Part 13
Becoming gradually more incorrigible in their backslidings, they were seduced into opening, widening, and regulating the streets; making the crooked straight and the narrow wide, thereby causing sad inroads into the strong boxes of divers of the honest burghers, who became all at once very rich, saving that they had no money to go to market. To cap the climax of their enormities, they at last committed the egregious sacrilege of pulling down the ancient and honourable Dutch church, which stood right in the middle of State-street, or Staats-street, being so called after the family of that name, from which I am lineally descended.
At this the good St. Nicholas was exceedingly grieved; and when, by degrees, his favourite burghers left off eating sturgeon, being thereto instigated by divers scurvy jests of certain silly strangers, that knew not the excellence of that savoury fish, he cried out in the bitterness of his soul, “Onbegrypelyk!”—“Incredible!” meaning thereby that he could scarcely believe his eyes. In the bitterness of his soul he had resolved to return to faderland, and leave his beloved city to be swallowed up in the vortex of improvement. He was making his progress through the streets, to take his last farewell, in melancholy mood, when he came to the outlet of the Grand Canal, just then completed. “Is het mogelyk?”—which means, is it possible—exclaimed St. Nicholas; and thereupon he was so delighted with this proof that his beloved people had not altogether degenerated from their ancestors, that he determined not to leave them to strange saints, outlandish tongues, and modern innovations. He took a sail on the canal, and returned in such measureless content, that he blessed the good city of Fort Orange, as he evermore called it, and resolved to distribute a more than usual store of his Newyear cookies, at the Christmas holydays. That jovial season was now fast approaching. The autumn frosts had already invested the forests with a mantle of glory; the farmers were in their fields and orchards, gathering in the corn and apples, or making cider, the wholesome beverage of virtuous simplicity; the robins, blackbirds, and all the annual emigrants to southern climes, had passed away in flocks, like the adventurers to the far West; the bluebird alone lingered last of all to sing his parting song; and sometimes of a morning, the river showed a little fretted border of ice, looking like a fringe of lace on the garment of some decayed dowager. At length the liquid glass of the river cooled into a wide, immoveable mirror, glistening in the sun; the trees, all save the evergreens, stood bare to the keen cold winds; the fields were covered with snow, affording no lures to tempt to rural wanderings; the enjoyments of life gradually centred themselves at the cheerful fireside—it was winter, and Newyear's eve was come again!
The night was clear, calm, and cold, and the bright stars glittered in the heavens in such multitudes, that every man might have had a star to himself. The worthy patriarchs of Fort Orange, having gathered around them their children, and children's children, even unto the third and fourth generation, were enjoying themselves in innocent revelry at the cheerful fireside. All the enjoyments of life had contracted themselves into the domestic circle; the streets were as quiet as a churchyard, and not even the stroke of the watchman was heard on the curbstone. Gradually it waxed late, and the city clocks rang, in the silence of night, the hour which not one of the orderly citizens had heard, except at midday, since the last anniversary of the happy Newyear, save peradventure troubled with a toothache, or some such unseemly irritation.
The doleful warning, which broke upon the frosty air like the tolling of a funeral bell, roused the sober devotees of St. Nicholas to a sense of their trespasses on the waning night, and after one good, smoking draught of spiced Jamaica to the patron saint, they, one and all, young and old, hied them to bed, that he might have a fair opportunity to bestow his favours without being seen by mortal eye. For be it known, that St. Nicholas, like all really heart-whole generous fellows, loves to do good in secret, and eschews those pompous benefactions which are duly recorded in the newspapers, being of opinion they only prove that the vanity of man is sometimes an overmatch for his avarice.
Having allowed them fifteen minutes, which is as much as a sober burgher of good morals and habits requires, to get as fast asleep as a church, St. Nicholas, having harnessed his pony, and loaded his little wagon with a store of good things for well-behaved, diligent children, together with whips and other mementoes for undutiful varlets, did set forth gayly on his errand of benevolence.
