary coasts with their galleys, or feeding the poor, and attending upon the sick at their hospitals, they led a life ofluxury and libertinism, and were to be found in the most voluptuouscourts of Europe. The order, in fact, had become a mode of providingfor the needy branches of the Catholic aristocracy of Europe. "Acommandery, " we are told, was a splendid provision for a youngerbrother; and men of rank, however dissolute, provided they belongedto the highest aristocracy, became Knights of Malta, just as they didbishops, or colonels of regiments, or court chamberlains. After a briefResidence at Malta, the knights passed the rest of their time in theirown countries, or only made a visit now and then to the island. Whilethere, having but little military duty to perform, they beguiled theiridleness by paying attentions to the fair. 

There was one circle of society, however, into which they could notobtain currency. This was composed of a few families of the old Maltesenobility, natives of the island. These families, not being permittedto enroll any of their members in the order, affected to hold nointercourse with its chevaliers; admitting none into their exclusivecoteries but the Grand Master, whom they acknowledged as theirsovereign, and the members of the chapter which composed his council. 

To indemnify themselves for this exclusion, the chevaliers carried theirgallantries into the next class of society, composed of those who heldcivil, administrative, and judicial situations. The ladies of this classwere called _honorate_, or honorables, to distinguish them from theinferior orders; and among them were many of superior grace, beauty, andfascination. 

Even in this more hospitable class, the chevaliers were not all equallyfavored. Those of Germany had the decided preference, owing to theirfair and fresh complexions, and the kindliness of their manners: nextto these came the Spanish cavaliers, on account of their profound andcourteous devotion, and most discreet secrecy. Singular as it may seem, the chevaliers of France fared the worst. The Maltese ladies dreadedtheir volatility, and their proneness to boast of their amours, andshunned all entanglement with them. They were forced, therefore, tocontent themselves with conquests among females of the lower orders. They revenged themselves, after the gay French manner, by making the"honorate" the objects of all kinds of jests and mystifications; byprying into their tender affairs with the more favored chevaliers, andmaking them the theme of song and epigram. 

About this time, a French vessel arrived at Malta, bringing out adistinguished personage of the order of Saint John of Jerusalem, the Commander de Foulquerre, who came to solicit the post ofcommander-in-chief of the galleys. He was descended from an old andwarrior line of French nobility, his ancestors having long beenseneschals of Poitou, and claiming descent from the first counts ofAngouleme. 

The arrival of the commander caused a little uneasiness among thepeaceably inclined, for he bore the character, in the island, of beingfiery, arrogant, and quarrelsome. He had already been three times atMalta, and on each visit had signalized himself by some rash and deadlyaffray. 

As he was now thirty-five years of age, however, it was hoped that timemight have taken off the fiery edge of his spirit, and that he mightprove more quiet and sedate than formerly. The commander set up anestablishment befitting his rank and pretensions; for he arrogated tohimself an importance greater even than that of the Grand Master. Hishouse immediately became the rallying place of all the young Frenchchevaliers. They informed him of all the slights they had experienced orimagined, and indulged their petulant and satirical vein at the expenseof the honorate and their admirers. The chevaliers of other nations soonfound the topics and tone of conversation at the commander's irksome andoffensive, and gradually ceased to visit there. The commander remainedthe head of a national _clique_, who looked up to him as their model. If he was not as boisterous and quarrelsome as formerly, he had becomehaughty and overbearing. He was fond of talking over his past affairs ofpunctilio and bloody duel. When walking the streets, he was generallyattended by a ruffling train of young French cavaliers, who caught hisown air of assumption and bravado. These he would conduct to the scenesof his deadly encounters, point out the very spot where each fatal lungehad been given, and dwell vaingloriously on every particular. 

Under his tuition, the young French chevaliers began to add bluster andarrogance to their former petulance and levity; they fired up on themost trivial occasions, particularly with those who had been mostsuccessful with the fair; and would put on the most intolerabledrawcansir airs. The other chevaliers conducted themselves with allpossible forbearance and reserve; but they saw it would be impossible tokeep on long, in this manner, without coming to an open rupture. 

Among the Spanish cavaliers was one named Don Luis de Lima Vasconcellos. He was distantly related to the Grand Master; and had been enrolled atan early age among his pages, but had been rapidly promoted by him, until, at the age of twenty-six, he had been given the richest Spanishcommandery in the order. He had, moreover, been fortunate with the fair, with one of whom, the most beautiful honorata of Malta, he had longmaintained the most tender correspondence. 

The character, rank, and connexions of Don Luis put him on a par withthe imperious Commander de Foulquerre, and pointed him out as a leaderand champion to his countrymen. The Spanish chevaliers repaired to him, therefore, in a body; represented all the grievances they had sustained, and the evils they apprehended, and urged him to use his influence withthe commander and his adherents to put a stop to the growing abuses. 

Don Luis was gratified by this mark of confidence and esteem on the partof his countrymen, and promised to have an interview with the Commanderde Foulquerre on the subject. He resolved to conduct himself withthe utmost caution and delicacy on the occasion; to represent tothe commander the evil consequences which might result from theinconsiderate conduct of the young French chevaliers, and to entreat himto exert the great influence he so deservedly possessed over them, torestrain their excesses. Don Luis was aware, however, of the peril thatattended any interview of the kind with this imperious and fractiousman, and apprehended, however it might commence, that it would terminatein a duel. Still, it was an affair of honor, in which Castilian dignitywas concerned; beside, he had a lurking disgust at the overbearingmanners of De Foulquerre, and perhaps had been somewhat offended bycertain intrusive attentions which he had presumed to pay to thebeautiful honorata. 

It was now Holy Week; a time too sacred for worldly feuds and passions, especially in a community under the dominion of a religious order; itwas agreed, therefore, that the dangerous interview in question shouldnot take place until after the Easter holidays. It is probable, fromsubsequent circumstances, that the Commander de Foulquerre had someinformation of this arrangement among the Spanish chevaliers, and wasdetermined to be beforehand, and to mortify the pride of their champion, who was thus preparing to read him a lecture. He chose Good Friday forhis purpose. On this sacred day, it is customary in Catholic countriesto make a tour of all the churches, offering up prayers in each. Inevery Catholic church, as is well known, there is a vessel of holy waternear the door. In this, every one, on entering, dips his fingers, andmakes therewith the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast. Anoffice of gallantry, among the young Spaniards, is to stand near thedoor, dip their hands in the holy vessel, and extend them courteouslyand respectfully to any lady of their acquaintance who may enter; whothus receives the sacred water at second hand, on the tips of herfingers, and proceeds to cross herself, with all due decorum. TheSpaniards, who are the most jealous of lovers, are impatient when thispiece of devotional gallantry is proffered to the object of theiraffections by any other hand: on Good Friday, therefore, when a ladymakes a tour of the churches, it is the usage among them for theinamorato to follow her from church to church, so as to present her theholy water at the door of each; thus testifying his own devotion, and atthe same time preventing the officious services of a rival. 

