Part 2
“No, on my faith. I am sinned against, but I never injured but one man, and I was sorry for that. But hark, I hear them coming—wilt thou or wilt thou not protect me?”
“I will,” said the good Nicholas, who saw in the dignified air and open countenance of the stranger something that inspired both confidence and awe. Accordingly he hastily led him into a remote apartment, where he secreted him in a closet, the door of which could not be distinguished, and in which he kept his money and valuables, for he said to himself, I will trust this man, he does not look as if he would abuse my confidence.
“Take this key and lock thyself in, that thou mayst be able to get out in case they take me away.”
Presently there was heard a great hallooing and banging at the outward door, with a cry of “Open! open!” and Nicholas went to the door and opened it. A flood of people rushed in helter-skelter, demanding the body of an arch heretic, who, they said, had been seen to take refuge in the house. But with all their rage and eagerness, they begged his excuse for this unceremonious proceeding, for Nicholas was beloved and respected by all, though he was a heretic himself.
“He's here—we saw him enter!” they cried.
“If he is here, find him,” quoth Nicholas, quietly. “I will not say he is not here, neither would I betray him if he were.”
The interlopers then proceeded to search all parts of the house, except the secret closet, which escaped their attention. When they had done this, one of them said.
“We have heard of thy having a secret place in thy house where thy money and papers are secured. Open it to us—we swear not to molest or take away aught that is thine.”
The good Nicholas was confounded at this demand, and stood for a moment not knowing what to say or what to do. The stranger in the closet heard it too; but he was a stout-hearted man, and trusted in the Lord.
“Where is thy strong closet?” cried one of the fiercest and most forward of the intruders. “We must and will find it.”
“Well, then, find it,” quoth Nicholas, quietly.
They inspected the room narrowly, and knocked against the walls in hopes the hollow sound would betray the secret of the place. But they were disappointed, for the door was so thick that it returned no hollow sound.
They now began to be impatient, and savage withal, and the ferocious leader exclaimed,
“Let us take this fellow then. One heretic is as good as another—as bad I mean.”
“Seize him!” cried one.
“Away with him!” cried another.
“To the stake!” cried a third.
They forgot the ancient kindness of the good man; for bigotry and over-heated zeal remember not benefits, and pay no respect to the obligations of gratitude. The good Nicholas was violently seized, his hands tied behind him, and he was about to be carried away a sacrifice to the demon of religious discord, when the door of the closet flew open, and the stranger came forth with a step so firm, a look so lofty and inspired, that the rabble quailed, and were silent before him.
“Unbind this man,” said he, in a voice of authority, “and bind me in his stead.”
Not a man stirred. They seemed spell bound, and stood looking at each other in silent embarrassment.
“Unbind this man, I say!”
Still they remained, as it were, petrified with awe and astonishment.
“Well, then, I shall do it myself,” and he proceeded to release the good Nicholas from his bonds, while the interlopers remained silent and motionless.
“Mistaken men!” then said he, looking at them with pity, mingled with indignation, “you believe yourselves fulfilling the duties of your faith when you chase those who differ from you about the world, as if they were wild beasts, and drag them to the stake, like malefactors who have committed the worst crimes against society. You think that the blood of human victims is the most acceptable offering to your Maker, and worse than the ignorant pagans, who made martyrs of the blessed saints, sacrifice them on the altar of a religion which is all charity, meekness, and forgiveness. But I see you are ashamed of yourselves. Go, and do so no more.”
The spirit of intolerance quailed before the majesty of truth and genius. The poor deluded men, whose passions had been stimulated by mistaken notions of religious duty, bowed their heads and departed, rebuked and ashamed.
“Who art thou?” asked Nicholas, when they were gone.
