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Wolfert's Roost, and Miscellanies

by Washington Irving · English · Gutenberg #8571 · 392,319 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Wolfert's Roost, and Miscellanies

Author: Washington Irving


        
Release date: July 1, 2005 [eBook #8571]
                Most recently updated: October 7, 2012

Language: English

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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 to
a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vast
accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt to
become narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling long
stories, and of doling out advice, to the small profit and great
annoyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming the
oracle, or, more technically speaking, the "bore," of the domestic
circle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon the
world at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of the
intellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossiping
volumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writing
volumes; they do not afford exactly the relief I require; there is too
much preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming
before the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any
thing that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore, of
securing 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 with
the public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop
into my brain.

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

My first acquaintance with that great and good man, for such I may
venture to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years has
shrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice has
elevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore, my first
acquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far
from the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course
of his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials for his
immortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking the archives of
one of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It was
a lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a
green bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the
Great Tappan Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright
pure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook came
babbling down a neighboring ravine, and threw itself into a little woody
cove, in front of the mansion. It was indeed as quiet and sheltered a
nook as the heart of man could require, in which to take refuge from the
cares and troubles of the world; and as such, it had been chosen in old
times, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the renowned
Peter 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 those
unlucky wights with whom the world is ever at variance, and who are kept
in a continual fume and fret, by the wickedness of mankind. At the time
of the subjugation of the province by the English, he retired hither in
high dudgeon; with the bitter determination to bury himself from the
world, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of his
days. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his door the
favorite Dutch motto, "Lust in Rust," (pleasure in repose.) The mansion
was thence called "Wolfert's Rust"--Wolfert's Rest; but in process of
time, the name was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost, probably from its
quaint cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched on
every gable. This name it continued to bear, long after the unlucky
Wolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by the
tongue of a termagant wife; for it passed into a proverb through the
neighborhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that the cock of
the Roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the country.

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed through many
changes and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to notice. At the
time of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker it was in possession of
the gallant family of the Van Tassels, who have figured so conspicuously
in his writings. What appears to have given it peculiar value, in his
eyes, was the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoarded
up, like buried gold; for it is said that Wolfert Acker, when he
retreated from New Amsterdam, carried off with him many of the records
and journals of the province, pertaining to the Dutch dynasty; swearing
that they should never fall into the hands of the English. These, like
the 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 the
hand, and led me gently into those paths of local and traditional lore
which he was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamber
at the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perseverance
with which he deciphered those venerable Dutch documents, worse than
Herculanean manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot of
the green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the worthies of
the olden time, the paladins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in his
legendary researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored with
him the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many of
his conferences with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, from
whom he derived many of those marvelous facts not laid down in books
or records, and which give such superior value and authenticity to his
history, over all others that have been written concerning the New
Netherlands.

But let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite theme; I may
recur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the intimacy thus formed,
continued for a considerable time; and in company with the worthy
Diedrich, I visited many of the places celebrated by his pen. The
currents of our lives at length diverged. He remained at home to
complete his mighty work, while a vagrant fancy led me to wander about
the world. Many, many years elapsed, before I returned to the parent
soil. In the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlands
had been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to renown. His
native city, that city in which he so much delighted, had decreed all
manner of costly honors to his memory. I found his effigy imprinted upon
new-year cakes, and devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins; a
great oyster-house bore the name of "Knickerbocker Hall;" and I narrowly
escaped 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 to
revisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important of
these was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate
Wolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operations
upon a Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little
edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. There
stood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had occupied;
the old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he had pored over the
chronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with the
archives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been fired
off as wadding from the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scene
around the mansion was still the same; the green bank; the spring beside
which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian; the
wild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locust
trees, half shutting out the prospect of the great Tappan Zee.

As I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at the recollection
of my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed the mansion which he had
inhabited, and which was fast mouldering to decay. The thought struck me
to arrest the desolating hand of Time; to rescue the historic pile from
utter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wanderings; a quiet
home, 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; but
I consoled myself with the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that I
had no termagant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me.

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

Here, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recollections of
early days, and the mementoes of the historian of the Manhattoes, with
that glorious river before me, which flows with such majesty through his
works, 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 an
invaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of
some 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 for
life. It remains an object of our pride and affections, a rallying
point, to call us home again after all our wanderings. "The things which
we have learned in our childhood," says an old writer, "grow up with our
souls, and unite themselves to it." So it is with the scenes among which
we have passed our early days; they influence the whole course of our
thoughts and feelings; and I fancy I can trace much of what is good and
pleasant in my own heterogeneous compound to my early companionship with
this glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used to
clothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it a soul. I admired
its frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfect
truth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangerous
sand-bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was broad, and
bearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I
gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; ever straight
forward. Once, indeed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from its
course by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them, and
immediately resumes its straightforward march. Behold, thought I, an
emblem of a good man's course through life; ever simple, open, and
direct; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate into
error, it is but momentary; he soon recovers his onward and honorable
career, and continues it to the end of his pilgrimage.

Excuse this rhapsody, into which I have been betrayed by a revival of
early feelings. The Hudson is, in a manner, my first and last love; and
after all my wanderings and seeming infidelities, I return to it with a
heart-felt preference over all the other rivers in the world. I seem
to catch new life as I bathe in its ample billows and inhale the pure
breezes of its hills. It is true, the romance of youth is past, that
once spread illusions over every scene. I can no longer picture an
Arcadia in every green valley; nor a fairy land among the distant
mountains; nor a peerless beauty in every villa gleaming among the
trees; but though the illusions of youth have faded from the landscape,
the recollections of departed years and departed pleasures shed over it
the mellow charm of evening sunshine.

Permit me, then, Mr. Editor, through the medium of your work, to
hold occasional discourse from my retreat with the busy world I have
abandoned. I have much to say about what I have seen, heard, felt, and
thought through the course of a varied and rambling life, and some
lucubrations that have long been encumbering my portfolio; together with
divers reminiscences of the venerable historian of the New Netherlands,
that may not be unacceptable to those who have taken an interest in his
writings, and are desirous of any thing that may cast a light back upon
our early history. Let your readers rest assured of one thing, that,
though retired from the world, I am not disgusted with it; and that if
in my communings with it I do not prove very wise, I trust I shall at
least 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 brief
notice of Wolfert's Roost, the mansion where I first had the good
fortune to become acquainted with the venerable historian of the New
Netherlands. As this ancient edifice is likely to be the place whence
I shall date many of my lucubrations, and as it is really a very
remarkable little pile, intimately connected with all the great epochs
of our local and national history, I have thought it but right to give
some farther particulars concerning it. Fortunately, in rummaging a
ponderous Dutch chest of drawers, which serves as the archives of the
Roost, 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 dried
pumpkin-seeds, bunches of thyme, and pennyroyal, and crumbs of new-year
cakes, a manuscript, carefully wrapped up in the fragment of an old
parchment deed, but much blotted, and the ink grown foxy by time, which,
on inspection, I discovered to be a faithful chronicle of the Roost. The
hand-writing, and certain internal evidences, leave no doubt in my
mind, that it is a genuine production of the venerable historian of the
New-Netherlands, written, very probably, during his residence at the
Roost, in gratitude for the hospitality of its proprietor. As such, I
submit it for publication. As the entire chronicle is too long for the
pages of your Magazine, and as it contains many minute particulars,
which might prove tedious to the general reader, I have abbreviated and
occasionally omitted some of its details; but may hereafter furnish
them separately, should they seem to be required by the curiosity of an
enlightened and document-hunting public. Respectfully yours, GEOFFREY
CRAYON.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 of
Manhattan, formerly called New-Amsterdam, and vulgarly called New-York,
on the eastern bank of that expansion of the Hudson, known among
Dutch mariners of yore, as the Tappan Zee, being in fact the great
Mediterranean Sea of the New-Netherlands, stands a little old-fashioned
stone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and
corners as an old cocked hat. Though but of small dimensions, yet, like
many small people, it is of mighty spirit, and values itself greatly on
its antiquity, being one of the oldest edifices, for its size, in the
whole country. It claims to be an ancient seat of empire, I may rather
say an empire in itself, and like all empires, great and small, has had
its grand historical epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorous
little 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 the
abode of the white man.

Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote region commonly
called the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes mystified, and
tinted up with delectable fiction. The eastern shore of the Tappan Sea
was inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated race, existing in all
the simplicity of nature; that is to say, they lived by hunting and
fishing, and recreated themselves occasionally with a little tomahawking
and scalping. Each stream that flows down from the hills into the
Hudson, had its petty sachem, who ruled over a hand's-breadth of forest
on either side, and had his seat of government at its mouth. The
chieftain who ruled at the Roost, was not merely a great warrior, but a
medicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they all mean the same thing,
in Indian parlance. Of his fighting propensities, evidences still
remain, in various arrowheads of flint, and stone battle-axes,
occasionally digged up about the Roost: of his wizard powers, we have a
token in a spring which wells up at the foot of the bank, on the
very margin of the river, which, it is said, was gifted by him with
rejuvenating powers, something like the renowned Fountain of Youth in
the Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after by the veteran Ponce
de Leon. This story, however, is stoutly contradicted by an old Dutch
matter-of-fact tradition, which declares that the spring in question was
smuggled over from Holland in a churn, by Femmetie Van Slocum, wife of
Goosen Garret Van Slocum, one of the first settlers, and that she took
it up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-house
near Rotterdam; being sure she should find no water equal to it in the
new country--and she was right.

The wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing territorial
questions, and settling boundary lines; this kept him in continual feud
with the neighboring sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for his
hand-breadth of territory; so that there is not a petty stream nor
ragged hill in the neighborhood, that has not been the subject of long
talks and hard battles. The sachem, however, as has been observed, was a
medicine-man, as well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by arts
as well as arms; so that, by dint of a little hard fighting here, and
hocus-pocus there, he managed to extend his boundary-line from field
to field and stream to stream, until he found himself in legitimate
possession of that region of hills and valleys, bright fountains and
limpid brooks, locked in by the mazy windings of the Neperan and the
Pocantico. [Footnote: As every one may not recognize these boundaries
by their original Indian names, it may be well to observe, that the
Neperan 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 itself
into the Hudson, at the ancient drop of Yonkers. The Pocantico is that
hitherto nameless brook, that, rising among woody hills, winds in many a
wizard maze through the sequestered banks of Sleepy Hollow. We owe it to
the indefatigable researches of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, that those beautiful
streams are rescued from modern common-place, and reinvested with their
ancient Indian names. The correctness of the venerable historian may be
ascertained, by reference to the records of the original Indian grants
to 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 the
strong-hold of the redoubtable sachem of Sing-Sing, and was claimed by
him as an integral part of his domains. Many were the sharp conflicts
between the rival chieftains for the sovereignty of this valley, and
many the ambuscades, surprisals, and deadly onslaughts that took place
among its fastnesses, of which it grieves me much that I cannot furnish
the details for the gratification of those gentle but bloody-minded
readers of both sexes, who delight in the romance of the tomahawk and
scalping-knife. Suffice it to say that the wizard chieftain was at
length victorious, though his victory is attributed in Indian tradition
to a great medicine or charm by which he laid the sachem of Sing-Sing
and his warriors asleep among the rocks and recesses of the valley,
where they remain asleep to the present day with their bows and
war-clubs beside them. This was the origin of that potent and drowsy
spell which still prevails over the valley of the Pocantico, and which
has gained it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow. Often, in
secluded and quiet parts of that valley, where the stream is overhung by
dark woods and rocks, the ploughman, on some calm and sunny day as
he shouts to his oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from the
hill-sides in reply; being, it is said, the spell-bound warriors, who
half start from their rocky couches and grasp their weapons, but sink to
sleep again.

The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph of the wizard sachem.
Notwithstanding all his medicine and charms, he fell in battle in
attempting to extend his boundary line to the east so as to take in the
little wild valley of the Sprain, and his grave is still shown near the
banks of that pastoral stream. He left, however, a great empire to his
successors, extending along the Tappan Zee, from Yonkers quite to Sleepy
Hollow; all which delectable region, if every one had his right, would
still acknowledge allegiance to the lord of the Roost--whoever he might
be. [Footnote: In recording the contest for the sovereignty of Sleepy
Hollow, I have called one sachem by the modern name of his castle or
strong-hold, viz.: Sing-Sing. This, I would observe for the sake
of 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 any
thing 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 to
have been made in compliment to an eminent Methodist singing-master, who
first introduced into the neighborhood the art of singing through the
nose. D. K.]