On the day in question, Don Luis followed the beautiful honorata, towhom, as has already been observed, he had long been devoted. At thevery first church she visited, the Commander de Foulquerre was stationedat the portal, with several of the young French chevaliers about him. Before Don Luis could offer her the holy water, he was anticipated bythe commander, who thrust himself between them, and, while he performedthe gallant office to the lady, rudely turned his back upon her admirer, and trod upon his feet. The insult was enjoyed by the young Frenchmenwho were present: it was too deep and grave to be forgiven by Spanishpride; and at once put an end to all Don Luis' plans of caution andforbearance. He repressed his passion for the moment, however, andwaited until all the parties left the church; then, accosting thecommander with an air of coolness and unconcern, he inquired after hishealth, and asked to what church he proposed making his second visit. "To the Magisterial Church of Saint John. " Don Luis offered to conducthim thither, by the shortest route. His offer was accepted, apparentlywithout suspicion, and they proceeded together. After walking somedistance, they entered a long, narrow lane, without door or windowopening upon it, called the "Strada Stretta, " or narrow street. It was astreet in which duels were tacitly permitted, or connived at, in Malta, and were suffered to pass as accidental encounters. Every where elsethey were prohibited. This restriction had been instituted to diminishthe number of duels, formerly so frequent in Malta. As a fartherprecaution to render these encounters less fatal, it was an offence, punishable with death, for any one to enter this street armed witheither poniard or pistol. It was a lonely, dismal street, just wideenough for two men to stand upon their guard, and cross their swords;few persons ever traversed it, unless with some sinister design; and onany preconcerted duello, the seconds posted themselves at each end, tostop all passengers, and prevent interruption. 

In the present instance, the parties had scarce entered the street, when Don Luis drew his sword, and called upon the commander to defendhimself. 

De Foulquerre was evidently taken by surprise: he drew back, andattempted to expostulate; but Don Luis persisted in defying him to thecombat. 

After a second or two, he likewise drew his sword, but immediatelylowered the point. 

"Good Friday!" ejaculated he, shaking his head: "one word with you; itis full six years since I have been in a confessional: I am shocked atthe state of my conscience; but within three days--that is to say, onMonday next--"

Don Luis would listen to nothing. Though naturally of a peaceabledisposition, he had been stung to fury, and people of that character, when once incensed, are deaf to reason. He compelled the commander toput himself on his guard. The latter, though a man accustomed to brawlin battle, was singularly dismayed. Terror was visible in all hisfeatures. He placed himself with his back to the wall, and the weaponswere crossed. The contest was brief and fatal. At the very first thrust, the sword of Don Luis passed through the body of his antagonist. Thecommander staggered to the wall, and leaned against it. 

"On Good Friday!" ejaculated he again, with a failing voice, anddespairing accents. "Heaven pardon you!" added he; "take my sword toTêtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of thecastle, for the repose of my soul!" With these words he expired. 

The fury of Don Luis was at an end. He stood aghast, gazing at thebleeding body of the commander. He called to mind the prayer of thedeceased for three days' respite, to make his peace with heaven; he hadrefused it; had sent him to the grave, with all his sins upon his head!His conscience smote him to the core; he gathered up the sword of thecommander, which he had been enjoined to take to Têtefoulques, andhurried from the fatal Strada Stretta. 

The duel of course made a great noise in Malta, but had no injuriouseffect upon the worldly fortunes of Don Luis. He made a full declarationof the whole matter, before the proper authorities; the Chapter ofthe Order considered it one of those casual encounters of the StradaStretta, which were mourned over, but tolerated; the public, by whomthe late commander had been generally detested, declared that he haddeserved his fate. It was but three days after the event, that DonLuis was advanced to one of the highest dignities of the Order, beinginvested by the Grand Master with the priorship of the kingdom ofMinorca. 

From that time forward, however, the whole character and conduct of DonLuis underwent a change. He became a prey to a dark melancholy, whichnothing could assuage. The most austere piety, the severest penances, had no effect in allaying the horror which preyed upon his mind. He wasabsent for a long time from Malta; having gone, it was said, on remotepilgrimages: when he returned, he was more haggard than ever. Thereseemed something mysterious and inexplicable in this disorder of hismind. The following is the revelation made by himself, of the horriblevisions, or chimeras, by which he was haunted:

"When I had made my declaration before the Chapter, " said he, "and myprovocations were publicly known, I had made my peace with man; but itwas not so with God, nor with my confessor, nor with my own conscience. My act was doubly criminal, from the day on which it was committed, and from my refusal to a delay of three days, for the victim of myresentment to receive the sacraments. His despairing ejaculation, 'GoodFriday! Good Friday!' continually rang in my ears. 'Why did I not grantthe respite!' cried I to myself; 'was it not enough to kill the body, but must I seek to kill the soul!'

"On the night of the following Friday, I started suddenly from my sleep. An unaccountable horror was upon me. I looked wildly around. It seemedas if I were not in my apartment, nor in my bed, but in the fatal StradaStretta, lying on the pavement. I again saw the commander leaningagainst the wall; I again heard his dying words: 'Take my sword toTêtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of thecastle, for the repose of my soul!'

"On the following night, I caused one of my servants to sleep in thesame room with me. I saw and heard nothing, either on that night, or anyof the nights following, until the next Friday; when I had again thesame vision, with this difference, that my valet seemed to be lying atsome distance from me on the pavement of the Strada Stretta. The visioncontinued to be repeated on every Friday night, the commander alwaysappearing in the same manner, and uttering the same words: 'Take mysword to Têtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapelof the castle for the repose of my soul!' On questioning my servant onthe subject, he stated, that on these occasions he dreamed that he waslying in a very narrow street, but he neither saw nor heard any thing ofthe commander. 

"I knew nothing of this Têtefoulques, whither the defunct was so urgentI should carry his sword. I made inquiries, therefore, concerning itamong the French chevaliers. They informed me that it was an old castle, situated about four leagues from Poitiers, in the midst of a forest. It had been built in old times, several centuries since, by FoulquesTaillefer, (or Fulke Hackiron, ) a redoubtable, hard-fighting Count ofAngouleme, who gave it to an illegitimate son, afterward created GrandSeneschal of Poitou, which son became the pro genitor of the Foulquerresof Têtefoulques, hereditary Seneschals of Poitou. They fartherinformed me, that strange stories were told of this old castle, in thesurrounding country, and that it contained many curious reliques. Amongthese, were the arms of Foulques Taillefer, together with all those ofthe warriors he had slain; and that it was an immemorial usage with theFoulquerres to have the weapons deposited there which they had wieldedeither in war or in single combat. This, then, was the reason of thedying injunction of the commander respecting his sword. I carried thisweapon with me, wherever I went, but still I neglected to comply withhis request. 

"The visions still continued to harass me with undiminished horror. I repaired to Rome, where I confessed myself to the Grand Cardinalpenitentiary, and informed him of the terrors with which I was haunted. He promised me absolution, after I should have performed certain acts ofpenance, the principal of which was, to execute the dying request of thecommander, by carrying the sword to Têtefoulques, and having the hundredmasses performed in the chapel of the castle for the repose of his soul. 

"I set out for France as speedily as possible, and made no delay in myjourney. On arriving at Poitiers, I found that the tidings of the deathof the commander had reached there, but had caused no more afflictionthan among the people of Malta. Leaving my equipage in the town, Iput on the garb of a pilgrim, and taking a guide, set out on footfor Têtefoulques, Indeed the roads in this part of the country wereimpracticable for carriages. 