“Thou shalt soon know,” replied the stranger. “In the mean time listen to me. I must be gone before the fiend, which I have, perhaps, only laid for a few moments, again awakens in the bosoms of these deluded men, or some others like them get on the scent of their prey, and track their victim hither. Listen to me, Nicholas, kind and good Nicholas. Thou wouldst have endangered thy own life for the safety of a stranger—one who had no claim on thee save that of hospitality—nay, not even that, for I was not thy guest by invitation, but intrusion. Blessed be thee and thine, thy house, thy memory when thou art dead, and thy lot hereafter. Thou art worthy to know who I am.”
He then disclosed to him a name with which the world hath since rung, from clime to clime, from country to country. A name incorporated inseparably with the interests of truth and the progress of learning.
“Tell it not in Gath—proclaim it not in the streets of Askalon,” continued he, “for it is a name which carries with it the sentence of death in this yet benighted city. Interests of the deepest nature—interests vitally connected with the progress of truth—the temporal and eternal happiness of millions living, of millions yet unborn, brought me hither. The business I came upon is in part performed; but it is now known to some that I am, or have been in the city, who will never rest till they run me down and tear me in pieces. Farewell, and look for thy reward, if not here, hereafter—for, sure as thou livest and breathest, a good action, done with a pure and honest motive, is twice blessed—once to the doer and once to him to whom it is done.
The good Nicholas would have knelt to the mighty genius that stood before him, but he prevented him.
“I am no graven image, nor art thou an idolater that thou shouldst kneel to me. Farewell! Let me have thy prayers, for the prayers of a good man are indeed blessings.”
Saying this, the illustrious stranger departed in haste, and Nicholas never saw him more for a long time. But he said to himself,
“Blessed is my house, for it hath sheltered the bright light of the universe.”
From that time forward, he devoted himself to the good cause of the reformation with heart and soul. His house was ever the refuge of the persecuted; his purse the never-failing resource of the distressed; and many were the victims of bigotry and intolerance whom his influence and entreaties saved from the stake and the torture. He lived a blessing to all within the sphere of his influence, and was blessed in living to see the faith which he loved and cherished at length triumph over the efforts of power, the arts of intrigue, and the fire of bigotry.
Neither did he forget or neglect the customary offices of kindness and good will to the little children of the city, who continued still to come and share his goodly cakes, which he gave with the smile and the open hand of kind and unaffected benignity. It must have been delightful to see the aged patriarch sitting at his door, while the little boys and girls gathered together from all parts to share his smiles, to be patted on the head, and kissed, and laden with his bounties.
Every Newyear's day especially, being his birthday, as it came round, was a festival, not only to all the children, but to all that chose to come and see him. It seemed that he grew younger instead of older on each return of the season; for he received every one with smiles, and even his enemies were welcome to his good cheer. He had not the heart to hate anybody on the day which he had consecrated to innocent gayety, liberal hospitality, and universal benevolence. In process of time, his example spread among the whole city, and from thence through the country, until every village and town, nay, every house, adopted the good custom of setting apart the first day of the year to be gay and happy, to exchange visits, and shake hands with friends and to forgive enemies.
Thus the good Nicholas lived, blessing all and blessed by all, until he arrived at a happy old age. When he had reached fourscore years, he was sitting by himself late in the evening of the first of January, old style, which is the only true and genuine era after all—the new style being a pestilent popish innovation—he was sitting, I say, alone, the visiters having all departed, laden with gifts and good wishes. A knock was heard at the door, which always opened of itself, like the heart of its owner, not only on Newyear's day, but every day in the year.
A stately figure entered and sat down by him, after shaking his hand right heartily. The good Nicholas was now old, and his eyesight had somewhat failed him, particularly at night.
“Thou art welcome,” quoth the old man.
“I know it,” replied the other, “every one is welcome to the house of the good Nicholas, not only on this, but every other day. I have heard of thee in my travels.”
“Thou knowest my name—may I not know thine?”
The stranger whispered a name in his ear, which made the heart of the good Nicholas leap in his bosom.