The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs, of whom nothing
remarkable remains on record. The last who makes any figure in history
is the one who ruled here at the time of the discovery of the country by
the 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 his
warlike predecessor had done by hard fighting. He diligently cultivated
the growth of oysters along the aquatic borders of his territories, and
founded those great oyster-beds which yet exist along the shores of the
Tappan Zee. Did any dispute occur between him and a neighboring sachem,
he invited him and all his principal sages and fighting-men to a solemn
banquet, and seldom failed of feeding them into terms. Enormous heaps of
oyster-shells, which encumber the lofty banks of the river, remain as
monuments of his gastronomical victories, and have been occasionally
adduced through mistake by amateur geologists from town, as additional
proofs of the deluge. Modern investigators, who are making such
indefatigable researches into our early history, have even affirmed that
this sachem was the very individual on whom Master Hendrick Hudson and
his mate, Robert Juet, made that sage and astounding experiment so
gravely recorded by the latter in his narrative of the voyage: "Our
master and his mate determined to try some of the cheefe men of the
country whether they had any treacherie in them. So they took them down
into the cabin and gave them so much wine and aqua vitae that they
were all very merrie; one of them had his wife with him, which sate so
modestly as any of our countrywomen would do in a strange place. In the
end one of them was drunke; and that was strange to them, for they
could not tell how to take it." [Footnote: See Juet's Journal, Purchas
Pilgrim.]

How far Master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy mate carried their
experiment with the sachem's wife is not recorded, neither does the
curious Robert Juet make any mention of the after-consequences of this
grand moral test; tradition, however, affirms that the sachem on landing
gave his modest spouse a hearty rib-roasting, according to the connubial
discipline of the aboriginals; it farther affirms that he remained a
hard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all his lands, acre
by 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 and
by right of purchase, into the possession of the Dutchmen.

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

This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter Stuyvesant, and it
roused the ire of that gunpowder old hero; who, without waiting to
discuss claims and titles, pounced at once upon the nest of nefarious
squatters, 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 had
driven every Yankee back into the bounds of Connecticut, or obliged
him to acknowledge allegiance to their High Mightinesses. He then
established certain out-posts, far in the Indian country, to keep an eye
over 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 delectable
region to give it up entirely. Some remained and swore allegiance to the
Manhattoes; but, while they kept this open semblance of fealty, they
went to work secretly and vigorously to intermarry and multiply, and by
these nefarious means, artfully propagated themselves into possession of
a wide tract of those open, arable parts of Westchester county, lying
along the Sound, where their descendants may be found at the present
day; while the mountainous regions along the Hudson, with the valleys
of the Neperan and the Pocantico, are tenaciously held by the lineal
descendants 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 New
Netherlands 'was subjugated by the British; how that Wolfert Acker, one
of the wrangling councillors of Peter Stuyvesant, retired in dudgeon to
this fastness in the wilderness, determining to enjoy "lust in rust" for
the remainder of his days, whence the place first received its name of
Wolfert's Roost. As these and sundry other matters have been laid before
the public in a preceding article, I shall pass them over, and resume
the chronicle where it treats of matters not hitherto recorded:

Like many men who retire from a worrying world, says DIEDRICH
KNICKERBOCKER, to enjoy quiet in the country, Wolfert Acker soon found
himself 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. The
recent irruption of the Yankees into the bounds of the New Netherlands,
had left behind it a doleful pestilence, such as is apt to follow the
steps of invading armies. This was the deadly plague of witchcraft,
which had long been prevalent to the eastward. The malady broke out at
Vest Dorp, and threatened to spread throughout the country. The Dutch
burghers along the Hudson, from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, hastened to
nail horseshoes to their doors, which have ever been found of sovereign
virtue to repel this awful visitation. This is the origin of the
horse-shoes which may still be seen nailed to the doors of barns and
farmhouses, in various parts of this sage and sober-thoughted region.

The evil, however, bore hard upon the Roost; partly, perhaps, from its
having in old times been subject to supernatural influences, during the
sway of the Wizard Sachem; but it has always, in fact, been considered a
fated mansion. The unlucky Wolfert had no rest day nor night. When the
weather was quiet all over the country, the wind would howl and whistle
round his roof; witches would ride and whirl upon his weathercocks, and
scream down his chimneys. His cows gave bloody milk, and his horses
broke bounds, and scampered into the woods. There were not wanting evil
tongues to whisper that Wolfert's termagant wife had some tampering
with the enemy; and that she even attended a witches' Sabbath in Sleepy
Hollow; nay, a neighbor, who lived hard by, declared that he saw her
harnessing a rampant broom-stick, and about to ride to the meeting;
though others presume it was merely flourished in the course of one of
her curtain lectures, to give energy and emphasis to a period. Certain
it is, that Wolfert Acker nailed a horse-shoe to the front door, during
one of her nocturnal excursions, to prevent her return; but as she
re-entered the house without any difficulty, it is probable she was
not so much of a witch as she was represented. [Footnote: HISTORICAL
NOTE.--The annexed extracts from the early colonial records, relate to
the irruption of witchcraft into Westchester county, as mentioned in the
chronicle:

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

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

In another place is the following entry:

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

After the time of Wolfert Acker, a long interval elapses, about which
but little is known. It is hoped, however, that the antiquarian
researches so diligently making in every part of this new country, may
yet 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 rising
to importance, and resuming its old belligerent character, is during the
revolutionary war. It was at that time owned by Jacob Van Tassel, or Van
Texel, as the name was originally spelled, after the place in Holland
which 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 sachem
of yore, and, like him, delighting in extravagant enterprises and hardy
deeds of arms. But, before I enter upon the exploits of this worthy cock
of the Boost, it is fitting I should throw some light upon the state of
the mansion, and of the surrounding country, at the time.

The situation of the Roost is in the very heart of what was the
debateable ground between the American and British lines, during the
war. The British held possession of the city of New York, and the island
of Manhattan on which it stands. The Americans drew up toward the
Highlands, holding their headquarters at Peekskill. The intervening
country, from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek, was the debateable
land, subject to be harried by friend and foe, like the Scottish borders
of yore. It is a rugged country, with a line of rocky hills extending
through it, like a back bone, sending ribs on either side; but among
these rude hills are beautiful winding valleys, like those watered by
the 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. Most
of these were strong whigs throughout the war, and have ever remained
obstinately attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought
out of their paternal acres. Others were tories, and adherents to the
old 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 bands
from either side; sacking hen-roosts, plundering farm-houses, and
driving off cattle. Hence arose those two great orders of border
chivalry, the Skinners and the Cowboys, famous in the heroic annals of
Westchester county. The former fought, or rather marauded, under the
American, the latter under the British banner; but both, in the hurry of
their military ardor, were apt to err on the safe side, and rob friend
as well as foe. Neither of them stopped to ask the politics of horse or
cow, which they drove into captivity; nor, when they wrung the neck of
a rooster, did they trouble their heads to ascertain whether he were
crowing 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 British
frigates and other vessels of war, anchored here and there, to keep an
eye upon the river, and maintain a communication between the various
military posts. Stout galleys, also, armed with eighteen-pounders, and
navigated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks, ready to pounce
upon their prey.

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

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

It was commanded at the time, as I have already observed, by the stout
Jacob Van Tassel. As I wish to be extremely accurate in this part of
my chronicle, I beg that this Jacob Van Tassel of the Roost may not be
confounded with another Jacob Van Tassel, commonly known in border story
by the name of "Clump-footed Jake," a noted tory, and one of the refugee
band of Spiting Devil. On the contrary, he of the Roost was a patriot of
the first water, and, if we may take his own word for granted, a thorn
in the side of the enemy. As the Roost, from its lonely situation on the
water'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 of
ordnance, ready charged and primed for action. This was a duck, or
rather goose-gun, of unparalleled longitude, with which it was said he
could 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 enchanted
weapons of the heroes of classic story.

In different parts of the stone walls of his mansion, he had made
loop-holes, through which he might fire upon an assailant. His wife was
stout-hearted as himself, and could load as fast as he could fire; and
then he had an ancient and redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, a
match, 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 the
man to defend it to the last charge of powder.

He was, as I have already hinted, of pugnacious propensities; and, not
content with being a patriot at home, and fighting for the security of
his own fireside, he extended his thoughts abroad, and entered into a
confederacy with certain of the bold, hard-riding lads of Tarrytown,
Petticoat Lane, and Sleepy Hollow, who formed a kind of Holy
Brotherhood, 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 the
neighborhood, and driving off cattle, the stout Jacob and his compeers
were soon clattering at their heels, and fortunate did the rogues esteem
themselves if they could but get a part of their booty across the lines,
or escape themselves without a rough handling. Should the mosstroopers
succeed in passing with their cavalcade, with thundering tramp and dusty
whirlwind, across Kingsbridge, the Holy Brotherhood of the Roost would
rein up at that perilous pass, and, wheeling about, would indemnify
themselves by foraging the refugee region of Morrisania.

When at home at the Roost, the stout Jacob was not idle; but was prone
to carry on a petty warfare of his own, for his private recreation and
refreshment. Did he ever chance to espy, from his look-out place, a
hostile ship or galley anchored or becalmed near shore, he would take
down his long goose-gun from the hooks over the fire-place, sally
out alone, and lurk along shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, and
watching 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! went
the great goose-gun; a shower of slugs and buck-shot whistled about the
ears of the enemy, and before the boat could reach the shore, Jacob had
scuttled up some woody ravine, and left no trace behind. About this
time, the Roost experienced a vast accession of warlike importance, in
being made one of the stations of the water-guard. This was a kind of
aquatic corps of observation, composed of long, sharp, canoe-shaped
boats, technically called whale-boats, that lay lightly on the water,
and could be rowed with great rapidity. They were manned by resolute
fellows, skilled at pulling an oar, or handling a musket. These lurked
about in nooks and bays, and behind those long promontories which run
out into the Tappan Sea, keeping a look-out, to give notice of the
approach or movements of hostile ships. They roved about in pairs;
sometimes at night, with muffled oars, gliding like spectres about
frigates and guard-ships riding at anchor, cutting off any boats that
made for shore, and keeping the enemy in constant uneasiness. These
mosquito-cruisers generally kept aloof by day, so that their harboring
places might not be discovered, but would pull quietly along, under
shadow 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 the
hills, to hold secret councils of war with the "ocean chivalry;" and in
these nocturnal meetings were concerted many of those daring forays, by
land and water, that resounded throughout the border.

       *       *       *       *       *

The chronicle here goes on to recount divers wonderful stories of the
wars of the Roost, from which it would seem, that this little warrior
nest carried the terror of its arms into every sea, from Spiting Devil
Creek to Antony's Nose; that it even bearded the stout island of
Manhattan, invading it at night, penetrating to its centre, and burning
down the famous Delancey house, the conflagration of which makes such a
blaze in revolutionary history. Nay more, in their extravagant daring,
these cocks of the Roost meditated a nocturnal descent upon New York
itself, to swoop upon the British commanders, Howe and Clinton, by
surprise, bear them off captive, and perhaps put a triumphant close to
the war!

All these and many similar exploits are recorded by the worthy Diedrich,
with his usual minuteness and enthusiasm, whenever the deeds in arms of
his kindred Dutchmen are in question; but though most of these warlike
stories rest upon the best of all authority, that of the warriors
themselves, and though many of them are still current among the
revolutionary patriarchs of this heroic neighborhood, yet I dare not
expose them to the incredulity of a tamer and less chivalric age,
Suffice it to say, the frequent gatherings at the Roost, and the hardy
projects set on foot there, at length drew on it the fiery indignation
of the enemy; and this was quickened by the conduct of the stout Jacob
Van Tassel; with whose valorous achievements we resume the course of the
chronicle.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

It was not long after this, during the absence of Jacob Van Tassel on
one of his forays, and when no one was in garrison but his stout-hearted
spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, and a strapping negro
wench, 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, that
is to say, to mops, broom-sticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of
domestic weapons; for, unluckily, the great piece of ordnance, the
goose-gun, was absent with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence was
made with that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never did
invaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all in vain. The
house was sacked and plundered, fire was set to each corner, and in a
few moments its blaze shed a baleful light far over the Tappan Sea. The
invaders then pounced upon the blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of
the Roost, and endeavored to bear her off to the boat. But here was the
real 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's
edge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered the spoilers
to let go their hold; they relinquished their prize, jumped into their
boats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a mere
rumpling of the feathers.

The fear of tiring my readers, who may not take such an interest as
myself in these heroic themes, induces me to close here my extracts from
this precious chronicle of the venerable Diedrich. Suffice it briefly to
say, 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 for
the greater part of the war. In the mean time, the Roost remained a
melancholy ruin; its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing,
blackened by fire, and the resort of bats and owlets. It was not until
the return of peace, when this belligerent neighborhood once more
resumed its quiet agricultural pursuits, that the stout Jacob sought the
scene of his triumphs and disasters; rebuilt the Roost, and reared again
on high its glittering weather-cocks.