_Vuur en vlammen!_ how the good saint did hurry through the streets, up one chimney and down another; for be it known, they are not such miserable narrow things as those of other cities, where the claims of ostentation are so voracious that people can't afford to keep up good fires, and the chimneys are so narrow that the little sweeps of seven years old often get themselves stuck fast, to the imminent peril of their lives. You may think he had a good deal of business on hand, being obliged to visit every house in Fort Orange, between twelve o'clock and daylight, with the exception of some few would-be fashionable upstarts, who had mortally offended him, by turning up their noses at the simple jollifications and friendly greetings of the merry Newyear. Accordingly, he rides like the wind, scarcely touching the ground; and this is the reason that he is never seen, except by a rare chance, which is the cause why certain unbelieving sinners, who scoff at old customs and notions, either really do, or pretend to doubt, whether the good things found on Christmas and Newyear mornings in the stockings of the little varlets of Fort Orange and New-Amsterdam, are put there by the jolly St. Nicholas or not. Beshrew them, say I—and may they never taste the blessing of his bounty! Goeden Hemel! as if I myself, being a kinsman of the saint, don't know him as well as a debtor does his creditor! But people are grown so wise nowadays, that they believe in nothing but the increased value of property.
Be this as it may, St. Nicholas went forth blithely on his goodly errand, without minding the intense cold, for he was kept right warm by the benevolence of his heart, and when that failed, he ever and anon addressed himself to a snug little pottle, the contents of which did smoke lustily when he pulled out the stopper, a piece of snow-white corn cob.
It is impossible for me to specify one by one the visits paid that night by the good saint, or the various adventures which he encountered. I therefore content myself, and I trust my worthy and excellent readers, with dwelling briefly on those which appear to me most worthy of descending to posterity, and withal convey excellent moral lessons, without which history is naught, whether it be true or false.
After visiting various honest little Dutch houses, with notched roofs, and the gable ends to the street, leaving his benedictions, St. Nicholas at length came to a goodly mansion bearing strong marks of being sophisticated by modern fantastic innovations. He would have passed it by in scorn, had he not remembered that it belonged to a descendant of one of his favoured votaries, who had passed away to his long home without being once backslided from the customs of his ancestors. Respect for the memory of this worthy man wrought upon his feelings, and he forthwith dashed down the chimney, where he stuck fast in the middle, and came nigh being suffocated with the fumes of anthracite coal, which this degenerate descendant of a pious ancestor, who spent thousands in useless and unseemly ostentation, burned by way of economy.
If the excellent saint had not been enveloped, as it were, in the odour of sanctity, which in some measure protected him from the poison of this pestilent vapour, it might have gone hard with him; as it was, he was sadly bewildered, when his little pony, which liked the predicament no better than his master, made a violent plunge, drew the wagon through the narrow passage, and down they came plump into a magnificent bedchamber, filled with all sorts of finery, such as wardrobes, bedizened with tawdry ornaments; satin chairs too good to be looked at or sat upon, and therefore covered with brown linen; a bedstead of varnished mahogany, with a canopy over it somewhat like a cocked hat, with a plume of ostrich feathers instead of orthodox valances and the like; and a looking-glass large enough to reflect a Dutch city.
St. Nicholas contemplated the pair who slept in this newfangled abomination with a mingled feeling of pity and indignation, though I must say the wife looked very pretty in her lace nightcap, with one arm as white as snow partly uncovered. But he soon turned away, being a devout and self-denying saint, to seek for the stockings of the little children, who were innocent of these unseemly innovations. But what was his horror at finding that, instead of being hung up in the chimney corner, they were thrown carelessly on the floor, and that the little souls, who lay asleep in each other's arms in another room, lest they should disturb their parents, were thus deprived of all the pleasant anticipations accompanying the approaching jolly Newyear.