“Dost thou remember the adventure of the closet?” said the stranger.
“Yea—blessed be the day and the hour,” said the old man.
And now they had a long conversation, which pertained to high matters, not according with the nature of my story, and therefore I pass them by, more especially as I do not exactly know what they were.
“I almost fear to ask thee,” at length said Nicholas; “but thou wilt partake of my cheer, on this the day of my birth. I shall not live to see another.”
Old people are often prophetic on the duration of their lives.
“Assuredly,” replied the other, “for it is neither beneath my character nor calling to share the good man's feast, and to be happy when I can.”
So they sat down together and talked of old times, and how much better the new times were than the old, inasmuch as the truth had triumphed, and they could now enjoy their consciences in peace.
The illustrious visiter staid all night; and the next morning, as he was about to depart, the aged Nicholas said to him,
“Farewell—I shall never see thee again. Thou art going a long journey, thou sayst, but I am about venturing on one yet longer.”
“Well, be it so,” said the other. “But those who remain behind will bless thy name and thy memory. The little children will love thee, and so long as thy countrymen cherish their ancient customs, thou wilt not be forgotten.”
They parted, and the prediction of the good Nicholas was fulfilled. He fell asleep in the arms of death, who called him so softly, and received him so gently in his embrace, that though his family knew he slept, they little thought it was for ever.
When this news went abroad into the city, you might see the worthy burgomasters and citizens knocking the ashes out of their pipes, and putting them quietly by in their buttonholes; and the good housewives, ever and anon lifting their clean white aprons to their eyes, that they might see to thread their needles or find the stitches, as they sat knitting their stockings. The shops and schools were all shut the day he was buried; and it was remarked that the men neglected their usual amusements, and the little children had no heart to play.
When the whole city had gathered together at the side of his grave, there suddenly appeared among them a remarkable and goodly-looking man, of most reverent demeanour. Every one bowed their bodies, in respectful devotion, for they knew the man, and what they owed him. All was silent as the grave, just about to receive the body of Nicholas, when he I have just spoken of lifted his head, and said as follows:—
“The good man just about to enter the narrow house never defrauded his neighbour, never shut his door on the stranger, never did an unkind action, nor ever refused a kind one either to friend or foe. His heart was all goodness, his faith all purity, his morals all blameless, yea, all praiseworthy. Such a man deserves the highest title that can be bestowed on man. Join me then, my friends, old and young—men, women, and children, in blessing his memory as _the good Saint Nicholas_; for I know no better title to such a distinction than pure faith, inflexible integrity, and active benevolence.” Thus spake the great reformer, John Calvin.
The whole assembled multitude, with one voice and one heart, cried out, “Long live the blessed memory of the good St. Nicholas!” as they piously consigned him to the bosom of his mother earth.
Thus did he come to be called St. Nicholas; and the people, not content with this, as it were by a mutual sympathy, and without coming to any understanding on the subject, have ever since set apart the birthday of the good man, for the exercise of hospitality to men, and gifts to little children. From the Old World they carried the custom to the New, where their posterity still hold it in reverence, and where I hope it will long continue to flourish, in spite of the cold heartless forms, unmeaning ceremonies, and upstart pretensions of certain vulgar people, who don't know any better, and therefore ought to be pitied for their ignorance, rather than contemned for their presumption.
THE
LITTLE DUTCH SENTINEL
OF THE
MANHADOES.
“How times change in this world, and especially in this New World!” exclaimed old Aurie Doremus, as he sat at the door of his domicil—the last of the little Dutch houses, built of little Dutch bricks, with gable end turned to the street—on a sultry summer evening, in the year so many honest people found out that paper money was not silver or gold. Half a dozen of his grown-up grandchildren were gathered about him, on the seats of the little porch, the top of which was shaped something like an old revolutionary cocked hat, as the good patriarch made this sage observation. He was in fine talking humour, and after a little while, went on amid frequent pauses, as if taxing his memory to make up his chronicle.