"I found the castle of Têtefoulques a grand but gloomy and dilapidatedpile. All the gates were closed, and there reigned over the whole placean air of almost savage loneliness and desertion. I had understood thatits only inhabitant were the concierge, or warder, and a kind of hermitwho had charge of the chapel. After ringing for some time at the gate, I at length succeeded in bringing forth the warder, who bowed withreverence to my pilgrim's garb. I begged him to conduct me to thechapel, that being the end of my pilgrimage. We found the hermit there, chanting the funeral service; a dismal sound to one who came to performa penance for the death of a member of the family. When he had ceasedto chant, I informed him that I came to accomplish an obligation ofconscience, and that I wished him to perform a hundred masses for therepose of the soul of the commander. He replied that, not being inorders, he was not authorized to perform mass, but that he wouldwillingly undertake to see that my debt of conscience was discharged. Ilaid my offering on the altar, and would have placed the sword of thecommander there, likewise. 'Hold!' said the hermit, with a melancholyshake of the head, 'this is no place for so deadly a weapon, that has sooften been bathed in Christian blood. Take it to the armory; you willfind there trophies enough of like character. It is a place into which Inever enter. '

"The warder here took up the theme abandoned by the peaceful man ofGod. He assured me that I would see in the armory the swords of all thewarrior race of Foulquerres, together with those of the enemies overwhom they had triumphed. This, he observed, had been a usage keptup since the time of Mellusine, and of her husband, Geoffrey a laGrand-dent, or Geoffrey with the Great-tooth. 

"I followed the gossiping warder to the armory. It was a great dustyhall, hung round with Gothic-looking portraits, of a stark line ofwarriors, each with his weapon, and the weapons of those he had slain inbattle, hung beside his picture. The most conspicuous portrait was thatof Foulques Taillefer, (Fulke Hackiron, ) Count of Angouleme, and founderof the castle. He was represented at full-length, armed cap-a-pie, andgrasping a huge buckler, on which were emblazoned three lions passant. The figure was so striking, that it seemed ready to start from thecanvas: and I observed beneath this picture, a trophy composed of manyweapons, proofs of the numerous triumphs of this hard-fighting oldcavalier. Beside the weapons connected with the portraits, there wereswords of all shapes, sizes, and centuries, hung round the hall; withpiles of armor, placed as it were in effigy. 

"On each side of an immense chimney, were suspended the portraits of thefirst seneschal of Poitou (the illegitimate son of Foulques Taillefer)and his wife Isabella de Lusignan; the progenitors of the grim race ofFoulquerres that frowned around. They had the look of being perfectlikenesses; and as I gazed on them, I fancied I could trace in theirantiquated features some family resemblance to their unfortunatedescendant, whom I had slain! This was a dismal neighborhood, yet thearmory was the only part of the castle that had a habitable air; so Iasked the warder whether he could not make a fire, and give me somethingfor supper there, and prepare me a bed in one corner. 

"'A fire and a supper you shall have, and that cheerfully, most worthypilgrim, ' said he; 'but as to a bed, I advise you to come and sleep inmy chamber. '

"'Why so?' inquired I; 'why shall I not sleep in this hall?'

"'I have my reasons; I will make a bed for you close to mine. '

"I made no objections, for I recollected that it was Friday, and Idreaded the return of my vision. He brought in billets of wood, kindleda fire in the great overhanging chimney, and then went forth to preparemy supper. I drew a heavy chair before the fire, and seating myself init, gazed muzingly round upon the portraits of the Foulquerres, and theantiquated armor and weapons, the mementos of many a bloody deed. Asthe day declined, the smoky draperies of the hall gradually becameconfounded with the dark ground of the paintings, and the lurid gleamsfrom the chimney only enabled me to see visages staring at me from thegathering darkness. All this was dismal in the extreme, and somewhatappalling; perhaps it was the state of my conscience that rendered mepeculiarly sensitive, and prone to fearful imaginings. 

"At length the warder brought in my supper. It consisted of a dish oftrout, and some crawfish taken in the fosse of the castle. He procuredalso a bottle of wine, which he informed me was wine of Poitou. Irequested him to invite the hermit to join me in my repast; but the holyman sent back word that he allowed himself nothing but roots and herbs, cooked with water. I took my meal, therefore, alone, but prolonged it asmuch as possible, and sought to cheer my drooping spirits by the wine ofPoitou, which I found very tolerable. 

"When supper was over, I prepared for my evening devotions. I havealways been very punctual in reciting my breviary; it is the prescribedand bounden duty of all chevaliers of the religious orders; and I cananswer for it, is faithfully performed by those of Spain. I accordinglydrew forth from my pocket a small missal and a rosary, and told thewarder he need only designate to me the way to his chamber, where Icould come and rejoin him, when I had finished my prayers. 

"He accordingly pointed out a winding stair-case, opening from the hall. 'You will descend this stair-case, ' said he, 'until you come to thefourth landing-place, where you enter a vaulted passage, terminated byan arcade, with a statue of the blessed Jeanne of France; you cannothelp finding my room, the door of which I will leave open; it is thesixth door from the landing-place. I advise you not to remain in thishall after midnight. Before that hour, you will hear the hermit ring thebell, in going the rounds of the corridors. Do not linger here afterthat signal. '

"The warder retired, and I commenced my devotions. I continued at themearnestly; pausing from time to time to put wood upon the fire. I didnot dare to look much around me, for I felt myself becoming a prey tofearful fancies. The pictures appeared to become animated. If I regardedone attentively, for any length of time, it seemed to move the eyes andlips. Above all, the portraits of the Grand Seneschal and his lady, which hung on each side of the great chimney, the progenitors of theFoulquerres of Têtefoulque, regarded me, I thought, with angry andbaleful eyes: I even fancied they exchanged significant glances witheach other. Just then a terrible blast of wind shook all the casements, and, rushing through the hall, made a fearful rattling and clashingamong the armor. To my startled fancy, it seemed something supernatural. 

"At length I heard the bell of the hermit, and hastened to quit thehall. Taking a solitary light, which stood on the supper-table, Idescended the winding stair-case; but before I had reached the vaultedpassage leading to the statue of the blessed Jeanne of France, a blastof wind extinguished my taper. I hastily remounted the stairs, to lightit again at the chimney; but judge of my feelings, when, on arriving atthe entrance to the armory, I beheld the Seneschal and his lady, who haddescended from their frames, and seated themselves on each side of thefire-place! "'Madam, my love, ' said the Seneschal, with great formality, and in antiquated phrase, 'what think you of the presumption of thisCastilian, who comes to harbor himself and make wassail in this ourcastle, after having slain our descendant, the commander, and thatwithout granting him time for confession?'