Does any one want further particulars of the fortunes of this eventful
little pile? Let him go to the fountain-head, and drink deep of historic
truth. 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, and
passes the long winter evenings, surrounded by his children, and
grand-children, and great-grand-children, all listening to his tales of
the 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 a
hollow tree, and passed from hand to hand among the Dutch burghers, as a
precious relique of the revolution. It is now actually in possession of
a contemporary of the stout Jacob, one almost his equal in years, who
treasures it up at his house in the Bowerie of New-Amsterdam, hard by
the ancient rural retreat of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant. I am not
without hopes of one day seeing this formidable piece of ordinance
restored to its proper station in the arsenal of the Roost. Before
closing this historic document, I cannot but advert to certain notions
and traditions concerning the venerable pile in question. Old-time
edifices are apt to gather odd fancies and superstitions about them, as
they do moss and weather-stains; and this is in a neighborhood a little
given to old-fashioned notions, and who look upon the Roost as somewhat
of a fated mansion. A lonely, rambling, down-hill lane leads to it,
overhung with trees, with a wild brook dashing along, and crossing
and re-crossing it. This lane I found some of the good people of the
neighborhood shy of treading at night; why, I could not for a long time
ascertain; until I learned that one or two of the rovers of the Tappan
Sea, 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 I
confess I am somewhat disposed to cherish. The Tappan Sea, in front of
the Roost, is about three miles wide, bordered by a lofty line of waving
and rocky hills. Often, in the still twilight of a summer evening, when
the sea is like glass, with the opposite hills throwing their purple
shadows half across it, a low sound is heard, as of the steady, vigorous
pull of oars, far out in the middle of the stream, though not a boat
is to be descried. This I should have been apt to ascribe to some boat
rowed along under the shadows of the western shore, for sounds are
conveyed to a great distance by water, at such quiet hours, and I can
distinctly hear the baying of the watch-dogs at night, from the farms on
the sides of the opposite mountains. The ancient traditionists of the
neighborhood, however, religiously ascribed these sounds to a judgment
upon one Rumbout Van Dam, of Spiting Devil, who danced and drank late
one Saturday night, at a Dutch quilting frolic, at Kakiat, and set off
alone for home in his boat, on the verge of Sunday morning; swearing he
would not land till he reached Spiting Devil, if it took him a month of
Sundays. He was never seen afterward, but is often heard plying his oars
across the Tappan Sea, a Flying Dutchman on a small scale, suited to
the size of his cruising-ground; being doomed to ply between Kakiat and
Spiting Devil till the day of judgment, but never to reach the land.

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

As to the enchanted fountain, said to have been gifted by the wizard
sachem with supernatural powers, it still wells up at the foot of the
bank, on the margin of the river, and goes by the name of the Indian
spring; but I have my doubts as to its rejuvenating powers, for though
I have drank oft and copiously of it, I cannot boast that I find myself
growing younger.

GEOFFREY CRAYON.

       *       *       *       *       *

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

HAVING pitched my tent, probably for the remainder of my days, in the
neighborhood of Sleepy Hollow, I am tempted to give some few particulars
concerning that spell-bound region; especially as it has risen to
historic importance under the pen of my revered friend and master, the
sage historian of the New Netherlands. Beside, I find the very existence
of the place has been held in question by many; who, judging from its
odd name and from the odd stories current among the vulgar concerning
it, have rashly deemed the whole to be a fanciful creation, like the
Lubber Land of mariners. I must confess there is some apparent cause for
doubt, in consequence of the coloring given by the worthy Diedrich to
his descriptions of the Hollow; who, in this instance, has departed
a little from his usually sober if not severe style; beguiled, very
probably, by his predilection for the haunts of his youth, and by a
certain lurking taint of romance whenever any thing connected with the
Dutch was to be described. I shall endeavor to make up for this amiable
error on the part of my venerable and venerated friend by presenting the
reader with a more precise and statistical account of the Hollow; though
I am not sure that I shall not be prone to lapse in the end into the
very 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 of
something mystic and dreamy connected with it that first led me in my
boyish ramblings into Sleepy Hollow. The character of the valley seemed
to answer to the name; the slumber of past ages apparently reigned over
it; it had not awakened to the stir of improvement which had put all the
rest of the world in a bustle. Here reigned good, old long-forgotten
fashions; the men were in home-spun garbs, evidently the product of
their own farms and the manufacture of their own wives; the women were
in primitive short gowns and petticoats, with the venerable sun-bonnets
of Holland origin. The lower part of the valley was cut up into small
farms, each consisting of a little meadow and corn-field; an orchard
of sprawling, gnarled apple-trees, and a garden, where the rose, the
marigold, and the hollyhock were permitted to skirt the domains of the
capacious cabbage, the aspiring pea, and the portly pumpkin. Each had
its prolific little mansion teeming with children; with an old hat
nailed against the wall for the housekeeping wren; a motherly hen, under
a coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep around her a brood of vagrant
chickens; a cool, stone well, with the moss-covered bucket suspended
to the long balancing-pole, according to the antediluvian idea of
hydraulics; and its spinning-wheel humming within doors, the patriarchal
music of home manufacture.

The Hollow at that time was inhabited by families which had existed
there from the earliest times, and which, by frequent intermarriage, had
become so interwoven, as to make a kind of natural commonwealth. As
the families had grown larger the farms had grown smaller; every new
generation requiring a new subdivision, and few thinking of swarming
from the native hive. In this way that happy golden mean had been
produced, so much extolled by the poets, in which there was no gold and
very little silver. One thing which doubtless contributed to keep up
this amiable mean was a general repugnance to sordid labor. The sage
inhabitants of Sleepy Hollow had read in their Bible, which was the only
book they studied, that labor was originally inflicted upon man as a
punishment of sin; they regarded it, therefore, with pious abhorrence,
and never humiliated themselves to it but in cases of extremity. There
seemed, in fact, to be a league and covenant against it throughout
the Hollow as against a common enemy. Was any one compelled by dire
necessity to repair his house, mend his fences, build a barn, or get in
a harvest, he considered it a great evil that entitled him to call in
the assistance or his friend? He accordingly proclaimed a 'bee' or
rustic gathering, whereupon all his neighbors hurried to his aid like
faithful allies; attacked the task with the desperate energy of lazy men
eager to overcome a job; and, when it was accomplished, fell to eating
and drinking, fiddling and dancing for very joy that so great an amount
of labor had been vanquished with so little sweating of the brow.

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

So, likewise, let but the word be given that the shad were ascending the
Hudson, and the worthies of the Hollow were to be seen launched in boats
upon the river setting great stakes, and stretching their nets like
gigantic spider-webs half across the stream to the great annoyance
of navigators. Such are the wise provisions of Nature, by which she
equalizes rural affairs. A laggard at the plough is often extremely
industrious with the fowling-piece and fishing-net; and, whenever a man
is an indifferent farmer, he is apt to be a first-rate sportsman. For
catching shad and wild pigeons there were none throughout the country to
compare with the lads of Sleepy Hollow.

As I have observed, it was the dreamy nature of the name that first
beguiled me in the holiday rovings of boyhood into this sequestered
region. I shunned, however, the populous parts of the Hollow, and sought
its retired haunts far in the foldings of the hills, where the Pocantico
"winds its wizard stream" sometimes silently and darkly through solemn
woodlands; sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in fresh, green
meadows; sometimes stealing along the feet of rugged heights under
the balancing sprays of beech and chestnut trees. A thousand crystal
springs, with which this neighborhood abounds, sent down from the
hill-sides their whimpering rills, as if to pay tribute to the
Pocantico. 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 it
whirled amid the eddies or drifted into dark holes under twisted roots
and sunken logs, where the largest fish are apt to lurk. I delighted
to follow it into the brown accesses of the woods; to throw by my
fishing-gear and sit upon rocks beneath towering oaks and clambering
grape-vines; bathe my feet in the cool current, and listen to the summer
breeze playing among the tree-tops. My boyish fancy clothed all nature
around me with ideal charms, and peopled it with the fairy beings I
had read of in poetry and fable. Here it was I gave full scope to my
incipient habit of day dreaming, and to a certain propensity, to weave
up and tint sober realities with my own whims and imaginings, which has
sometimes made life a little too much like an Arabian tale to me, and
this "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 bank
shaded by trees, with the Pocantico sweeping round it and emptying
itself into a spacious mill-pond. At that time the Sleepy Hollow
church was the only place of worship for a wide neighborhood. It was
a venerable edifice, partly of stone and partly of brick, the latter
having been brought from Holland in the early days of the province,
before the arts in the New Netherlands could aspire to such a
fabrication. On a stone above the porch were inscribed the names of the
founders, Frederick Filipsen, a mighty patroon of the olden time, who
reigned over a wide extent of this neighborhood and held his seat of
power at Yonkers; and his wife, Katrina Van Courtlandt, of the no less
potent line of the Van Courtlandts of Croton, who lorded it over a great
part of the Highlands.

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

Behind the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, was its capacious
burying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of this rural
neighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest sculpture; on which
were inscribed, in Dutch, the names and virtues of many of the first
settlers, with their portraitures curiously carved in similitude of
cherubs. Long rows of grave-stones, side by side, of similar names,
but various dates, showed that generation after generation of the same
families had followed each other and been garnered together in this last
gathering-place of kindred.

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

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

Around the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat the elders of the
church, reverend, gray-headed, leathern-visaged men, whom I regarded
with awe, as so many apostles. They were stern in their sanctity, kept
a vigilant eye upon my giggling companions and myself, and shook a
rebuking finger at any boyish device to relieve the tediousness of
compulsory devotion. Vain, however, were all their efforts at vigilance.
Scarcely had the preacher held forth for half an hour, on one of his
interminable sermons, than it seemed as if the drowsy influence of
Sleepy Hollow breathed into the place; one by one the congregation sank
into slumber; the sanctified elders leaned back in their pews, spreading
their handkerchiefs over their faces, as if to keep off the flies; while
the locusts in the neighboring trees would spin out their sultry summer
notes, 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 in
my stripling days, when a few years had passed over my head, that I
revisited them, in company with the venerable Diedrich. I shall never
forget the antiquarian reverence with which that sage and excellent man
contemplated the church. It seemed as if all his pious enthusiasm for
the ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his bosom at the sight.
The tears stood in his eyes, as he regarded the pulpit and the
communion-table; even the very bricks that had come from the mother
country, seemed to touch a filial chord within his bosom. He almost
bowed in deference to the stone above the porch, containing the names
of Frederick Filipsen and Katrina Van Courtlandt, regarding it as the
linking together of those patronymic names, once so famous along the
banks of the Hudson; or rather as a key-stone, binding that mighty Dutch
family connexion of yore, one foot of which rested on Yonkers, and the
other on the Groton. Nor did he forbear to notice with admiration, the
windy contest which had been carried on, since time immemorial, and with
real Dutch perseverance, between the two weather-cocks; though I could
easily perceive he coincided with the one which had come from Holland.

Together we paced the ample church-yard. With deep veneration would
he turn down the weeds and brambles that obscured the modest brown
grave-stones, half sunk in earth, on which were recorded, in Dutch, the
names 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 to
me the exploits of many of these worthies; and my heart smote me, when I
heard of their great doings in days of yore, to think how heedlessly I
had once sported over their graves.

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

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

His greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was discovered in an
old goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks and waterfalls, with
clanking 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 approached
it, an old negro thrust his head, all dabbled with flour, out of a hole
above the water-wheel, and grinned, and rolled his eyes, and looked like
the very hobgoblin of the place. The illustrious Diedrich fixed upon
him, at once, as the very one to give him that invaluable kind of
information never to be acquired from books. He beckoned him from his
nest, sat with him by the hour on a broken mill-stone, by the side of
the waterfall, heedless of the noise of the water, and the clatter
of the mill; and I verily believe it was to his conference with this
African sage, and the precious revelations of the good dame of the
spinning-wheel, that we are indebted for the surprising though true
history of Ichabod Crane and the headless horseman, which has since
astounded and edified the world.

But I have said enough of the good old times of my youthful days; let me
speak 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 my
boyhood. It was a genial day, as I approached that fated region. The
warm sunshine was tempered by a slight haze, so as to give a dreamy
effect to the landscape. Not a breath of air shook the foliage. The
broad Tappan Sea was without a ripple, and the sloops, with drooping
sails, slept on its grassy bosom. Columns of smoke, from burning
brush-wood, rose lazily from the folds of the hills, on the opposite
side of the river, and slowly expanded in mid-air. The distant lowing
of a cow, or the noontide crowing of a cock, coming faintly to the ear,
seemed to illustrate, rather than disturb, the drowsy quiet of the
scene.