“It was the twenty-fourth—no, the twenty-fifth of March, 1609, that Hendrick Hudson sailed from Amsterdam. On the fourth of September, after coasting along Newfoundland to Cape Cod, from Cape Cod to Chesapeake Bay, and thence back again along the Jersey coast, he came in sight of the Highlands of Neversink, and anchored in the evening inside of Sandy Hook. This was in 1609—how long ago is that, Egbert?” said the good man, turning to me.
“Two hundred and sixteen years,” replied I, after sore tribulation, for I never was good at ciphering.
“Two hundred and sixteen years—well, at that time there was not a single white man, or white man's habitation, in sight of where we are now sitting, in the midst of thousands, ten of thousands—I might almost say hundreds of thousands. Ah! boys, 'tis a rapid growth, and Heaven grant it may not afford another proof, that the quick of growth are quick of decay.” After musing a little he proceeded, as if speaking to himself rather than to us.
“If it were possible that an Indian, who had lived on this spot at the time of Hudson's first visit, could rise from the dead, with all his recollections of the past about him, what would he think at beholding the changes that have taken place. Nothing that he had ever seen, nothing that he had ever known, would he recognise; for even the face of the earth has passed away, and the course of the mighty rivers intruded upon by the labours of the white strangers. No vestiges, not even the roots of the woods where he hunted his game—no landmarks familiar to his early recollections—no ruins of his ancient habitations—no traces to guide him to the spot where once reposed the remains of his fathers—nothing to tell him that his eyes had opened on the very spot where they closed two hundred years ago.” Again he paused a few moments, and then resumed his cogitations.
“And this is not all, its name and destinies, as well as its nature, are changed. From the Manhadoes of the ancient proprietors, it passed into the New-Amsterdam of the Dutch, and the New-York of the English; and now,” continued he, his eyes sparkling with exultation—” now it is the possession of a free and sovereign people. The sandy barren which formed the projecting point of our isle, and where a few Indian canoes were hauled up, is now the resort of thousands of stately ships, coming from the farthest parts of the earth, and bearing the rich products of the New World into every corner of the Old. Their masts bristle around the city, like the leafless trees of a wintry forest. The rugged island, to which nature had granted nothing but its noble situation, and which seemed condemned to perpetual sterility, is now become a region of rich gardens and white groups of houses—the very rocks are turned to beds of flowers, and the tangled swamps of ivy clinging about the stinted shrubbery, into smooth lawns, embellishing and embellished by the sprightly forms of playful lads and lasses, escaped from the city to enjoy a summer afternoon of rural happiness. All, all is changed—and man the most of all. Simplicity has given place to the ostentatious, vulgar pride of purse-proud ignorance—the wild Indian to the idle and effeminate beau—politeness to ceremony—comfort to splendour—honest mechanics to knavish brokers—morals to manners—wampum to paper money—and the fear of ghosts to the horror of poverty.” Here again the old man paused, and seemed to retire within himself for a minute or two; after which I observed him begin to chuckle and rub his hands, while his mischievous old eye assumed a new vivacity.
“I wonder what figure our Dutch belles or beaux of 1700, or thereabout, would make at a rout, or the Italian opera? I'faith I believe they would be more out of their element than the Indian I spoke of just now. They would certainly make rare sport in a cotillon, and I doubt would never arrive at that acme of modern refinement, which enables people to prefer sounds without sense, to sense without sound—and to expire with ecstasy at sentiments expressed in a language of which they don't comprehend a word.”
“But did they believe in ghosts, grandfather?” asked the youngest little granddaughter, who was just beginning to dip in the modern wonders of romance, and had been caught by the word ghost in the old gentleman's harangue.