“Een vervlocte jonge,” said he to himself, for he never uttered his maledictions aloud, “to rob their little ones of such wholesome and innocent delights! But they shall not be disappointed.” So he sought the cold and distant chamber of the children, who were virtuous and dutiful, who, when they waked in the morning, found the bed covered with good things, and were as happy as the day is long. When St, Nicholas returned to the splendid chamber, which, be it known, was furnished with the spoils of industrious unfortunate people, to whom the owner lent money, charging them so much the more in proportion to their necessities. It is true that he gave some of the wealth he thus got over the duyvel's back, as it were, to public charities, and sometimes churches, when he knew it would get into the newspapers, by which he obtained the credit of being very pious and charitable. But St. Nicholas was too sensible and judicious not to know that the only charitable and pious donations agreeable to the Giver of good, are those which are honestly come by. The alms which are got by ill means can never come to good, and it is better to give back to those from whom we have taken it dishonestly even one fourth, yea, one tenth, than to bestow ten times as much on those who have no such claim. The true atonement for injuries is that made to the injured alone. All other is a cheat in the eye of Heaven. You cannot settle the account by giving to Peter what you have filched from Paul.
So thought the good St. Nicholas, as he revolved in his mind a plan for punishing this degenerate caitiff, who despised his ordinances and customs, and was moreover one who, in dealing with borrowers, not only shaved but skinned them. Remembering not the perils of the chimney, he was about departing the same way he came, but the little pony obstinately refused; and the good saint, having first taken off the lace nightcap, and put a foolscap in its place, and given the money lender a tweak of the nose that made him roar, whipped instantly through the keyhole to pursue his benevolent tour through the ancient city of Fort Orange.
Gliding through the streets unheard and unseen, he at length came to a little winding lane, from which his quick ear caught the sound of obstreperous revelry. Stopping his pony, and listening more attentively,— he distinguished the words, “Ich ben Liederich,” roared out in a chorus of mingled voices seemingly issuing from a little low house of the true orthodox construction, standing on the right-hand side, at a distance of a hundred yards, or thereabout.
“Wat donderdag!” exclaimed St. Nicholas, “is mine old friend, Baltus Van Loon, keeping it up at this time of the morning? The old rogue! but I'll punish him for this breach of the good customs of Fort Orange.” So he halted on the top of Baltus's chimney, to consider the best way of bringing it about, and was, all at once, saluted in the nostrils by such a delectable perfume, arising from a certain spiced beverage, with which the substantial burghers were wont to recreate themselves at this season of the year, that he was sorely tempted to join a little in the revelry below, and punish the merry caitiffs afterwards. Presently he heard honest Baltus propose—“The jolly St. Nicholas,” as a toast, which was drunk in a full bumper, with great rejoicing and acclamation.
St. Nicholas could stand it no longer, but descended forthwith into the little parlour of old Baltus, thinking, by-the-way, that, just to preserve appearances, he would lecture the roistering rogues a little for keeping such late hours, and, provided Baltus could give a good reason, or indeed any reason at all, for such an unseemly transgression, he would then sit down with them, and take some of the savoury beverage that had regaled his nostrils while waiting at the top of the chimney.
The roistering rogues were so busy roaring out, “Ich ben Liederich,” that they did not take note of the presence of the saint, until he cried out with a loud and angry voice, “Wat blikslager is dat?”—he did not say blixem, because that would have been little better than swearing. “Ben je be dondered, to be carousing here at this time of night, ye ancient, and not venerable sinners?”
Old Baltus was not a little startled at the intrusion of the strangers—for, if the truth must out, he was a little in for it, and saw double, as is usual at such times. This caused such a confusion in his head that he forgot to rise from his seat, and pay due honour to his visiter, as did the rest of the company.
“Are you not ashamed of yourselves,” continued the saint, “to set such a bad example to the neighbourhood, by carousing at this time of the morning, contrary to good old customs, known and accepted by all, except such noisy splutterkins as yourselves?”
“This time of the morning,” replied old Baltus, who had his full portion of Dutch courage—”this time of the morning, did you say? Look yonder, and see with your own eyes whether it is morning or not.