I entered the hollow with a beating heart. Contrary to my apprehensions,
I found it but little changed. The march of intellect, which had
made such rapid strides along every river and highway, had not yet,
apparently, turned down into this favored valley. Perhaps the wizard
spell of ancient days still reigned over the place, binding up the
faculties of the inhabitants in happy contentment with things as they
had been handed down to them from yore. There were the same little farms
and farmhouses, with their old hats for the housekeeping wren; their
stone wells, moss-covered buckets, and long balancing poles. There were
the same little rills, whimpering down to pay their tributes to the
Pocantico; while that wizard stream still kept on its course, as of old,
through solemn woodlands and fresh green meadows: nor were there wanting
joyous holiday boys to loiter along its banks, as I have done; throw
their pin-hooks in the stream, or launch their mimic barks. I watched
them with a kind of melancholy pleasure, wondering whether they were
under the same spell of the fancy that once rendered this valley a fairy
land to me. Alas! alas! to me every thing now stood revealed in its
simple reality. The echoes no longer answered with wizard tongues; the
dream 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, on
its green bank, among the trees; the Pocantico swept by it in a deep
dark 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 in
water, chewing the cud, and lashing the flies from their sides with
their tails. The hand of improvement, however, had been busy with the
venerable pile. The pulpit, fabricated in Holland, had been superseded
by one of modern construction, and the front of the semi-Gothic
edifice was decorated by a semi-Grecian portico. Fortunately, the two
weather-cocks remained undisturbed on their perches at each end of the
church, and still kept up a diametrical opposition to each other on all
points of windy doctrine.

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

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

As I was stumbling about among these silent yet eloquent memorials of
the dead, I came upon names familiar to me; of those who had paid
the debt of nature during the long interval of my absence. Some, I
remembered, my companions in boyhood, who had sported with me on the
very sod under which they were now mouldering; others who in those days
had been the flower of the yeomanry, figuring in Sunday finery on the
church green; others, the white-haired elders of the sanctuary, once
arrayed in awful sanctity around the pulpit, and ever ready to rebuke
the ill-timed mirth of the wanton stripling who, now a man, sobered by
years and schooled by vicissitudes, looked down pensively upon their
graves. "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 idle
urchins, who came gambolling about the place where I had so often
gambolled. They were checked, as I and my playmates had often been, by
the voice of the sexton, a man staid in years and demeanor. I looked
wistfully in his face; had I met him any where else, I should probably
have passed him by without remark; but here I was alive to the traces of
former times, and detected in the demure features of this guardian of
the sanctuary the lurking lineaments of one of the very playmates I have
alluded to. We renewed our acquaintance. He sat down beside me, on one
of the tomb-stones over which we had leaped in our juvenile sports, and
we talked together about our boyish days, and held edifying discourse
on the instability of all sublunary things, as instanced in the scene
around us. He was rich in historic lore, as to the events of the last
thirty years and the circumference of thirty miles, and from him I
learned the appalling revolution that was taking place throughout the
neighborhood. All this I clearly perceived he attributed to the boasted
march of intellect, or rather to the all-pervading influence of steam.
He bewailed the times when the only communication with town was by the
weekly market-boat, the "Farmers' Daughter," which, under the pilotage
of the worthy Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the Tappan Sea. Alas!
Gabriel and the "Farmer's Daughter" slept in peace. Two steamboats now
splashed and paddled up daily to the little rural port of Tarrytown. The
spirit of speculation and improvement had seized even upon that once
quiet and unambitious little dorp. The whole neighborhood was laid out
into town lots. Instead of the little tavern below the hill, where
the farmers used to loiter on market days and indulge in cider and
gingerbread, an ambitious hotel, with cupola and verandas, now crested
the summit, among churches built in the Grecian and Gothic styles,
showing the great increase of piety and polite taste in the
neighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun-bonnets, they were no longer
tolerated, or even thought of; not a farmer's daughter but now went to
town for the fashions; nay, a city milliner had recently set up in the
village, who threatened to reform the heads of the whole neighborhood.

I had heard enough! I thanked my old playmate for his intelligence, and
departed from the Sleepy Hollow church with the sad conviction that I
had beheld the last lingerings of the good old Dutch times in this once
favored region. If any thing were wanting to confirm this impression,
it would be the intelligence which has just reached me, that a bank is
about to be established in the aspiring little port just mentioned. The
fate of the neighborhood is therefore sealed. I see no hope of averting
it. The golden mean is at an end, The country is suddenly to be deluged
with wealth. The late simple farmers are to become bank directors and
drink claret and champagne; and their wives and daughters to figure in
French hats and feathers; for French wines and French fashions commonly
keep pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow can
escape the general inundation? In a little while, I fear the slumber of
ages will be at end--the strum of the piano will succeed to the hum of
the spinning-wheel; the trill of the Italian opera to the nasal quaver
of Ichabod Crane; and the antiquarian visitor to the Hollow, in the
petulance of his disappointment, may pronounce all that I have recorded
of 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 the
money market, leaves me rather at a loss for important occupation, and
drives me to the study of nature, and other low pursuits. Having few
neighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch, and exercise my habits of
observation, I am fain to amuse myself with prying into the domestic
concerns and peculiarities of the animals around me; and, during the
present season, have derived considerable entertainment from certain
sociable little birds, almost the only visitors we have, during this
early part of the year.

Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible of the
delightful influences that accompany the earliest indications of spring;
and of these, none are more delightful than the first notes of the
birds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird, much resembling a
wren, which came about the house just on the skirts of winter, when not
a blade of grass was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm days
had given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in the
dawning, long before sun-rise, and late in the evening, just before the
closing in of night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sang
occasionally throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song was
more remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, and
warbled forth his notes, free and simple, but singularly sweet, with
something of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect. The first
morning that he was heard, was a joyous one among the young folks of my
household. The long, deathlike sleep of winter was at an end; nature
was once more awakening; they now promised themselves the immediate
appearance of buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossed
crew of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birds
came singing round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing them
with the belief of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return of
winter almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity of
the household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive
notes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine
between wintry clouds.

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

Another of our feathered visitors, who follows close upon the steps of
winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phoebe-bird; for he is called by
each of these names, from a fancied resemblance to the sound of his
monotonous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks the habitation
of man. A pair of them have built beneath my porch, and have reared
several broods there for two years past, their nest being never
disturbed. They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus and
the snow-drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladness
through the house. "The Phoebe-birds have come!" is heard on all sides;
they are welcomed back like members of the family, and speculations are
made upon where they have been, and what countries they have seen
during their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it is
pronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the country, the sure sign
that the severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resume
his labors with confidence.

About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet truly
described by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole landscape.
You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably approaches your
habitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. But why should
I attempt to describe him, when I have Wilson's own graphic verses to
place 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 the
European lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he is
commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which,
in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, so
often 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 is
apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of
the year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and
dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, nature is in
all her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, the
flowers 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 in
their fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the
clustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-briar
and the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms; while
the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry
to glow, among the green leaves.

This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He comes amidst the
pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility and
enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms
of the freshest and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when the
clover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on
some long flaunting weed; and as he rises and sinks with the breeze,
pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one upon
another, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the
same rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a
tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters
tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own
music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour; always in full
song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same
appearance of intoxication and delight.

Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was the envy of
my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest
season of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural
feeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed
to be mewed up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a
school-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew
by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how
I envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no hateful school; nothing but
holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then more
versed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words of Logan to
the 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 of
this little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart, for
the benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the same
unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. I have shown him
only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his
career, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits
and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and
sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from
injury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the
merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark the
difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, and
the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate on the ear. He
gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical and
professional suit of black, assumes a russet or rather dusty garb, and
enters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes a
bon-vivant, a mere gourmand; thinking of nothing but good cheer, and
gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he lately swung,
and chaunted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like "the
joys of the table," if I may be allowed to apply that convivial phrase
to his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-day
fare, and sets out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreign
luxuries. He is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Delaware,
banqueting on their seeds; grows corpulent with good feeding, and soon
acquires 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 is
the _reed-bird_, the much-sought-for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian
epicure.

Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight still
farther south, in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging
himself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost to
bursting; 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 the
gourmand, the most vaunted of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of the
Carolinas.

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

Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and little
birds,

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 used
to pass much of my time in the beautiful hall of the Abencerrages,
beside the fountain celebrated in the tragic story of that devoted
race. Here it was, that thirty-six cavaliers of that heroic line were
treacherously sacrificed, to appease the jealousy or allay the fears of
a tyrant. The fountain which now throws up its sparkling jet, and sheds
a dewy freshness around, ran red with the noblest blood of Granada,
and a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed out, by the
cicerones of the pile, as a sanguinary record of the massacre. I have
regarded it with the same determined faith with which I have regarded
the traditional stains of Rizzio's blood on the floor of the chamber of
the unfortunate Mary, at Holyrood. I thank no one for endeavoring to
enlighten my credulity, on such points of popular belief. It is like
breaking up the shrine of the pilgrim; it is robbing a poor traveller of
half the reward of his toils; for, strip travelling of its historical
illusions, and what a mere fag you make of it!

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

In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra; surrounded with the
insignia of regal sway, and the still vivid, though dilapidated traces
of 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 the
Abencerrages, I suffered my mind to conjure up all that I had read of
that illustrious line. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, the
Abencerrages were the soul of every thing noble and chivalrous. The
veterans of the family, who sat in the royal council, were the foremost
to devise those heroic enterprises, which carried dismay into the
territories of the Christians; and what the sages of the family devised,
the young men of the name were the foremost to execute. In all services
of hazard; in all adventurous forays, and hair-breadth hazards; the
Abencerrages were sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noble
recreations, too, which bear so close an affinity to war; in the tilt
and tourney, the riding at the ring, and the daring bull-fight; still
the Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them for the
splendor of their array, the gallantry of their devices; for their noble
bearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed munificence made
them the idols of the populace, while their lofty magnanimity, and
perfect faith, gained them golden opinions from the generous and
high-minded. Never were they known to decry the merits of a rival, or to
betray the confidings of a friend; and the "word of an Abencerrage" was
a guarantee that never admitted of a doubt.

And then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish beauty consider
the fame of her charms established, until she had an Abencerrage for a
lover; and never did an Abencerrage prove recreant to his vows. Lovely
Granada! City of delights! Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more
proudly on their casques, or championed them more gallantly in the
chivalrous tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-lit
balconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons, and
pomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?

I speak with enthusiasm on this theme; for it is connected with the
recollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes that
ever I enjoyed in Spain. One of the greatest pleasures of the Spaniards
is, to sit in the beautiful summer evenings, and listen to traditional
ballads, and tales about the wars of the Moors and Christians, and the
"buenas andanzas" and "grandes hechos," the "good fortunes" and "great
exploits" of the hardy warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, also,
that many of these songs, or romances, as they are called, celebrate
the prowess and magnanimity in war, and the tenderness and, fidelity in
love, of the Moorish cavaliers, once their most formidable and hated
foes. But centuries have elapsed, to extinguish the bigotry of the
zealot; and the once detested warriors of Granada are now held up by
Spanish poets, as the mirrors of chivalric virtue.

Such was the amusement of the evening in question. A number of us were
seated in the Hall of the Abencerrages, listening to one of the most
gifted and fascinating beings that I had ever met with in my wanderings.
She was young and beautiful; and light and ethereal; full of fire, and
spirit, and pure enthusiasm. She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress;
touched the guitar with speaking eloquence; improvised with wonderful
facility; and, as she became excited by her theme, or by the rapt
attention of her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest and
most melodious strains, a succession of couplets, full of striking
description, or stirring narration, and composed, as I was assured, at
the moment. Most of these were suggested by the place, and related to
the ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry. The
Abencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a woman's admiration of
their gallant courtesy, and high-souled honor; and it was touching and
inspiring to hear the praises of that generous but devoted race, chanted
in 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, and
old-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a strong impression on me.
She disclaimed all merit of invention, however, and said she had merely
dilated into verse a popular tradition; and, indeed, I have since found
the main facts inserted at the end of Conde's History of the Domination
of the Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode in
the Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn it forth, and
endeavored to shape it according to my recollection of the version of
the beautiful minstrel; but, alas! what can supply the want of that
voice, that look, that form, that action, which gave magical effect to
her chant, and held every one rapt in breathless admiration! Should this
mere travestie of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, in her stately
abode at Granada, may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to her
benignant nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her bosom
one kind recollection of the lonely stranger and sojourner, for
whose gratification she did not think it beneath her to exert those
fascinating powers which were the delight of brilliant circles; and who
will ever recall with enthusiasm the happy evening passed in listening
to 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, stands
the castle of Allora, now a mere ruin, infested by bats and owlets, but
in old times one of the strong border holds of the Christians, to keep
watch upon the frontiers of the warlike kingdom of Granada, and to hold
the Moors in check. It was a post always confided to some well-tried
commander; and, at the time of which we treat, was held by Rodrigo de
Narvaez, a veteran, famed, both among Moors and Christians, not only for
his hardy feats of arms, but also for that magnanimous courtesy which
should ever be entwined with the sterner virtues of the soldier.