"'Truly, my lord, ' answered the female spectre, with no less statelinessof manner, and with great asperity of tone; 'truly, my lord, I opinethat this Castilian did a grievous wrong in this encounter; and heshould never be suffered to depart hence, without your throwing him thegauntlet. ' I paused to hear no more, but rushed again down-stairs, toseek the chamber of the warder. It was impossible to find it in thedarkness, and in the perturbation of my mind. After an hour and a halfof fruitless search, and mortal horror and anxieties, I endeavoredto persuade myself that the day was about to break, and listenedimpatiently for the crowing of the cock; for I thought if I could hearhis cheerful note, I should be reassured; catching, in the disorderedstate of my nerves, at the popular notion that ghosts never appear afterthe first crowing of the cock. 

"At length I rallied myself, and endeavored to shake off the vagueterrors which haunted me. I tried to persuade myself that the twofigures which I had seemed to see and hear, had existed only in mytroubled imagination. I still had the end of the candle in my hand, anddetermined to make another effort to re-light it, and find my way tobed; for I was ready to sink with fatigue. I accordingly sprang up thestair-case, three steps at a time, stopped at the door of the armory, and peeped cautiously in. The two Gothic figures were no longer in thechimney corners, but I neglected to notice whether they had reascendedto their frames. I entered, and made desperately for the fire-place, butscarce had I advanced three strides, when Messire Foolques Tailleferstood before me, in the centre of the hall, armed cap-à-pie, andstanding in guard, with the point of his sword silently presented tome. I would have retreated to the stair-case, but the door of it wasoccupied by the phantom figure of an esquire, who rudely flung agauntlet in my face. Driven to fury, I snatched down a sword from thewall: by chance, it was that of the commander which I had placed there. I rushed upon my fantastic adversary, and seemed to pierce him throughand through; but at the same time I felt as if something pierced myheart, burning like a red-hot iron. My blood inundated the hall, and Ifell senseless. 

"When I recovered consciousness, it was broad day, and I found myself ina small chamber, attended by the warder and the hermit. The former toldme that on the previous night, he had awakened long after the midnighthour, and perceiving that I had not come to his chamber, he hadfurnished himself with a vase of holy water, and set out to seek me. Hefound me stretched senseless on the pavement of the armory, and bore meto this room. I spoke of my wound, and of the quantity of blood that Ihad lost. He shook his head, and knew nothing about it; and to mysurprise, on examination, I found myself perfectly sound and unharmed. The wound and blood, therefore, had been all delusion. Neither thewarder nor the hermit put any questions to me, but advised me to leavethe castle as soon as possible. I lost no time in complying with theircounsel, and felt my heart relieved from an oppressive weight, as I leftthe gloomy and fate-bound battlements of Têtefoulques behind me. 

"I arrived at Bayonne, on my way to Spain, on the following Friday. Atmidnight I was startled from my sleep, as I had formerly been; but itwas no longer by the vision of the dying commander. It was old FoulquesTaillefer who stood before me, armed cap-à-pie, and presenting the pointof his sword. I made the sign of the cross, and the spectre vanished, but I received the same red-hot thrust in the heart which I had felt inthe armory, and I seemed to be bathed in blood. I would have called out, or have arisen from my bed and gone in quest of succor, but I couldneither speak nor stir. This agony endured until the crowing of thecock, when I fell asleep again; but the next day I was ill, and in amost pitiable state. I have continued to be harassed by the same visionevery Friday night; no acts of penitence and devotion have been able torelieve me from it; and it is only a lingering hope in divine mercy, that sustains me, and enables me to support so lamentable a visitation. "

 * * * * *

The Grand Prior of Minorca wasted gradually away under this constantremorse of conscience, and this horrible incubus. He died some timeafter having revealed the preceding particulars of his case, evidentlythe victim of a diseased imagination. 

The above relation has been rendered, in many parts literally, from theFrench memoir, in which it is given as a true story: if so, it is one ofthose instances in which truth is more romantic than fiction. 

 * * * * *

LEGEND OFTHE ENGULPHED CONVENT. 

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 

At the dark and melancholy period when Don Roderick the Goth and hischivalry were overthrown on the banks of the Guadalete, and all Spainwas overrun by the Moors, great was the devastation of churches andconvents throughout that pious kingdom. The miraculous fate of one ofthose holy piles is thus recorded in one of the authentic legends ofthose days. 

On the summit of a hill, not very distant from the capital city ofToledo, stood an ancient convent and chapel, dedicated to the invocationof Saint Benedict, and inhabited by a sisterhood of Benedictine nuns. This holy asylum was confined to females of noble lineage. The youngersisters of the highest families were here given in religious marriage totheir Saviour, in order that the portions of their elder sisters mightbe increased, and they enabled to make suitable matches on earth, orthat the family wealth might go undivided to elder brothers, and thedignity of their ancient houses be protected from decay. The convent wasrenowned, therefore, for enshrining within its walls a sisterhood of thepurest blood, the most immaculate virtue, and most resplendent beauty, of all Gothic Spain. 

When the Moors overran the kingdom, there was nothing that moreexcited their hostility than these virgin asylums. The very sight of aconvent-spire was sufficient to set their Moslem blood in a foment, andthey sacked it with as fierce a zeal as though the sacking of a nunnerywere a sure passport to Elysium. 

Tidings of such outrages committed in various parts of the kingdomreached this noble sanctuary and filled it with dismay. The dangercame nearer and nearer; the infidel hosts were spreading all over thecountry; Toledo itself was captured; there was no flying from theconvent, and no security within its walls. 

In the midst of this agitation, the alarm was given one day that a greatband of Saracens were spurring across the plain. In an instant the wholeconvent was a scene of confusion. Some of the nuns wrung their fairhands at the windows; others waved their veils and uttered shrieks fromthe tops of the towers, vainly hoping to draw relief from a countryover-run by the foe. The sight of these innocent doves thus flutteringabout their dove-cote, but increased the zealot fury of the whiskeredMoors. They thundered at the portal, and at every blow the ponderousgates trembled on their hinges. 

The nuns now crowded round the abbess. They had been accustomed to lookup to her as all-powerful, and they now implored her protection. Themother abbess looked with a rueful eye upon the treasures of beautyand vestal virtue exposed to such imminent peril. Alas! how was she toprotect them from the spoiler! She had, it is true, experienced manysignal inter-positions of providence in her individual favor. Her earlydays had been passed amid the temptations of a court, where her virtuehad been purified by repeated trials, from none of which had she escapedbut by a miracle. But were miracles never to cease? Could she hope thatthe marvelous protection shown to herself would be extended to awhole sisterhood? There was no other resource. The Moors were at thethreshold; a few moments more and the convent would be at their mercy. Summoning her nuns to follow her, she hurried into the chapel; andthrowing herself on her knees before the image of the blessed Mary, "Oh, holy Lady!" exclaimed she, "oh, most pure and immaculate of virgins!thou seest our extremity. The ravager is at the gate, and there is noneon earth to help us! Look down with pity, and grant that the earth maygape and swallow us rather than that our cloister vows should sufferviolation!"

The Moors redoubled their assault upon the portal; the gates gave way, with a tremendous crash; a savage yell of exultation arose; when of asudden the earth yawned; down sank the convent, with its cloisters, itsdormitories, and all its nuns. The chapel tower was the last that sank, the bell ringing forth a peal of triumph in the very teeth of theinfidels. 