“Ay, that they did, and in everything else. Now people believe in nothing except what they see in the newspapers—and the only exercise of their faith appears, not indeed in believing a crust of bread is a shoulder of mutton, but that a greasy rag of paper is a guinea. I have heard my grandfather tell fifty stories of ghosts and witches; but they have all passed from my memory, except one about a little Dutch sentinel, which he used to repeat so often, that I have never forgotten it to this day.”
“Oh, tell us the story,” cried the little romance reader, who was the old gentleman's prime favourite, and to whom he never thought of denying anything, either in or out of reason. “I'll give you two kisses if you will.”
“A bargain,” cried the good Aurie; “come hither, baggage.” The little girl presented first one rosy cheek and then the other, which he kissed affectionately, and began as follows, while we all gathered about him, and listened like so many Schahriars.
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“Once upon a time, then, to use the words of a pleasant and instructive historian, the governors of New-Amsterdam were little kings, and the burgomasters such great men, that whoever spoke ill of one of them, had a bridle put into his mouth, rods under his arms, and a label on his breast recording his crime. In this trim he was led by the sheriff and tied to a post, where he remained a spectacle to the public, and an example to all evil doers—or rather evil sayers. I wonder how such a custom would go down nowadays, with the great champions of the liberty of the press? Then, too, instead of street inspectors, whose duty it is to take care of one side of a street and let the other take care of itself, there were roy meesters to look to the fences, and keep the cows from trespassing on their neighbour's pastures—then the houses were covered with reeds and straw, and the chimneys were made of wood—then all matrimonial disputes were settled by ‘a commissary of marriage affairs,’ and no man could eat a loaf of bread, except the flour had been inspected by the ‘comptroller general of the company's windmill,’ who could be no other than the sage Don Quixote himself—then, the distinction of ranks, instead of being designated by great and little barons, was signified by great and little burghers, who danced hipsey-saw and reels—plucked the goose—rambled on the commons, now the park, for nuts and strawberries—made parties of pleasure to enjoy the retired shades of the Ladies' Valley, since metamorphosed into Maiden Lane—shot bears in the impenetrable forests of Harlem Heights—hunted the deer along the Bloomingdale road—and erected Maypoles on the first of May, in the great meadow where the college now stands.”
“In what year of our Lord was that?” asked the little pet lady.
“Why, in the year 1670, or thereabout, you baggage.”
“I declare I thought it must have been somewhere about the year one,” said she, laughing. The old man patted her cheek, and went on.
“About this time the good citizens of New-Amsterdam were most especially afraid of three things—Indians, ghosts, and witches. For the first, they had good reason, for the Indians inhabited the country around them in all directions, and though the honest Amsterdamers could beat them at a bargain, there was another game at which they had rather the advantage. In regard to ghosts and witches, I cannot say as much in justification of their fears. But that is neither here nor there. Some people that will run like a deer from real danger, defy ghosts and witches, and all their works; while the fearless soldier who faces death without shrinking in a hundred battles, trembles and flees from a white cow in a churchyard, or a white sheet on a clothes line, of a moonlight night. It was thus with honest JAN SOL, the little Dutch sentinel of the Manhadoes.
“Jan was a short, square-built, bandy-legged, broad-faced, snub-nosed little fellow, who valued himself upon being an old soldier; a species of men that, with the exception of travellers, are the most given to telling what are called tough stories, of any people in the world. According to his own account, he had been in more pitched battles than Henry the Lion, or Julius Cæsar; and made more lucky escapes than any knight-errant on record. The most miraculous one of all, was at some battle—I forget the name—where he would certainly have been killed, if he had not very opportunely arrived just after it was over. But though one of the most communicative persons in the world, he never gave any tolerable reason for visiting New-Amsterdam. He hinted, indeed, that he had been invited over to discipline the raw provincials; but there was a counter story abroad, that he was drummed out of the regiment for walking in his sleep, and emptying the canteens of the whole mess. Indeed, he did not positively deny that he was apt to be a rogue in his sleep; but then he made it up by being as honest as the day when he was awake.