The castle of Allora was a mere part of his command; he was Alcayde, or
military governor of Antiquera, but he passed most of his time at this
frontier post, because its situation on the borders gave more frequent
opportunity for those adventurous exploits which were the delight of the
Spanish chivalry. His garrison consisted of fifty chosen cavaliers, all
well mounted and well appointed: with these he kept vigilant watch
upon the Moslems; patrolling the roads, and paths, and defiles of the
mountains, so that nothing could escape his eye; and now and then
signalizing himself by some dashing foray into the very Vega of Granada.

On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the freshness of the
evening breeze had tempered the heat of day, the worthy Alcayde sallied
forth, with nine of his cavaliers, to patrol the neighborhood, and
seek adventures. They rode quietly and cautiously, lest they should be
overheard by Moorish scout or traveller; and kept along ravines and
hollow ways, lest they should be betrayed by the glittering of the full
moon upon their armor. Coming to where the road divided, the Alcayde
directed five of his cavaliers to take one of the branches, while he,
with the remaining four, would take the other. Should either party be in
danger, the blast of a horn was to be the signal to bring their comrades
to their aid.

The party of five had not proceeded far, when, in passing through a
defile, overhung with trees, they heard the voice of a man, singing.
They immediately concealed themselves in a grove, on the brow of a
declivity, up which the stranger would have to ascend. The moonlight,
which left the grove in deep shadow, lit up the whole person of the
wayfarer, as he advanced, and enabled them to distinguish his dress and
appearance with perfect accuracy. He was a Moorish cavalier, and his
noble demeanor, graceful carriage, and splendid attire showed him to
be of lofty rank. He was superbly mounted, on a dapple-gray steed, of
powerful 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 and
cotton, striped, and bordered with golden fringe. At his girdle hung a
scimitar of Damascus steel, with loops and tassels of silk and gold. On
his left arm he bore an ample target, and his right hand grasped a long
double-pointed lance. Thus equipped, he sat negligently on his steed, as
one who dreamed of no danger, gazing on the moon, and singing, with a
sweet and manly voice, a Moorish love ditty.

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

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

The Christian cavaliers checked their steeds and reconnoitered him
warily, 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 seek
for honorable fame, come on, singly, and I am ready to meet each in
succession; 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 a
prize, when clearly in our power, yet we willingly grant, as a courtesy,
what we might refuse as a right. Valiant Moor! defend thyself!" So
saying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched his lance, and putting
spurs to his horse, made at the stranger. The latter met him in mid
career, transpierced him with his lance, and threw him headlong from his
saddle. A second and a third succeeded, but were unhorsed with equal
facility, and thrown to the earth, severely wounded. The remaining
two, seeing their comrades thus roughly treated, forgot all compact of
courtesy, and charged both at once upon the Moor. He parried the thrust
of one, but was wounded by the other in the thigh, and, in the shock and
confusion, dropped his lance. Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, he
pretended to fly, and was hotly pursued. Having drawn the two cavaliers
some distance from the spot, he suddenly wheeled short about, with
one of those dexterous movements for which the Moorish horsemen are
renowned; passed swiftly between them, swung himself down from his
saddle, 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 his
tent, 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 the
earth, and two others hotly engaged with the Moor, was struck with
admiration, and coveted a contest with so accomplished a warrior.
Interfering in the fight, he called upon his followers to desist, and
addressing the Moor, with courteous words, invited him to a more equal
combat. The latter readily accepted the challenge. For some time, their
contest was fierce and doubtful; and the Alcayde had need of all his
skill and strength to ward off the blows of his antagonist. The Moor,
however, was exhausted by previous fighting, and by loss of blood. He
no 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 upon
his shield, and at the same time wounded the Moor in the right arm; then
closing, in the shock, he grasped him in his arms, dragged him from his
saddle, and fell with him to the earth: when putting his knee upon his
breast, and his dagger to his throat, "Cavalier," exclaimed he, "render
thyself my prisoner, for thy life is in my hands!"

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

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

"How is this?" exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, "that you, who were
so hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all spirit in prison? If
any 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 no
cause 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 are
slight, nor from my captivity, for your kindness has robbed it of all
gloom; nor from my defeat, for to be conquered by so accomplished and
renowned a cavalier, is no disgrace. But to explain to you the cause of
my grief, it is necessary to give you some particulars of my story; and
this I am moved to do, by the great sympathy you have manifested toward
me, and the magnanimity that shines through all your actions."

"Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez, and that I am of the noble but
unfortunate line of the Abencerrages of Granada. You have doubtless
heard of the destruction that fell upon our race. Charged with
treasonable designs, of which they were entirely innocent, many of
them were beheaded, the rest banished; so that not an Abencerrages was
permitted to remain in Granada, excepting my father and my uncle, whose
innocence was proved, even to the satisfaction of their persecutors. It
was decreed, however, that, should they have children, the sons should
be educated at a distance from Granada, and the daughters should be
married out of the kingdom.

"Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet an infant, to be
reared in the fortress of Cartama, the worthy Alcayde of which was an
ancient friend of my father. He had no children, and received me into
his family as his own child, treating me with the kindness and affection
of a father; and I grew up in the belief that he really was such. A few
years afterward, his wife gave birth to a daughter, but his tenderness
toward me continued undiminished. I thus grew up with Xarisa, for so
the infant daughter of the Alcayde was called, as her own brother, and
thought the growing passion which I felt for her, was mere fraternal
affection. I beheld her charms unfolding, as it were, leaf by leaf, like
the morning rose, each moment disclosing fresh beauty and sweetness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In fact, from that moment our intercourse took a new character. We
met often at the fountain among the jessamines, but Xarisa no longer
advanced with open arms to meet me. She became reserved and silent, and
would blush, and cast down her eyes, when I seated myself beside her. My
heart became a prey to the thousand doubts and fears that ever attend
upon true love. I was restless and uneasy, and looked back with regret
to the unreserved intercourse that had existed between us, when we
supposed ourselves brother and sister; yet I would not have had the
relationship true, for the world.

"While matters were in this state between us, an order came from the
King 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. I
exclaimed against the separation, and declared that I could not be
parted from Xarisa. 'That is the very cause,' said he, 'why I leave thee
behind. It is time, Abendaraez, that thou shouldst know the secret of
thy 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 the
affection of a brother. You have brought us up together; you have made
us necessary to each other's happiness; our hearts have entwined
themselves with our growth; do not now tear them asunder. Fill up the
measure of your kindness; be indeed a father to me, by giving me Xarisa
for my wife.'

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

"All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa were unavailing. I
retired in anguish from his presence, and seeking Xarisa, told her of
this blow, which was worse than death to me. 'Xarisa,' said I, 'we
part for ever! I shall never see thee more! Thy father will guard thee
rigidly. 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 eternal
constancy. I still doubted and desponded, until, moved by my anguish and
despair, she agreed to a secret union. Our espousals made, we parted,
with a promise on her part to send me word from Coyn, should her
father absent himself from the fortress. The very day after our secret
nuptials, I beheld the whole train of the Alcayde depart from Cartama,
nor would he admit me to his presence, or permit me to bid farewell
to Xarisa. I remained at Cartama, somewhat pacified in spirit by this
secret bond of union; but every thing around me fed my passion, and
reminded me of Xarisa. I saw the windows at which I had so often beheld
her. I wandered through the apartment she had inhabited; the chamber in
which she had slept. I visited the bower of jessamines, and lingered
beside the fountain in which she had delighted. Every thing recalled her
to my imagination, and filled my heart with tender melancholy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple-gray steed
sounded over the drawbridge, and immediately afterward the light clatter
of hoofs along the road, bespoke the fleetness with which the youthful
lover hastened to his bride. It was deep night when the Moor arrived at
the castle of Coyn. He silently and cautiously walked his panting steed
under its dark walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to the
portal denoted by Xarisa. He paused and looked around to see that he was
not observed, and then knocked three times with the butt of his lance.
In a little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the duenna of
Xarisa. "Alas! senor," said she, "what has detained you thus long? Every
night have I watched for you; and my lady is sick at heart with doubt
and anxiety."

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

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

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

The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof of devotion
in his beautiful bride. All preparations were speedily made for their
departure. Xarisa mounted behind the Moor, on his powerful steed; they
left the castle walls before daybreak, nor did they pause, until they
arrived at the gate of the castle of Allora, which was flung wide to
receive them.

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

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

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

The king was moved by the story, and was pleased with an opportunity of
showing attention to the wishes of a gallant and chivalrous enemy; for
though 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 to
read. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with rage, on the perusal.
"Restrain thine anger," said the king; "there is nothing that the
Alcayde of Allora could ask, that I would not grant, if in my power. Go
thou to Allora; pardon thy children; take them to thy home. I receive
this Abencerrage into my favor, and it will be my delight to heap
benefits upon you all."

The kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He hastened to
Allora; and folded his children to his bosom, who would have fallen at
his feet. The gallant Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty to his prisoner
without ransom, demanding merely a promise of his friendship. He
accompanied the youthful couple and their father to Coyn, where their
nuptials were celebrated with great rejoicings. When the festivities
were over, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez returned to his fortress of Allora.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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 our
philosophy," and among these may be placed that marvel and mystery of
the seas, the island of St. Brandan. Every school-boy can enumerate and
call by name the Canaries, the Fortunate Islands of the ancients; which,
according to some ingenious speculative minds, are mere wrecks and
remnants of the vast island of Atalantis, mentioned by Plato, as having
been swallowed up by the ocean. Whoever has read the history of those
isles, will remember the wonders told of another island, still more
beautiful, seen occasionally from their shores, stretching away in the
clear bright west, with long shadowy promontories, and high, sun-gilt
peaks. Numerous expeditions, both in ancient and modern days, have
launched forth from the Canaries in quest of that island; but, on their
approach, mountain and promontory have gradually faded away, until
nothing has remained but the blue sky above, and the deep blue water
below. Hence it was termed by the geographers of old, Aprositus, or the
Inaccessible; while modern navigators have called its very existence in
question, pronouncing it a mere optical illusion, like the Fata Morgana
of the Straits of Messina; or classing it with those unsubstantial
regions known to mariners as Cape Flyaway, and the Coast of Cloud Land.

Let not, however, the doubts of the worldly-wise sceptics of modern days
rob us of all the glorious realms owned by happy credulity in days of
yore. Be assured, O reader of easy faith!--thou for whom I delight to
labor--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 inspired
race, and gifted with a kind of second sight, can see into the mysteries
of nature, hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals. To this gifted race
it has ever been a region of fancy and romance, teeming with all kinds
of wonders. Here once bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the famous
garden of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit. Here, too, was the
enchanted garden of Armida, in which that sorceress held the Christian
paladin, Rinaldo, in delicious but inglorious thraldom; as is set forth
in the immortal lay of Tasso. It was on this island, also, that Sycorax,
the witch, held sway, when the good Prospero, and his infant daughter
Miranda, 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 the
sway of different powers, genii of earth, and air, and ocean; who made
it their shadowy abode; or rather, it is the retiring place of old
worn-out deities and dynasties, that once ruled the poetic world,
but are now nearly shorn of all their attributes. Here Neptune and
Amphitrite hold a diminished court, like sovereigns in exile. Their
ocean-chariot lies bottom upward, in a cave of the island, almost a
perfect wreck, while their pursy Tritons and haggard Nereids bask
listlessly, like seals about the rocks. Sometimes they assume a shadow
of their ancient pomp, and glide in state about the glassy sea; while
the crew of some tall Indiaman, that lies becalmed with flapping sails,
hear with astonishment the mellow note of the Triton's shell swelling
upon the ear, as the invisible pageant sweeps by. Sometimes the quondam
monarch of the ocean is permitted to make himself visible to mortal
eyes, visiting the ships that cross the line, to exact a tribute from
new-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 his
bulk, and wallows many a rood; here, too, the sea-serpent lies coiled
up, during the intervals of his much-contested revelations to the
eyes of true believers; and here it is said, even the Flying Dutchman
finds a port and casts his anchor, and furls his shadowy sail, and
takes a short repose from his eternal wanderings.

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

Such are some of the marvels related of this island, and which may serve
to 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 of
Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery along
the western coast of Africa, and the world was resounding with reports
of 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 had
been driven by tempests, he knew not whither, and who raved about an
island far in the deep, on which he had landed, and which he had found
peopled with Christians, and adorned with noble cities.

The inhabitants, he said, gathered round, and regarded him with
surprise, having never before been visited by a ship. They told him they
were descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when that
country was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the state
of their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held
possession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old
navigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either
through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined
their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was
properly 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. Those
versed in history, remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle,
that, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when
the blessed cross was cast down, and the crescent erected in its place,
and when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven
bishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the
peninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land,
where they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith
unmolested.