The cunning rogue, in order to have a good excuse for transgressing the canons of St. Nicholas, had so managed it, that the old clock in the corner had run down, and now pointed to the hour of eleven, where it remained stationary, like a rusty weathercock. St. Nicholas knew this as well as old Baltus himself, and could not help being mightily tickled at this device. He told Baltus that this being the case, with permission of his host he would sit down by the fire and warm himself, till it was time to set forth again, seeing he had mistaken the hour.
Baltus, who by this time began to perceive that there was but one visiter instead of two, now rose from the table with much ado, and approaching the stranger, besought him to take a seat among the jolly revellers, seeing they were there assembled in honour of St. Nicholas, and not out of any regard to the lusts of the flesh. In this he was joined by the rest of the company, so that St. Nicholas, being a good-natured fellow, at length suffered himself to be persuaded, whereto he was mightily incited by the savoury fumes issuing from a huge pitcher standing smoking in the chimney corner. So he sat down with old Baltus, and being called on for a toast, gave them “Old Faderland” in a bumper.
Then they had a high time of it you may be sure. Old Baltus sang a famous song celebrating the valour of our Dutch ancestors, and their triumph over the mighty power of Spain after a struggle of more than a generation, in which the meads of Holland smoked, and her canals were red with blood. Goeden Hemel! but I should like to have been there, for I hope it would have been nothing unseemly for one of my cloth to have joined in chorus with the excellent St. Nicholas. Then they talked about the good old times when the son who departed from the customs of his ancestors was considered little better than misbegotten; lamented over the interloping of such multitudes of idle flaunting men and women in their way to and from the springs; the increase of taverns, the high price of everything, and the manifold backslidings of the rising generation. Ever and anon, old Baltus would observe that sorrow was as dry as a corn cob, and pour out a full bumper of the smoking beverage, until at last it came to pass that honest Baltus and his worthy companions, being not used to such late hours, fell fast a sleep in their goodly armchairs, and snored lustily in concert. Whereupon St. Nicholas, feeling a little waggish, after putting their wigs the hinder part before, and placing a great China bowl upside down on the head of old Baltus, who sat nodding like a mandarin, departed laughing ready to split his sides. In the morning, when Baltus and his companions awoke, and saw what a figure they cut, they laid all the trick to the door of the stranger, and never knew to the last day of their lives who it was that caroused with them so lustily on Newyear's morning.
Pursuing his way in high good humour, being somewhat exhilarated by the stout carousal with old Baltus and his roistering companions, St. Nicholas in good time came into the ancient _Colonie_, which being, as it were, at the outskirts of Fort Orange, was inhabited by many people not well to do in the world. He descended the chimney of an old weatherworn house that bore evident marks of poverty, for he is not one of those saints that hanker after palaces and turn their backs on their friends. It is his pleasure to seek out and administer to the innocent gratifications of those who are obliged to labour all the year round, and can only spare time to be merry at Christmas and Newyear. He is indeed the poor man's saint.
On entering the room, he was struck with the appearance of poverty and desolation that reigned all around. A number of little children of different ages, but none more than ten years old, lay huddled close together on a straw bed, which was on the floor, their limbs intertwined to keep themselves warm, for their covering was scant and miserable. Yet they slept in peace, for they had quiet countenances, and hunger seeks refuge in the oblivion of repose. In a corner of the room stood a miserable bed, on which lay a female, whose face, as the moonbeams fell upon it through a window without shutters, many panes of which were stuffed with old rags to keep out the nipping air of the winter night, bore evidence of long and painful suffering. It looked like death rather than sleep. A little pine table, a few broken chairs, and a dresser, whose shelves were ill supplied, constituted the remainder of the furniture of this mansion of poverty.