 * * * * *

Forty years had passed and gone, since the period of this miracle. Thesubjugation of Spain was complete. The Moors lorded it over city andcountry; and such of the Christian population as remained, and werepermitted to exercise their religion, did it in humble resignation tothe Moslem sway. 

At this time, a Christian cavalier, of Cordova, hearing that a patrioticband of his countrymen had raised the standard of the cross in themountains of the Asturias, resolved to join them, and unite in breakingthe yoke of bondage. Secretly arming himself, and caparisoning hissteed, he set forth from Cordova, and pursued his course by unfrequentedmule-paths, and along the dry channels made by winter torrents. Hisspirit burned with indignation, whenever, on commanding a view over along sweeping plain, he beheld the mosque swelling in the distance, andthe Arab horsemen careering about, as if the rightful lords of the soil. Many a deep-drawn sigh, and heavy groan, also, did the good cavalierutter, on passing the ruins of churches and convents desolated by theconquerors. 

It was on a sultry midsummer evening, that this wandering cavalier, inskirting a hill thickly covered with forest, heard the faint tones of avesper bell sounding melodiously in the air, and seeming to come fromthe summit of the hill. The cavalier crossed himself with wonder, atthis unwonted and Christian sound. He supposed it to proceed from oneof those humble chapels and hermitages permitted to exist through theindulgence of the Moslem conquerors. Turning his steed up a narrowpath of the forest, he sought this sanctuary, in hopes of finding ahospitable shelter for the night. As he advanced, the trees threw a deepgloom around him, and the bat flitted across his path. The bell ceasedto toll, and all was silence. 

Presently a choir of female voices came stealing sweetly through theforest, chanting the evening service, to the solemn accompaniment ofan organ. The heart of the good cavalier melted at the sound, for itrecalled the happier days of his country. Urging forward his wearysteed, he at length arrived at a broad grassy area, on the summit of thehill, surrounded by the forest. Here the melodious voices rose in fullchorus, like the swelling of the breeze; but whence they came, he couldnot tell. Sometimes they were before, sometimes behind him; sometimes inthe air, sometimes as if from within the bosom of the earth. At lengththey died away, and a holy stillness settled on the place. 

The cavalier gazed around with bewildered eye. There was neither chapelnor convent, nor humble hermitage, to be seen; nothing but a moss-grownstone pinnacle, rising out of the centre of the area, surmounted by across. The greensward around appeared to have been sacred from the treadof man or beast, and the surrounding trees bent toward the cross, as ifin adoration. 

The cavalier felt a sensation of holy awe. He alighted and tetheredhis steed on the skirts of the forest, where he might crop the tenderherbage; then approaching the cross, he knelt and poured forth hisevening prayers before this relique of the Christian days of Spain. His orisons being concluded, he laid himself down at the foot of thepinnacle, and reclining his head against one of its stones, fell into adeep sleep. 

About midnight, he was awakened by the tolling of a bell, and foundhimself lying before the gate of an ancient convent. A train of nunspassed by, each bearing a taper. The cavalier rose and followed theminto the chapel; in the centre of which was a bier, on which lay thecorpse of an aged nun. The organ performed a solemn requiem: the nunsjoining in chorus. When the funeral service was finished, a melodiousvoice chanted, "_Requiescat in pace!_"--"May she rest in peace!" Thelights immediately vanished; the whole passed away as a dream; and thecavalier found himself at the foot of the cross, and beheld, by thefaint rays of the rising moon, his steed quietly grazing near him. 

When the day dawned, the cavalier descended the hill, and following thecourse of a small brook, came to a cave, at the entrance of which wasseated an ancient man, clad in hermit's garb, with rosary and cross, and a beard that descended to his girdle. He was one of those holyanchorites permitted by the Moors to live unmolested in dens and caves, and humble hermitages, and even to practise the rites of their religion. The cavalier checked his horse, and dismounting, knelt and craved abenediction. He then related all that had befallen him in the night, andbesought the hermit to explain the mystery. 

"What thou hast heard and seen, my son, " replied the other, "is but typeand shadow of the woes of Spain. "

He then related the foregoing story of the miraculous deliverance of theconvent. 

"Forty years, " added the holy man, "have elapsed since this event, yetthe bells of that sacred edifice are still heard, from time to time, sounding from under ground, together with the pealing of the organ, andthe chanting of the choir. The Moors avoid this neighborhood, as hauntedground, and the whole place, as thou mayest perceive, has become coveredwith a thick and lonely forest. "

The cavalier listened with wonder to the story of this engulphedconvent, as related by the holy man. For three days and nights did theykeep vigils beside the cross; but nothing more was to be seen of nun orconvent. It is supposed that, forty years having elapsed, the naturallives of all the nuns were finished, and that the cavalier had beheldthe obsequies of the last of the sisterhood. Certain it is, that fromthat time, bell, and organ, and choral chant have never more been heard. 

The mouldering pinnacle, surmounted by the cross, still remains anobject of pious pilgrimage. Some say that it anciently stood in frontof the convent, but others assert that it was the spire of the sacrededifice, and that, when the main body of the building sank, thisremained above ground, like the top-mast of some tall ship thathas foundered. These pious believers maintain, that the convent ismiraculously preserved entire in the centre of the mountain, where, ifproper excavations were made, it would be found, with all its treasures, and monuments, and shrines, and reliques, and the tombs of its virginnuns. 

Should any one doubt the truth of this marvelous interposition of theVirgin, to protect the vestal purity of her votaries, let him read theexcellent work entitled "España Triumphante, " written by Padre FrayAntonio de Sancta Maria, a bare-foot friar of the Carmelite order, andhe will doubt no longer. 

 * * * * *

THE COUNT VAN HORN. 

During the minority of Louis XV. , while the Duke of Orleans was Regentof France, a young Flemish nobleman, the Count Antoine Joseph Van Horn, made his sudden appearance in Paris, and by his character, conduct, andthe subsequent disasters in which he became involved, created a greatsensation in the high circles of the proud aristocracy. He was abouttwenty-two years of age, tall, finely formed, with a pale, romanticcountenance, and eyes of remarkable brilliancy and wildness. 

He was of one of the most ancient and highly-esteemed families ofEuropean nobility, being of the line of the Princes of Horn andOverique, sovereign Counts of Hautekerke, and hereditary Grand Veneursof the empire. 

The family took its name from the little town and seigneurie of Horn, inBrabant; and was known as early as the eleventh century among the littledynasties of the Netherlands, and since that time by a long line ofillustrious generations. At the peace of Utrecht, when the Netherlandspassed under subjection to Austria, the house of Van Horn came under thedomination of the emperor. At the time we treat of, two of the branchesof this ancient house were extinct; the third and only surviving branchwas represented by the reigning prince, Maximilian Emanuel Van Horn, twenty-four years of age, who resided in honorable and courtly styleon his hereditary domains at Baussigny, in the Netherlands, and hisbrother, the Count Antoine Joseph, who is the subject of this memoir. 

The ancient house of Van Horn, by the intermarriage of its variousbranches with the noble families of the continent, had become widelyconnected and interwoven with the high aristocracy of Europe. The CountAntoine, therefore, could claim relationship to many of the proudestnames in Paris. In fact, he was grandson, by the mother's side, of thePrince de Ligne, and even might boast of affinity to the Regent (theDuke of Orleans) himself. There were circumstances, however, connectedwith his sudden appearance in Paris, and his previous story, that placedhim in what is termed "a false position;" a word of baleful significancein the fashionable vocabulary of France. 