The fate of these pious saints errant had hitherto remained a
mystery, and their story had faded from memory; the report of the old
tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and
it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic, that the island thus
accidentally discovered, was the identical place of refuge, whither the
wandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and where
they had folded their flocks.

This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object of
chimerical enterprise: the "Island of the Seven Cities" now awakened as
much interest and longing among zealous Christians, as has the renowned
city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers, or the North-east
Passage among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the
devout, that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family
might be discovered, and reunited to the great body of Christendom.

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

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

One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contempt
and growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the
beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one of
those perverse, matter-of-fact old men who are prone to oppose every
thing speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of the
Seven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak;
looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of his
intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the moon,
and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Lubberland. In fact, he had
never really relished the intended match, to which his consent had been
slowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is true
he could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don Fernando
was the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel him at
the tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold and
dexterous in the bull-fight; none composed more gallant madrigals in
praise of his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the
accompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets
and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirable
qualities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to
win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable
father. O Cupid, god of Love! why will fathers always be so
unreasonable!

The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstacle
in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed
him in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady; but
he was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How should
he reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious
arrangement at length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portion
of the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the
discovery 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 storm
about his ears. He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering
vagabonds and wild schemers, and of squandering all his real possessions
in pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector,
and too young a man, to listen tamely to such language. He acted with
what is technically called "becoming spirit." A high quarrel ensued; Don
Ramiro pronounced him a mad man, and forbade all farther intercourse
with his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity by
abandoning this mad-cap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out of
the house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea of
triumphing over the incredulity of the gray-beard when he should return
successful.

Don Ramiro repaired to his daughter's chamber the moment the youth had
departed. He represented to her the sanguine, unsteady character of her
lover and the chimerical nature of his schemes; showed her the propriety
of suspending all intercourse with him until he should recover from his
present 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 a
high opinion of the submissive temper of his child, he had a still
higher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock and key. Whether the
damsel had been in any wise shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her
lover, and the existence of the Island of the Seven Cities, by the sage
representations of her father, tradition does not say; but it is certain
that she became a firm believer the moment she heard him turn the key in
the lock.

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

The beautiful Serafina shook her head mournfully. It was not on those
points that she felt doubt or dismay. She believed most implicitly in
the Island of the Seven Cities, and trusted devoutly in the success of
the enterprise; but she had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and
the 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 a
little too inflammable; that is to say, a little too subject to take
fire from the sparkle of every bright eye: he had been somewhat of a
rover among the sex on shore, what might he not be on sea? Might he
not meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might he not behold some
peerless beauty in one or other of those seven cities, who might efface
the image of Serafina from his thoughts?

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

Thus, according to immemorial usage, the lovers parted, with many a vow
of 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 put
to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions of
nautical romance. Scarcely had they reached those latitudes, when a
violent tempest arose. Don Fernando soon lost sight of the accompanying
caravel, 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 mercy
of the elements, expecting each moment to be swallowed up. At length,
one day toward evening, the storm subsided; the clouds cleared up, as
though a veil had suddenly been withdrawn from the face of heaven, and
the setting sun shone gloriously upon a fair and mountainous island,
that seemed close at hand. The tempest-tossed mariners rubbed their
eyes, and gazed almost incredulously upon this land, that had emerged so
suddenly from the murky gloom; yet there it lay, spread out in lovely
landscapes; enlivened by villages, and towers, and spires, while the
late stormy sea rolled in peaceful billows to its shores. About a league
from the sea, on the banks of a river, stood a noble city, with lofty
walls and towers, and a protecting castle. Don Fernando anchored off
the mouth of the river, which appeared to form a spacious harbor. In a
little while a barge was seen issuing from the river. It was evidently
a barge of ceremony, for it was richly though quaintly carved and gilt,
and decorated with a silken awning and fluttering streamers, while a
banner, bearing the sacred emblem of the cross, floated to the breeze.
The barge advanced slowly, impelled by sixteen oars, painted of a bright
crimson. The oarsmen were uncouth, or rather antique, in their garb, and
kept stroke to the regular cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Beneath the
awning sat a cavalier, in a rich though old-fashioned doublet, with an
enormous sombrero and feather. When the barge reached the caravel, the
cavalier stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt, with a long, Spanish
visage, and lack-lustre eyes, and an air of lofty and somewhat pompous
gravity. His mustaches were curled up to his ears, his beard was forked
and precise; he wore gauntlets that reached to his elbows, and a Toledo
blade that strutted out behind, while, in front, its huge basket-hilt
might have served for a porringer.

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

Don Fernando was startled at hearing himself accosted by name, by an
utter stranger, in a strange land. As soon as he could recover from his
surprise, 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 very
land of which he was in quest? It was even so. The other caravel, from
which he had been separated in the storm, had made a neighboring port of
the island, and announced the tidings of this expedition, which came to
restore the country to the great community of Christendom. The whole
island, he was told, was given up to rejoicings on the happy event; and
they only awaited his arrival to acknowledge allegiance to the crown of
Portugal, and hail him as Adelantado of the Seven Cities. A grand fête
was to be solemnized that very night in the palace of the Alcayde or
governor of the city; who, on beholding the most opportune arrival of
the caravel, had despatched his grand chamberlain, in his barge of
state, 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, having
delivered his message, stood in buckram dignity, drawn up to his full
stature, curling his whiskers, stroking his beard, and looking down upon
him with inexpressible loftiness through his lack-lustre eyes. There was
no doubting the word of so grave and ceremonious a hidalgo.

Don Fernando now arrayed himself in gala attire. He would have launched
his boat, and gone on shore with his own men, but he was informed the
barge of state was expressly provided for his accommodation, and, after
the fête, would bring him back to his ship; in which, on the following
day, he might enter the harbor in befitting style. He accordingly
stepped into the barge, and took his seat beneath the awning. The grand
chamberlain seated himself on the cushion opposite. The rowers bent to
their oars, and renewed their mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous, but
unwieldy 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 at
every 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 the
most 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 two
massive towers, to the water-gate of the city, at which they knocked for
admission. 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 entered
between two rows of iron-clad warriors, in battered armor, with
cross-bows, battle-axes, and ancient maces, and with faces as
old-fashioned and rusty as their armor. They saluted Don Fernando in
military style, but with perfect silence, as he passed between their
ranks. The city was illuminated, but in such manner as to give a more
shadowy and solemn effect to its old-time architecture. There were
bonfires in the principal streets, with groups about them in such
old-fashioned garbs, that they looked like the fantastic figures that
roam the streets in carnival time. Even the stately dames who gazed from
the balconies, which they had hung with antique tapestry, looked more
like effigies dressed up for a quaint mummery, than like ladies in their
fashionable attire. Every thing, in short, bore the stamp of former
ages, as if the world had suddenly rolled back a few centuries. Nor was
this to be wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been for
several hundred years cut off from all communication with the rest of
the world, and was it not natural that the inhabitants should retain
many of the modes and customs brought here by their ancestors?

One thing certainly they had conserved; the old-fashioned Spanish
gravity and stateliness. Though this was a time of public rejoicing, and
though Don Fernando was the object of their gratulations, every thing
was conducted with the most solemn ceremony, and wherever he appeared,
instead of acclamations, he was received with profound silence, and the
most 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 vast
but heavily moulded marble stair-case, and so through one of those
interminable suites of apartments, that are the pride of Spanish
palaces. All were furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. As they
passed through the chambers, the title of Don Fernando was forwarded on
by servants stationed at every door; and every where produced the most
profound reverences and courtesies. At length they reached a magnificent
saloon, blazing with tapers, in which the Alcayde, and the principal
dignitaries of the city, were waiting to receive their illustrious
guest. The grand chamberlain presented Don Fernando in due form, and
falling back among the other officers of the household, stood as usual
curling his whiskers and stroking his forked beard.

Don Fernando was received by the Alcayde and the other dignitaries with
the same stately and formal courtesy that he had every where remarked.
In fact, there was so much form and ceremonial, that it seemed difficult
to get at any thing social or substantial. Nothing but bows, and
compliments, and old-fashioned courtesies. The Alcayde and his courtiers
resembled, in face and form, those quaint worthies to be seen in the
pictures of old illuminated manuscripts; while the cavaliers and dames
who thronged the saloon, might have beep taken for the antique figures
of 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 obsolete
dainties; with the peacock, that bird of state and ceremony, served up
in 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 of
odd heads and head-dresses, of formal bearded dignitaries, and stately
dames, with castellated locks and towering plumes!

As fate would have it, on the other side of Don Fernando, was seated the
daughter of the Alcayde. She was arrayed, it is true, in a dress that
might have been worn before the flood; but then, she had a melting black
Andalusian eye, that was perfectly irresistible. Her voice, too, her
manner, her movements, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how female
fascination may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime,
without ever losing its power, or going out of fashion. Those who know
the witchery of the sex, in that most amorous region of old Spain, may
judge what must have been the fascination to which Don Fernando
was exposed, when seated beside one of the most captivating of its
descendants. He was, as has already been hinted, of an inflammable
temperament; with a heart ready to get in a light blaze at every
instant. And then he had been so wearied by pompous, tedious old
cavaliers, with their formal bows and speeches; is it to be wondered at
that he turned with delight to the Alcayde's daughter, all smiles, and
dimples, and melting looks, and melting accents? Beside, for I wish to
give him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitable
mood, from the novelty of the scene before him, and his head was almost
turned with this sudden and complete realization of all his hopes and
fancies; and then, in the flurry of the moment, he had taken frequent
draughts at the wine-cup, presented him at every instant by officious
pages, and all the world knows the effect of such draughts in giving
potency 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 hung
her head coyly; her eye rested upon a ruby heart, sparkling in a ring on
the hand of Don Fernando, a parting gage of love from Serafina. A blush
crimsoned her very temples. She darted a glance of doubt at the
ring, and then at Don Fernando. He read her doubt, and in the giddy
intoxication 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 lofty
demeanor, and his lack-lustre eyes, stood before him, and announced that
the barge was waiting to conduct him back to the caravel. Don Fernando
took a formal leave of the Alcayde and his dignitaries, and a tender
farewell of the Alcayde's daughter, with a promise to throw himself at
her feet on the following day. He was rowed back to his vessel in the
same slow and stately manner, to the cadence of the same mournful old
ditty. He retired to his cabin, his brain whirling with all that he had
seen, and his heart now and then giving him a twinge as he recollected
his temporary infidelity to the beautiful Serafina. He flung himself on
his bed, and soon fell into a feverish sleep. His dreams were wild and
incoherent. How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke he found
himself in a strange cabin, with persons around him of whom he had no
knowledge. 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 a
Portuguese ship, bound to Lisbon; having been taken senseless from a
wreck drifting about the ocean.

Don Fernando was confounded and perplexed. He retraced every thing
distinctly 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 vessel
been driven from her anchors, and wrecked during his sleep? The people
about him could give him no information on the subject. He talked to
them of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of all that had befallen him
there. They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in their
honest solicitude, administered such rough remedies, that he was fain to
drop the subject, and observe a cautious taciturnity.

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

He now sought the mansion of Don Ramiro, for the temporary flame kindled
by the bright eyes of the Alcayde's daughter had long since burnt itself
out, and his genuine passion for Serafina had revived with all its
fervor. He approached the balcony, beneath which he had so often
serenaded her. Did his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself
at the balcony. An exclamation of rapture burst from him, as he raised
his arms toward her. She cast upon him a look of indignation, and
hastily retiring, closed the casement. Could she have heard of his
flirtation with the Alcayde's daughter? He would soon dispel every doubt
of his constancy. The door was open. He rushed up-stairs, and entering
the room, threw himself at her feet. She shrank back with affright, and
took 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!" cried
he in a tone of agony, "is this thy plighted constancy?"

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

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

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

An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation, which
plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity. If he might
believe his eyes, he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might
believe 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 Seven
Cities, which he had so fortunately discovered. No body knew any thing
of such an expedition, or such an island. He declared that he had
undertaken the enterprise under a formal contract with the crown, and
had received a regular commission, constituting him Adelantado. This
must be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of the
department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length attracted the
attention 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 wintered
and summered in the department for a great part of a century, until he
had almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memory
was a mere index of official facts and documents, and his brain was
little better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a time
from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy, he
put his pen behind his ear, and descended. He remembered to have heard
something from his predecessor about an expedition of the kind in
question, but then it had sailed during the reign of Don Ioam II., and
he had been dead at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyond
dispute, however, the archives of the Torve do Tombo, that sepulchre of
old Portuguese documents, were diligently searched, and a record was
found of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de Ulmo, for the
discovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of a commission secured
to him as Adelantado of the country he might discover.