As he stood contemplating the scene, his honest old heart swelled with sorrowful compassion, saying to himself, “God bewaar ous, but this is pitiful.” At that moment, a little child on the straw bed cried out in a weak voice that went to the heart of the saint, “Mother, mother, give me to eat—I am hungry.” St. Nicholas went to the child, but she was fast asleep, and hunger had infected her very dreams. The mother did not hear, for long-continued sorrow and suffering sleep sounder than happiness, as the waters lie stillest when the tempest is past.
Again the little child cried out, “Mother, mother, I am freezing—give me some more covering.” “Be quiet, Blandina,” answered a voice deep and hoarse, yet not unkind; and St. Nicholas, looking around to see whence it came, beheld a man sitting close in the chimney corner, though there was no fire burning, his arms folded close around him, and his head drooping on his bosom. He was clad like one of the children of poverty, and his teeth chattered with cold. St. Nicholas wiped his eyes, for he was a good-hearted saint, and coming close up to the miserable man, said to him kindly, “How do ye, my good friend?”
“Friend,” said the other, “I have no friend but God, and he seems to have deserted me.” As he said this, he raised his saddened eyes to the good saint, and after looking at him a little while, as if he was not conscious of his presence, dropped them again, even without asking who he was, or whence he came, or what he wanted. Despair had deadened his faculties, and nothing remained in his mind but the consciousness of suffering.
“_Het is jammer, het is jammer_—it is a pity, it is a pity!” quoth the kind-hearted saint, as he passed his sleeve across his eyes. “But something must be done, and that quickly too.” So he shook the poor man somewhat roughly by the shoulder, and cried out, “Ho! ho! what aileth thee, son of my good old friend, honest Johannes Garrebrantze?”
This salutation seemed to rouse the poor man, who arose upon his seat, and essaying to stand upright, fell into the arms of St. Nicholas, who almost believed it was a lump of ice, so cold and stiff did it seem. Now, be it known that Providence, as a reward for his benevolent disposition, has bestowed on St. Nicholas the privilege of doing good without measure to all who are deserving of his bounty, and that by such means as he thinks proper to the purpose. It is a power he seldom exerts to the uttermost, except on pressing occasions, and this he believed one of them.
Perceiving that the poor man was wellnigh frozen to death, he called into action the supernatural faculties which had been committed to him, and lo! in an instant a rousing fire blazed on the hearth, towards which the poor man, instinctively as it were, edged his chair, and stretched out one of his bony hands, that was as stiff as an icicle. The light flashed so brightly in the face of the little ones and their mother, that they awoke, and seeing the cheerful blaze, arose in their miserable clothing, which they had worn to aid in keeping them warm, and hied as fast as they could to bask in its blessed warmth. So eager were they, that for a while they were unconscious of the presence of a stranger, although St. Nicholas had now assumed his proper person, that he might not be taken for some one of those diabolical wizards who, being always in mischief, are ashamed to show their faces among honest people.
At length the poor man, who was called after his father Johannes Garrebrantze, being somewhat revived by the genial warmth of the fire, looked around, and became aware of the presence of the stranger, which inspired him with a secret awe, for which he could not account, insomuch that his voice trembled, though now he was not cold, when, after some hesitation, he said,
“Stranger, thou art welcome to this poor house. I would I were better able to offer thee the hospitalities of the season, but I will wish thee a happy Newyear, and that is all I can bestow.” The good yffrouw, his wife, repeated the wish, and straightway began to apologize for the untidy state of her apartment.
“Make no apologies,” replied the excellent saint; “I come to give, not to receive. To-night I treat, to-morrow you may return the kindness to others.”
“I?” said Johannes Garrebrantze; “I have nothing to bestow but good wishes, and nothing to receive but the scorn and neglect of the world. If I had anything to give thee to eat or drink, thou shouldst have it with all my heart. But the newyear, which brings jollity to the hearts of others, brings nothing but hunger and despair to me and mine.”
“Thou hast seen better days, I warrant thee,” answered the saint; “for thou speakest like a scholar of Leyden. Tell me thy story, Johannes, my son, and we shall see whether in good time thou wilt not hold up thy head as high as a church steeple.”