The young count had been a captain in the service of Austria, but hadbeen cashiered for irregular conduct, and for disrespect to Prince Louisof Baden, commander-in-chief. To check him in his wild career, andbring him to sober reflection, his brother the prince caused him to bearrested and sent to the old castle of Van Wert, in the domains of Horn. This was the same castle in which, in former times, John Van Horn, Stadtholder of Gueldres, had imprisoned his father; a circumstance whichhas furnished Rembrandt with the subject of an admirable painting. Thegovernor of the castle was one Van Wert, grandson of the famous John VanWert, the hero of many a popular song and legend. It was the intentionof the prince that his brother should be held in honorable durance, forhis object was to sober and improve, not to punish and afflict him. VanWert, however, was a stern, harsh man of violent passions. He treatedthe youth in a manner that prisoners and offenders were treated in thestrong-holds of the robber counts of Germany in old times; confined himin a dungeon and inflicted on him such hardships and indignities thatthe irritable temperament of the young count was roused to continualfury, which ended in insanity. For six months was the unfortunate youthkept in this horrible state, without his brother the prince beinginformed of his melancholy condition or of the cruel treatment to whichhe was subjected. At length, one day, in a paroxysm of frenzy, the countknocked down two of his gaolers with a beetle, escaped from the castleof Van Wert, and eluded all pursuit; and after roving about in a stateof distraction, made his way to Baussigny and appeared like a sceptrebefore his brother. 

The prince was shocked at his wretched, emaciated appearance and hislamentable state of mental alienation. He received him with the mostcompassionate tenderness; lodged him in his own room, appointed threeservants to attend and watch over him day and night, and endeavored bythe most soothing and affectionate assiduity to atone for the past actof rigor with which he reproached himself. When he learned, however, themanner in which his unfortunate brother had been treated in confinement, and the course of brutalities that had led to his mental malady, he wasroused to indignation. His first step was to cashier Van Wert from hiscommand. That violent man set the prince at defiance, and attempted tomaintain himself in his government and his castle by instigating thepeasants, for several leagues round, to revolt. His insurrection mighthave been formidable against the power of a petty prince; but he was putunder the ban of the empire and seized as a state prisoner. The memoryof his grandfather, the oft-sung John Van Wert, alone saved him from agibbet; but he was imprisoned in the strong tower of Horn-op-Zee. Therehe remained until he was eighty-two years of age, savage, violent, andunconquered to the last; for we are told that he never ceased fightingand thumping as long as he could close a fist or wield a cudgel. 

In the mean time a course of kind and gentle treatment and wholesomeregimen, and, above all, the tender and affectionate assiduity of hisbrother, the prince, produced the most salutary effects upon CountAntoine. He gradually recovered his reason; but a degree of violenceseemed always lurking at the bottom of his character, and he requiredto be treated with the greatest caution and mildness, for the leastcontradiction exasperated him. 

In this state of mental convalescence, he began to find the supervisionand restraints of brotherly affection insupportable; so he left theNetherlands furtively, and repaired to Paris, whither, in fact, itis said he was called by motives of interest, to make arrangementsconcerning a valuable estate which he inherited from his relative, thePrincess d'Epinay. 

On his arrival in Paris, he called upon the Marquis of Créqui, and otherof the high nobility with whom he was connected. He was received withgreat courtesy; but, as he brought no letters from his elder brother, the prince, and as various circumstances of his previous history hadtranspired, they did not receive him into their families, nor introducehim to their ladies. Still they fêted him in bachelor style, gave himgay and elegant suppers at their separate apartments, and took him totheir boxes at the theatres. He was often noticed, too, at the doors ofthe most fashionable churches, taking his stand among the young menof fashion; and at such times, his tall, elegant figure, his pale buthandsome countenance, and his flashing eyes, distinguished him fromamong the crowd; and the ladies declared that it was almost impossibleto support his ardent gaze. 

The Count did not afflict himself much at his limited circulation in thefastidious circles of the high aristocracy. He relished society of awilder and less ceremonious cast; and meeting with loose companions tohis taste, soon ran into all the excesses of the capital, in that mostlicentious period. It is said that, in the course of his wild career, hehad an intrigue with a lady of quality, a favorite of the Regent; thathe was surprised by that prince in one of his interviews; that sharpwords passed between them; and that the jealousy and vengeance thusawakened, ended only with his life. 

About this time, the famous Mississippi scheme of Law was at its height, or rather it began to threaten that disastrous catastrophe whichconvulsed the whole financial world. Every effort was making to keep thebubble inflated. The vagrant population of France was swept off from thestreets at night, and conveyed to Havre de Grace, to be shipped to theprojected colonies; even laboring people and mechanics were thus crimpedand spirited away. As Count Antoine was in the habit of sallying forthat night, in disguise, in pursuit of his pleasures, he came near beingcarried off by a gang of crimps; it seemed, in fact, as if they had beenlying in wait for him, as he had experienced very rough treatment attheir hands. Complaint was made of his case by his relation, the Marquisde Créqui, who took much interest in the youth; but the Marquis receivedmysterious intimations not to interfere in the matter, but to advise theCount to quit Paris immediately; "If he lingers, he is lost!" This hasbeen cited as a proof that vengeance was dogging at the heels of theunfortunate youth, and only watching for an opportunity to destroy him. 

Such opportunity occurred but too soon. Among the loose companions withwhom the Count had become intimate, were two who lodged in the samehotel with him. One was a youth only twenty years of age, who passedhimself off as the Chevalier d'Etampes, but whose real name was Lestang, the prodigal son of a Flemish banker. The other, named Laurent de Mille, a Piedmontese, was a cashiered captain, and at the time an esquirein the service of the dissolute Princess de Carignan, who keptgambling-tables in her palace. It is probable that gambling propensitieshad driven these young men together, and that their losses had broughtthem to desperate measures: certain it is, that all Paris was suddenlyastounded by a murder which they were said to have committed. What madethe crime more startling, was, that it seemed connected with the greatMississippi scheme, at that time the fruitful source of all kinds ofpanics and agitations. A Jew, a stock-broker, who dealt largely inshares of the bank of Law, founded on the Mississippi scheme, was thevictim. The story of his death is variously related. The darkest accountstates, that the Jew was decoyed by these young men into an obscuretavern, under pretext of negotiating with him for bank shares to theamount of one hundred thousand crowns, which he had with him in hispocket-book. Lestang kept watch upon the stairs. The Count and De Milleentered with the Jew into a chamber. In a little while there were heardcries and struggles from within. A waiter passing by the room, lookedin, and seeing the Jew weltering in his blood, shut the door again, double-locked it, and alarmed the house. Lestang rushed downstairs, madehis way to the hotel, secured his most portable effects, and fled thecountry. The Count and De Mille endeavored to escape by the window, butwere both taken, and conducted to prison. 