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

The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced the best
of historical foundation, documentary evidence; but when a man, in the
bloom of youth, talked of events that had taken place above a century
previously, as having happened to himself, it is no wonder that he was
set 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 eternal
task, copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of gigantic
folios. The other clerks winked at each other shrewdly, and dispersed to
their several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung
out of the office, almost driven wild by these repeated perplexities.

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

Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding this
monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but who could
expect a mistress to remain constant during a whole century of absence?
And what right had he to rail about constancy, after what had passed
between him and the Alcayde's daughter? The unfortunate cavalier
performed one pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose of
Serafina restored by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from the
tomb.

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

He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his own
expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his means were
exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, setting
forth the certainty of profitable results, of which his own experience
furnished such unquestionable proof. Alas! no one would give faith to
his tale; but looked upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked
man. He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all places and
all companies, until he became an object of jest and jeer to the
light-minded, who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of
insanity; and the very children in the streets bantered him with the
title of "The Adelantado of the Seven Cities."

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

They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and enigma of
the ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants of their
islands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been made
in 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 they
pointed out the very tract in the west where its mountains had been
seen.

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

He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another attempt at
discovery; they had given up the phantom island as indeed inaccessible.
Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged. The idea wore itself
deeper and deeper in his mind, until it became the engrossing subject of
his thoughts and object of his being. Every morning he would repair to
the promontory of Palma, and sit there throughout the live-long day, in
hopes of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above the
horizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed man, but
ready 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 in
the island of Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he used
to sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the reappearance of the
enchanted island.

       *       *       *       *       *

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: I am somewhat of the same way of thinking, in regard to names, with
that profound philosopher, Mr. Shandy, the elder, who maintained that
some inspired high thoughts and heroic aims, while others entailed
irretrievable meanness and vulgarity; insomuch that a man might sink
under the insignificance of his name, and be absolutely "Nicodemused
into nothing." I have ever, therefore, thought it a great hardship for a
man to be obliged to struggle through life with some ridiculous or
ignoble _Christian_ name, as it is too often falsely called, inflicted
on him in infancy, when he could not choose for himself; and would give
him free liberty to change it for one more to his taste, when he had
arrived at years of discretion.

I have the same notion with respect to local names. Some at once
prepossess us in favor of a place; others repel us, by unlucky
associations of the mind; and I have known scenes worthy of being the
very haunt of poetry and romance, yet doomed to irretrievable vulgarity,
by some ill-chosen name, which not even the magic numbers of a Halleck
or 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; but
some of our noblest mountains and loveliest streams are in danger of
remaining for ever unhonored and unsung, from bearing appellations
totally abhorrent to the Muse. In the first place, our country is
deluged with names taken from places in the old world, and applied to
places 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 of
Europe.

Then we have a shallow affectation of scholarship: the whole catalogue
of ancient worthies is shaken out from the back of Lempriere's Classical
Dictionary, and a wide region of wild country sprinkled over with the
names of the heroes, poets, and sages of antiquity, jumbled into the
most whimsical juxtaposition. Then we have our political god-fathers;
topographical engineers, perhaps, or persons employed by government to
survey and lay out townships. These, forsooth, glorify the patrons that
give them bread; so we have the names of the great official men of the
day scattered over the land, as if they were the real "salt of the
earth," with which it was to be seasoned. Well for us is it, when these
official great men happen to have names of fair acceptation; but wo unto
us, should a Tubbs or a Potts be in power: we are sure, in a little
while, to find Tubbsvilles and Pottsylvanias springing up in every
direction.

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

I have, on a former occasion, suggested the expediency of searching out
the original Indian names of places, and wherever they are striking and
euphonious, and those by which they have been superseded are glaringly
objectionable, to restore them. They would have the merit of
originality, and of belonging to the country; and they would remain as
reliques of the native lords of the soil, when every other vestige had
disappeared. Many of these names may easily be regained, by reference to
old title deeds, and to the archives of states and counties. In my own
case, by examining the records of the county clerk's office, I have
discovered the Indian names of various places and objects in the
neighborhood, and have found them infinitely superior to the trite,
poverty-stricken names which had been given by the settlers. A beautiful
pastoral stream, for instance, which winds for many a mile through one
of the loveliest little valleys in the state, has long been known by the
common-place name of the "Saw-mill River." In the old Indian grants, it
is designated as the Neperan. Another, a perfectly wizard stream, which
winds through the wildest recesses of Sleepy Hollow, bears the hum-drum
name of Mill Creek: in the Indian grants, it sustains the euphonious
title of the Pocantico.

Similar researches have released Long-Island from many of those paltry
and vulgar names which fringed its beautiful shores; their Cow Bays, and
Cow Necks, and Oyster Ponds, and Mosquito Coves, which spread a spell of
vulgarity over the whole island, and kept persons of taste and fancy at
a 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 maps
executed of their respective states or neighborhoods, in which all the
Indian local names should, as far as possible, be restored. In fact,
it appears to me that the nomenclature of the country is almost of
sufficient importance for the foundation of a distinct society; or
rather, a corresponding association of persons of taste and judgment, of
all parts of the Union. Such an association, if properly constituted and
composed, comprising especially all the literary talent of the country,
though it might not have legislative power in its enactments, yet
would have the all-pervading power of the press; and the changes in
nomenclature which it might dictate, being at once adopted by elegant
writers in prose and poetry, and interwoven with the literature of the
country, would ultimately pass into popular currency.

Should such a reforming association arise, I beg to recommend to its
attention all those mongrel names that have the adjective _New_ prefixed
to 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 a
second-hand people, and that are to perpetuate us a new country to the
end of time. Odds my life! Mr. Editor, I hope and trust we are to live
to be an old nation, as well as our neighbors, and have no idea that
our cities, when they shall have attained to venerable antiquity, shall
still be dubbed _New_-York, and _New_-London, and _new_ this and _new_
that, like the Pont-Neuf, (the New Bridge,) at Paris, which is the
oldest 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 with
some time since, in one of the public papers, about the name of our
state and city. The writer proposes to substitute for the present names,
those of the State of Ontario, and the CITY OF MANHATTAN. I concur in
his suggestion most heartily. Though born and brought up in the city of
New-York, and though I love every stick and stone about it, yet I do
not, nor ever did, relish its name. I like neither its sound nor its
significance. As to its _significance_, the very adjective _new_ gives
to our great commercial metropolis a second-hand character, as if
referring to some older, more dignified, and important place, of which
it was a mere copy; though in fact, if I am rightly informed, the whole
name commemorates a grant by Charles II. to his brother, the duke of
York, made in the spirit of royal munificence, of a tract of country
which 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 the
fate of Troy itself; to suffer a ten years' siege, and be sacked and
plundered; no modern Homer would ever be able to elevate the name to
epic dignity.

Now, Sir, ONTARIO would be a name worthy of the empire state. It bears
with it the majesty of that internal sea which washes our northwestern
shore. Or, if any objection should be made, from its not being
completely embraced within our boundaries, there is the MOHEGAN, one
of the Indian names for that glorious river, the Hudson, which would
furnish an excellent state appellation. So also New-York might be called
Manhatta, as it is named in some of the early records, and Manhattan
used as the adjective. Manhattan, however, stands well as a substantive,
and "Manhattanese," which I observe Mr. COOPER has adopted in some of
his writings, would be a very good appellation for a citizen of the
commercial metropolis.

A word or two more, Mr. Editor, and I have done. We want a NATIONAL
NAME. We want it poetically, and we want it politically. With the
poetical necessity of the case I shall not trouble myself. I leave it to
our 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 now
speaking of the mere purposes of common life. How is a citizen of this
republic to designate himself? As an American? There are two Americas,
each subdivided into various empires, rapidly rising in importance. As a
citizen of the United States? It is a clumsy, lumbering title, yet still
it is not distinctive; for we have now the United States of Central
America; and heaven knows how many "United States" may spring up under
the Proteus changes of Spanish America.

This may appear matter of small concernment; but any one that has
travelled in foreign countries must be conscious of the embarrassment
and circumlocution sometimes occasioned by the want of a perfectly
distinct and explicit national appellation. In France, when I have
announced myself as an American, I have been supposed to belong to one
of the French colonies; in Spain, to be from Mexico, or Peru, or some
other Spanish-American country. Repeatedly have I found myself involved
in a long geographical and political definition of my national identity.

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

We have it in our power to furnish ourselves with such a national
appellation, from one of the grand and eternal features of our country;
from that noble chain of mountains which formed its back-bone, and ran
through the "old confederacy," when it first declared our national
independence. I allude to the Appalachian or Alleghany mountains. We
might do this without any very inconvenient change in our present
titles. We might still use the phrase, "The United States," substituting
Appalachia, or Alleghania, (I should prefer the latter,) in place of
America. The title of Appalachian, or Alleghanian, would still announce
us 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 the
ideas of others, and to call attention to a subject of more national
importance 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 persons
they call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many
hobby-horses: but they'll laugh at you, Sir, and find fault, and censure
things, that, egad, I'm sure they are not able to do themselves; a sort
of envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and
think to build their fame by calumniation of persons that, egad, to my
knowledge, of all persons in the world, are in nature the persons that
do 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, coming
upon a strange coast, and seeing a man hanging in chains, hailed it with
joy, as the sign of a civilized country. In like manner we may hail, as
a proof of the rapid advancement of civilization and refinement in
this country, the increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbeted
for the edification of the public.

In this respect, as in every other, we are "going ahead" with
accelerated velocity, and promising to outstrip the superannuated
countries of Europe. It is really astonishing to see the number of
tribunals incessantly springing up for the trial of literary offences.
Independent of the high courts of Oyer and Terminer, the great quarterly
reviews, we have innumerable minor tribunals, monthly and weekly, down
to the Pie-poudre courts in the daily papers; insomuch that no culprit
stands 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 national
literature is sufficiently advanced, to bear this excess of criticism;
and whether it would not thrive better, if allowed to spring up, for
some time longer, in the freshness and vigor of native vegetation. When
the worthy Judge Coulter, of Virginia, opened court for the first time
in one of the upper counties, he was for enforcing all the rules and
regulations 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 by
what is commonly called criticism. The former is rendered cautious and
distrustful; he fears to give way to those kindling emotions, and brave
sallies of thought, which bear him up to excellence; the latter is made
fastidious and cynical; or rather, he surrenders his own independent
taste and judgment, and learns to like and dislike at second hand.

Let us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing called
criticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary world. The pronoun
we, used by critics, has a most imposing and delusive sound. The reader
pictures to himself a conclave of learned men, deliberating gravely and
scrupulously on the merits of the book in question; examining it page by
page, comparing and balancing their opinions, and when they have united
in a conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit of the world:
whereas the criticism is generally the crude and hasty production of
an individual, scribbling to while away an idle hour, to oblige a
book-seller, or to defray current expenses. How often is it the
passing notion of the hour, affected by accidental circumstances; by
indisposition, by peevishness, by vapors or indigestion; by personal
prejudice, or party feeling. Sometimes a work is sacrificed, because
the reviewer wishes a satirical article; sometimes because he wants
a humorous one; and sometimes because the author reviewed has become
offensively celebrated, and offers high game to the literary marksman.

How often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man, reverse his
opinion, had he time to revise it in a more sunny moment; but the press
is waiting, the printer's devil is at his elbow; the article is wanted
to make the requisite variety for the number of the review, or the
author has pressing occasion for the sum he is to receive for the
article, so it is sent off, all blotted and blurred; with a shrug of
the shoulders, and the consolatory ejaculation: "Pshaw! curse it! it's
nothing but a review!"

The critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is perhaps
some dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were he to speak by
word of mouth, would be disregarded, if not scoffed at; but such is the
magic of types; such the mystic operation of anonymous writing; such the
potential effect of the pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminated
through the press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinions
of the world, and give or destroy reputation.

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

Were every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and speak his
mind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more true criticism in the
world than at present. Whenever a person is pleased with a work, he may
be assured that it has good qualities. An author who pleases a variety
of readers, must possess substantial powers of pleasing; or, in other
words, intrinsic merits; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect, and
deny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer himself to be
readily shaken from the conviction of his own feelings, by the sweeping
censures of pseudo critics. The author he has admired, may be chargeable
with a thousand faults; but it is nevertheless beauties and excellencies
that have excited his admiration; and he should recollect that taste
and judgment are as much evinced in the perception of beauties among
defects, as in a detection of defects among beauties. For my part, I
honor the blessed and blessing spirit that is quick to discover and
extol all that is pleasing and meritorious. Give me the honest bee, that
extracts honey from the humblest weed, but save me from the ingenuity
of the spider, which traces its venom, even in the midst of a
flower-garden.