A circumstance which occurs in this part of the Count's story, seems topoint him out as a fated man. His mother, and his brother, the PrinceVan Horn, had received intelligence some time before at Baussigny, ofthe dissolute life the Count was leading at Paris, and of his losses atplay. They despatched a gentleman of the prince's household to Paris, topay the debts of the Count, and persuade him to return to Flanders; or, if he should refuse, to obtain an order from the Regent for him to quitthe capital. Unfortunately the gentleman did not arrive at Paris untilthe day after the murder. 

The news of the Count's arrest and imprisonment on a charge of murder, caused a violent sensation among the high aristocracy. All thoseconnected with him, who had treated him hitherto with indifference, found their dignity deeply involved in the question of his guilt orinnocence. A general convocation was held at the hotel of the Marquis deCréqui, of all the relatives and allies of the house of Horn. It wasan assemblage of the most proud and aristocratic personages of Paris. Inquiries were made into the circumstances of the affair. It wasascertained, beyond a doubt, that the Jew was dead, and that he had beenkilled by several stabs of a poniard. In escaping by the window, it wassaid that the Count had fallen, and been immediately taken; but that DeMille had fled through the streets, pursued by the populace, and hadbeen arrested at some distance from the scene of the murder; that theCount had declared himself innocent of the death of the Jew, and thathe had risked his own life in endeavoring to protect him; but that DeMille, on being brought back to the tavern, confessed to a plot tomurder the broker, and rob him of his pocket-book, and inculpated theCount in the crime. 

Another version of the story was, that the Count Van Horn had depositedwith the broker, bank shares to the amount of eighty-eight thousandlivres; that he had sought him in this tavern, which was one of hisresorts, and had demanded the shares; that the Jew had denied thedeposit; that a quarrel had ensued, in the course of which the Jewstruck the Count in the face; that the latter, transported with rage, had snatched up a knife from a table, and wounded the Jew in theshoulder; and that thereupon De Mille, who was present, and who hadlikewise been defrauded by the broker, fell on him, and despatched himwith blows of a poniard, and seized upon his pocket-book; that he hadoffered to divide the contents of the latter with the Count, _pro rata_, of what the usurer had defrauded them; that the latter had refused theproposition with disdain, and that, at a noise of persons approaching, both had attempted to escape from the premises, but had been taken. 

Regard the story in any way they might, appearances were terriblyagainst the Count, and the noble assemblage was in great consternation. What was to be done to ward off so foul a disgrace and to save theirillustrious escutcheons from this murderous stain of blood? Theirfirst attempt was to prevent the affair from going to trial, and theirrelative from being dragged before a criminal tribunal, on so horribleand degrading a charge. They applied, therefore, to the Regent, tointervene his power; to treat the Count as having acted under an accessof his mental malady; and to shut him up in a madhouse. The Regent wasdeaf to their solicitations. He replied, coldly, that if the Count was amadman, one could not get rid too quickly of madmen who were furious intheir insanity. The crime was too public and atrocious to be hushed upor slurred over; justice must take its course. 

Seeing there was no avoiding the humiliating scene of a public trial, the noble relatives of the Count endeavored to predispose the minds ofthe magistrates before whom he was to be arraigned. They accordinglymade urgent and eloquent representations of the high descent, and nobleand powerful connexions of the Count; set forth the circumstances of hisearly history; his mental malady; the nervous irritability to which hewas subject, and his extreme sensitiveness to insult or contradiction. By these means they sought to prepare the judges to interpret everything in favor of the Count, and, even if it should prove that he hadinflicted the mortal blow on the usurer, to attribute it to access ofinsanity, provoked by insult. 

To give full effect to these representations, the noble conclavedetermined to bring upon the judges the dazzling rays of the wholeassembled aristocracy. Accordingly, on the day that the trial tookplace, the relations of the Count, to the number of fifty-seven persons, of both sexes, and of the highest rank, repaired in a body to the Palaceof Justice, and took their stations in a long corridor which led to thecourt-room. Here, as the judges entered, they had to pass in review thisarray of lofty and noble personages, who saluted them mournfully andsignificantly, as they passed. Any one conversant with the stately prideand jealous dignity of the French noblesse of that day, may imagine theextreme state of sensitiveness that produced this self-abasement. It wasconfidently presumed, however, by the noble suppliants, that having oncebrought themselves to this measure, their influence over the tribunalwould be irresistible. There was one lady present, however, Madame deBeauffremont, who was affected with the Scottish gift of second sight, and related such dismal and sinister apparitions as passing beforeher eyes, that many of her female companions were filled with dolefulpresentiments. 

Unfortunately for the Count, there was another interest at work, morepowerful even than the high aristocracy. The all-potent Abbé Dubois, thegrand favorite and bosom counsellor of the Regent, was deeply interestedin the scheme of Law, and the prosperity of his bank, and of course inthe security of the stock-brokers. Indeed, the Regent himself is said tohave dipped deep in the Mississippi scheme. Dubois and Law, therefore, exerted their influence to the utmost to have the tragic affair pushedto the extremity of the law, and the murder of the broker punished inthe most signal and appalling manner. Certain it is, the trial wasneither long nor intricate. The Count and his fellow prisoner wereequally inculpated in the crime; and both were condemned to a death themost horrible and ignominious--to be broken alive on the wheel!

As soon as the sentence of the court was made public, all the nobility, in any degree related to the house of Van Horn, went into mourning. Another grand aristocratical assemblage was held, and a petition to theRegent, on behalf of the Count, was drawn out and left with the Marquisde Créqui for signature. This petition set forth the previous insanityof the Count, and showed that it was a hereditary malady of his family. It stated various circumstances in mitigation of his offence, andimplored that his sentence might be commuted to perpetual imprisonment. 

Upward of fifty names of the highest nobility, beginning with the Princede Ligne, and including cardinals, archbishops, dukes, marquises, etc. , together with ladies of equal rank, were signed to this petition. Byone of the caprices of human pride and vanity, it became an object ofambition to get enrolled among the illustrious suppliants; a kind oftestimonial of noble blood, to prove relationship to a murderer! TheMarquis de Créqui was absolutely besieged by applicants to sign, and hadto refer their claims to this singular honor, to the Prince de Ligne, the grandfather of the Count. Many who were excluded, were highlyincensed, and numerous feuds took place. Nay, the affronts thus given tothe morbid pride of some aristocratical families, passed from generationto generation; for, fifty years afterward, the Duchess of Mazarincomplained of a slight which her father had received from the Marquisde Créqui; which proved to be something connected with the signature ofthis petition. This important document being completed, the illustriousbody of petitioners, male and female, on Saturday evening, the eve ofPalm Sunday, repaired to the Palais Royal, the residence of the Regent, and were ushered, with great ceremony but profound silence, into hishall of council. They had appointed four of their number as deputies, topresent the petition, viz. : the Cardinal de Rohan, the Duke de Havré, the Prince de Ligne, and the Marquis de Créqui. After a little while, the deputies were summoned to the cabinet of the Regent. They entered, leaving the assembled petitioners in a state of the greatest anxiety. As time slowly wore away, and the evening advanced, the gloom of thecompany increased. Several of the ladies prayed devoutly; the goodPrincess of Armagnac told her beads. 