If the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imperfections is to
condemn an author, who is to escape? The greatest writers of antiquity
have, in this way, been obnoxious to criticism. Aristotle himself has
been 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 to
be deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have all
survived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a glorious
immortality. Every now and then the world is startled by some new
doctrines in matters of taste, some levelling attacks on established
creeds; some sweeping denunciations of whole generations, or schools of
writers, as they are called, who had seemed to be embalmed and canonized
in public opinion. Such has been the case, for instance, with Pope, and
Dryden, and Addison, who for a time have almost been shaken from their
pedestals, and treated as false idols.

It is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with respect
to its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and prepares the way
for dislike. The public is always for positive sentiments, and new
sensations. When wearied of admiring, it delights to censure; thus
coining a double set of enjoyments out of the same subject. Scott and
Byron are scarce cold in their graves, and already we find criticism
beginning to call in question those powers which held the world in magic
thraldom. Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses has
had some rough passages with the censors of the press; and instantly
criticism 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 often
delighted them, is absolutely destitute of the power to delight!

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

There is one consolatory reflection. Every abuse carries with it its
own remedy or palliation. Thus the excess of crude and hasty criticism,
which has of late prevailed throughout the literary world, and
threatened to overrun our country, begins to produce its own antidote.
Where there is a multiplicity of contradictory paths, a man must make
his choice; in so doing, he has to exercise his judgment, and that is
one great step to mental independence. He begins to doubt all, where all
differ, and but one can be in the right. He is driven to trust to his
own discernment, and his natural feelings; and here he is most likely
to be safe. The author, too, finding that what is condemned at one
tribunal, is applauded at another, though perplexed for a time, gives
way at length to the spontaneous impulse of his genius, and the dictates
of his taste, and writes in the way most natural to himself. It is thus
that criticism, which by its severity may have held the little world of
writers 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 Spanish
sources, and may occasionally give you a few more. I love these old
Spanish 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 the
peninsula. They have a high, spicy, oriental flavor, not to be found in
any other themes that are merely European. In fact, Spain is a country
that stands alone in the midst of Europe; severed in habits, manners,
and modes of thinking, from all its continental neighbors. It is a
romantic country; but its romance has none of the sentimentality of
modern European romance: it is chiefly derived from the brilliant
regions of the East, and from the high-minded school of Saracenic
chivalry.

The Arab invasion and conquest brought a higher civilization and
a nobler style of thinking into Gothic Spain. The Arabs were a
quick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical people, and were
imbued with oriental science and literature. Wherever they established a
seat of power, it became a rallying place for the learned and ingenious;
and they softened and refined the people whom they conquered. By
degrees, occupancy seemed to give them a hereditary right to their
foothold in the land; they ceased to be looked upon as invaders, and
were regarded as rival neighbors. The peninsula, broken up into a
variety of states, both Christian and Moslem, became for centuries
a great campaigning ground, where the art of war seemed to be the
principal business of man, and was carried to the highest pitch of
romantic chivalry. The original ground of hostility, a difference of
faith, gradually lost its rancor. Neighboring states, of opposite
creeds, were occasionally linked together in alliances, offensive and
defensive; so that the cross and crescent were to be seen side by side
fighting against some common enemy. In times of peace, too, the noble
youth of either faith resorted to the same cities, Christian or Moslem,
to school themselves in military science. Even in the temporary truces
of sanguinary wars, the warriors who had recently striven together in
the deadly conflicts of the field, laid aside their animosity, met at
tournaments, jousts, and other military festivities, and exchanged the
courtesies of gentle and generous spirits. Thus the opposite races
became frequently mingled together in peaceful intercourse, or if any
rivalry took place, it was in those high courtesies and nobler acts
which bespeak the accomplished cavalier. Warriors of opposite creeds
became ambitious of transcending each other in magnanimity as well as
valor. Indeed, the chivalric virtues were refined upon to a degree
sometimes fastidious and constrained; but at other times, inexpressibly
noble and affecting. The annals of the times teem with illustrious
instances of high-wrought courtesy, romantic generosity, lofty
disinterestedness, and punctilious honor, that warm the very soul to
read them. These have furnished themes for national plays and poems, or
have been celebrated in those all-pervading ballads which are as the
life-breath of the people, and thus have continued to exercise an
influence on the national character which centuries of vicissitude and
decline 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 many
points the most high-minded and proud-spirited people of Europe.
It is true, the romance of feeling derived from the sources I have
mentioned, has, like all other romance, its affectations and extremes.
It renders the Spaniard at times pompous and grandiloquent; prone to
carry the "pundonor," or point of honor, beyond the bounds of sober
sense and sound morality; disposed, in the midst of poverty, to affect
the "grande caballero," and to look down with sovereign disdain upon
"arts mechanical," and all the gainful pursuits of plebeian life; but
this very inflation of spirit, while it fills his brain with vapors,
lifts him above a thousand meannesses; and though it often keeps him in
indigence, ever protects him from vulgarity.

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

For my own part, I have a shelf or two of venerable, parchment-bound
tomes, picked up here and there about the peninsula, and filled with
chronicles, plays, and ballads, about Moors and Christians, which I keep
by me as mental tonics, in the same way that a provident housewife has
her cupboard of cordials. Whenever I find my mind brought below par by
the commonplace of every-day life, or jarred by the sordid collisions
of the world, or put out of tune by the shrewd selfishness of modern
utilitarianism, I resort to these venerable tomes, as did the worthy
hero of La Mancha to his books of chivalry, and refresh and tone up my
spirit by a deep draught of their contents. They have some such effect
upon me as Falstaff ascribes to a good Sherris sack, "warming the blood
and filling the brain with fiery and delectable shapes."

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

  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, at
Silos, in Castile, are the mouldering yet magnificent monuments of the
once powerful and chivalrous family of Hinojosa. Among these, reclines
the marble figure of a knight, in complete armor, with the hands pressed
together, as if in prayer. On one side of his tomb is sculptured in
relief a band of Christian cavaliers, capturing a cavalcade of male and
female Moors; on the other side, the same cavaliers are represented
kneeling before an altar. The tomb, like most of the neighboring
monuments, is almost in ruins, and the sculpture is nearly
unintelligible, excepting to the keen eye of the antiquary. The story
connected with the sepulchre, however, is still preserved in the old
Spanish chronicles, and is to the following purport.

       *       *       *       *       *

In old times, several hundred years ago, there was a noble Castilian
cavalier, named Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, lord of a border castle,
which had stood the brunt of many a Moorish foray. He had seventy
horsemen as his household troops, all of the ancient Castilian proof;
stark warriors, hard riders, and men of iron; with these he scoured the
Moorish lands, and made his name terrible throughout the borders. His
castle 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 for
the towering sport of falconry. When not engaged in warfare, his delight
was to beat up the neighboring forests; and scarcely ever did he ride
forth, without hound and horn, a boar-spear in his hand, or a hawk upon
his fist, and an attendant train of huntsmen.

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

As this doughty cavalier was one day hunting, he stationed himself in a
thicket, on the borders of a green glade of the forest, and dispersed
his followers to rouse the game, and drive it toward his stand. He had
not been here long, when a cavalcade of Moors, of both sexes, came
prankling over the forest lawn. They were unarmed, and magnificently
dressed 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, superior
to the rest in dignity and loftiness of demeanor, and in splendor of
attire; beside him was a damsel, whose veil, blown aside by the breeze,
displayed a face of surpassing beauty, and eyes cast down in maiden
modesty, yet beaming with tenderness and joy.

Don Munio thanked his stars for sending him such a prize, and exulted at
the thought of bearing home to his wife the glittering spoils of these
infidels. Putting his hunting-horn to his lips, he gave a blast that
rung 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 attendants
uttered the most piercing cries. The young Moorish cavalier alone
retained self-possession. He inquired the name of the Christian knight,
who commanded this troop of horsemen. When told that it was Don Munio
Sancho de Hinojosa, his countenance lighted up. Approaching that
cavalier, and kissing his hand, "Don Munio Sancho," said he, "I have
heard of your fame as a true and valiant knight, terrible in arms, but
schooled 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 to
celebrate my nuptials with this lady; chance has thrown us in your
power, but I confide in your magnanimity. Take all our treasure and
jewels; demand what ransom you think proper for our person, but suffer
us not to be insulted or dishonored."

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

So saying, he despatched one of his fleetest horsemen in advance, to
notify Donna Maria Palacin of the coming of this bridal party; while he
and his huntsmen escorted the cavalcade, not as captors, but as a guard
of honor. As they drew near to the castle, the banners were hung out,
and the trumpets sounded from the battlements; and on their nearer
approach, the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria came forth
to meet them, attended by her ladies and knights, her pages and her
minstrels. She took the young bride, Allifra, in her arms, kissed her
with the tenderness of a sister, and conducted her into the castle. In
the mean time, Don Munio sent forth missives in every direction, and had
viands and dainties of all kinds collected from the country round; and
the wedding of the Moorish lovers was celebrated with all possible state
and festivity. For fifteen days, the castle was given up to joy and
revelry. There were tiltings and jousts at the ring, and bullfights, and
banquets, and dances to the sound of minstrelsy. When the fifteen days
were 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 nobles
to assist him in a campaign against the Moors. Don Munio Sancho was
among the first to answer to the call, with seventy horsemen, all
staunch and well-tried warriors. His wife, Donna Maria, hung about his
neck. "Alas, my lord!" exclaimed she, "how often wilt thou tempt thy
fate, and when will thy thirst for glory be appeased?"

"One battle more," replied Don Munio, "one battle more, for the honor of
Castile, and I here make a vow, that when this is over, I will lay by my
sword, and repair with my cavaliers in pilgrimage to the sepulchre of
our Lord at Jerusalem." The cavaliers all joined with him in the vow,
and Donna Maria felt in some degree soothed in spirit: still, she saw
with a heavy heart the departure of her husband, and watched his banner
with wistful eyes, until it disappeared among the trees of the forest,

The King of Castile led his army to the plains of Almanara, where they
encountered the Moorish host, near to Ucles. The battle was long and
bloody; the Christians repeatedly wavered, and were as often rallied by
the energy of their commanders. Don Munio was covered with wounds, but
refused to leave the field. The Christians at length gave way, and the
king was hardly pressed, and in danger of being captured.

Don Munio called upon his cavaliers to follow him to the rescue. "Now is
the 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 a
better life hereafter."

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

One evening, at the shadowy hour of twilight, the warden sounded his
horn. "I see," cried he, "a numerous train winding up the valley. There
are mingled Moors and Christians. The banner of my lord is in the
advance. Joyful tidings!" exclaimed the old seneschal: "my lord returns
in triumph, and brings captives!" Then the castle courts rang with
shouts of joy; and the standard was displayed, and the trumpets were
sounded, and the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria went forth
with her ladies, and her knights, and her pages, and her minstrels, to
welcome her lord from the wars. But as the train drew nigh, she beheld a
sumptuous bier, covered with black velvet, and on it lay a warrior, as
if 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, and
around the bier were the escutcheons of the house of Hinojosa.

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

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

The legend of Don Munio Sancho does not conclude with his death. On the
same day on which the battle took place on the plain of Salmanara, a
chaplain of the Holy Temple at Jerusalem, while standing at the outer
gate, beheld a train of Christian cavaliers advancing, as if in
pilgrimage. The chaplain was a native of Spain, and as the pilgrims
approached, he knew the foremost to be Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa,
with whom he had been well acquainted in former times. Hastening to the
patriarch, he told him of the honorable rank of the pilgrims at the
gate. The patriarch, therefore, went forth with a grand procession of
priests and monks, and received the pilgrims with all due honor. There
were seventy cavaliers, beside their leader, all stark and lofty
warriors. They carried their helmets in their hands, and their faces
were deadly pale. They greeted no one, nor looked either to the right or
to the left, but entered the chapel, and kneeling before the Sepulchre
of our Saviour, performed their orisons in silence. When they had
concluded, they rose as if to depart, and the patriarch and his
attendants advanced to speak to them, but they were no more to be seen.
Every one marvelled what could be the meaning of this prodigy. The
patriarch carefully noted down the day, and sent to Castile to learn
tidings of Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa. He received for reply, that
on the very day specified, that worthy knight, with seventy of his
followers, had been slain in battle. These, therefore, must have been
the blessed spirits of those Christian warriors, come to fulfil their
vow of a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. Such was
Castilian faith, in the olden time, which kept its word, even beyond the
grave.

If any one should doubt of the miraculous apparition of these phantom
knights, 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 Alonzo
VI., on the hundred and second page. It is too precious a legend to be
lightly abandoned to the doubter.

       *       *       *       *       *

COMMUNIPAW.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: I observe, with pleasure, that you are performing from time to time
a pious duty, imposed upon you, I may say, by the name you have adopted
as your titular standard, in following in the footsteps of the vene

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