The petition was received by the Regent with a most unpropitious aspect. "In asking the pardon of the criminal, " said he, "you display more zealfor the house of Van Horn, than for the service of the king. " The nobledeputies enforced the petition by every argument in their power. Theysupplicated the Regent to consider that the infamous punishment inquestion would reach not merely the person of the condemned, notmerely the house of Van Horn, but also the genealogies of princelyand illustrious families, in whose armorial bearings might be foundquarterings of this dishonored name. 

"Gentlemen, " replied the Regent, "it appears to me the disgrace consistsin the crime, rather than in the punishment. "

The Prince de Ligne spoke with warmth: "I have in my genealogicalstandard, " said he, "four escutcheons of Van Horn, and of course havefour ancestors of that house. I must have them erased and effaced, andthere would be so many blank spaces, like holes, in my heraldic ensigns. There is not a sovereign family which would not suffer, through therigor of your Royal Highness; nay, all the world knows, that in thethirty-two quarterings of Madame, your mother, there is an escutcheon ofVan Horn. "

"Very well, " replied the Regent, "I will share the disgrace with you, gentlemen. "

Seeing that a pardon could not be obtained, the Cardinal de Rohan andthe Marquis de Créqui left the cabinet; but the Prince de Ligne and theDuke de Havré remained behind. The honor of their houses, more than thelife of the unhappy Count, was the great object of their solicitude. They now endeavored to obtain a minor grace. They represented that inthe Netherlands, and in Germany, there was an important difference inthe public mind as to the mode of inflicting the punishment of deathupon persons of quality. That decapitation had no influence on thefortunes of the family of the executed, but that the punishment of thewheel was such an infamy, that the uncles, aunts, brothers, and sistersof the criminal, and his whole family, for three succeeding generations, were excluded from all noble chapters, princely abbeys, sovereignbishoprics, and even Teutonic commanderies of the Order of Malta. Theyshowed how this would operate immediately upon the fortunes of a sisterof the Count, who was on the point of being received as a canoness intoone of the noble chapters. 

While this scene was going on in the cabinet of the Regent, theillustrious assemblage of petitioners remained in the hall of council, in the most gloomy state of suspense. The re-entrance from the cabinetof the Cardinal de Rohan and the Marquis de Créqui, with pale, downcastcountenances, had struck a chill into every heart. Still they lingereduntil near midnight, to learn the result of the after application. Atlength the cabinet conference was at an end. The Regent came forth, andsaluted the high personages of the assemblage in a courtly manner. Oneold lady of quality, Madame de Guyon, whom he had known in his infancy, he kissed on the cheek, calling her his "good aunt. " He made a mostceremonious salutation to the stately Marchioness de Créqui, tellingher he was charmed to see her at the Palais Royal; "a compliment veryill-timed, " said the Marchioness, "considering the circumstance whichbrought me there. " He then conducted the ladies to the door of thesecond saloon, and there dismissed them, with the most ceremoniouspoliteness. 

The application of the Prince de Ligne and the Duke de Havré, for achange of the mode of punishment, had, after much difficulty, beensuccessful. The Regent had promised solemnly to send a letter ofcommutation to the attorney-general on Holy Monday, the 25th of March, at five o'clock in the morning. According to the same promise, ascaffold would be arranged in the cloister of the Conciergerie, or prison, where the Count would be beheaded on the same morning, immediately after having received absolution. This mitigation of theform of punishment gave but little consolation to the great body ofpetitioners, who had been anxious for the pardon of the youth: it waslooked upon as all-important, however, by the Prince de Ligne, who, ashas been before observed, --was exquisitely alive to the dignity of hisfamily. 

The Bishop of Bayeux and the Marquis de Créqui visited the unfortunateyouth in prison. He had just received the communion in the chapel of theConciergerie, and was kneeling before the altar, listening to a mass forthe dead, which was performed at his request. He protested his innocenceof any intention to murder the Jew, but did not deign to allude to theaccusation of robbery. He made the bishop and the Marquis promise to seehis brother the prince, and inform him of this his dying asseveration. 

Two other of his relations, the Prince Rebecq-Montmorency and theMarshal Van Isenghien, visited him secretly, and offered him poison, asa means of evading the disgrace of a public execution. On his refusingto take it, they left him with high indignation. "Miserable man!" saidthey, "you are fit only to perish by the hand of the executioner!"

The Marquis de Créqui sought the executioner of Paris, to bespeak aneasy and decent death--for the unfortunate youth. "Do not make himsuffer, " said he; "uncover no part of him but the neck; and have hisbody placed in a coffin, before you deliver it to his family. " Theexecutioner promised all that was requested, but declined a rouleau of ahundred louis-d'ors which the Marquis would have put into his hand. "Iam paid by the king for fulfilling my office, " said he; and added thathe had already refused a like sum, offered by another relation of theMarquis. 

The Marquis de Créqui returned home in a state of deep affliction. Therehe found a letter from the Duke de St. Simon, the familiar friend of theRegent, repeating the promise of that prince, that the punishment of thewheel should be commuted to decapitation. 

"Imagine, " says the Marchioness de Créqui, who in her memoirs gives adetailed account of this affair, "imagine what we experienced, and whatwas our astonishment, our grief, and indignation, when, on Tuesday, the26th of March, an hour after midday, word was brought us that the CountVan Horn had been exposed on the wheel, in the Place de Gréve, sincehalf-past six in the morning, on the same scaffold with the Piedmontesede Mille, and that he had been tortured previous to execution!"

One more scene of aristocratic pride closed this tragic story. TheMarquis de Créqui, on receiving this astounding news, immediatelyarrayed himself in the uniform of a general officer, with his cordonof nobility on the coat. He ordered six valets to attend him in grandlivery, and two of his carriages, each with six horses, to be broughtforth. In this sumptuous state, he set off for the Place de Gréve, wherehe had been preceded by the Princes de Ligne, de Rohan, de Croüy, andthe Duke de Havré. 

The Count Van Horn was already dead, and it was believed that theexecutioner had had the charity to give him the coup de grace, or"death-blow, " at eight o'clock in the morning. At five o'clock in theevening, when the Judge Commissary left his post at the Hotel de Ville, these noblemen, with their own hands, aided to detach the mutilatedremains of their relation; the Marquis de Crequi placed them in one ofhis carriages, and bore them off to his hotel, to receive the last sadobsequies. 

The conduct of the Regent in this affair excited general indignation. His needless severity was attributed by some to vindictive jealousy; byothers to the persevering machinations of Law. The house of Van Horn, and the high nobility of Flanders and Germany, considered themselvesflagrantly outraged: many schemes of vengeance were talked of, and ahatred engendered against the Regent, that followed him through life, and was wreaked with bitterness upon his memory after his death. 

The following letter is said to have been written to the Regent by thePrince Van Horn, to whom the former had adjudged the confiscated effectsof the Count:

"I do not complain, Sir, of the death of my brother, but I complainthat your Royal Highness has violated in his person the rights of thekingdom, the nobility, and the nation. I thank you for the confiscationof his effects; but I should think myself as much disgraced as he, should I accept any favor at your hands. _I hope that God and theKing may render to you as strict justice as you have rendered to myunfortunate brother. _"