Communipaw

by Washington Irving

　　TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

　　Sir,I observe, with pleasure, that you are performing from time to timea pious duty, imposed upon you, I may say, by the name you have adoptedas your titular standard, in following in the footsteps of the venerableKNICKERBOCKER, and gleaning every fact concerning the early times of theManhattoes which may have escaped his hand. I trust, therefore, a fewparticulars, legendary and statistical, concerning a place whichfigures conspicuously in the early pages of his history, will not beunacceptable. I allude, Sir, to the ancient and renowned village ofCommunipaw, which, according to the veracious Diedrich, and to equallyveracious tradition, was the first spot where our ever-to-be-lamentedDutch progenitors planted their standard and cast the seeds of empire,and from whence subsequently sailed the memorable expedition underOloffe the Dreamer, which landed on the opposite island of Manhatta,and founded the present city of New-York, the city of dreams andspeculations.Communipaw, therefore, may truly be called the parent of New-York; yetit is an astonishing fact, that though immediately opposite to the greatcity it has produced, from whence its red roofs and tin weather-cockscan actually be descried peering above the surrounding apple orchards,it should be almost as rarely visited, and as little known by theinhabitants of the metropolis, as if it had been locked up among theRocky Mountains. Sir, I think there is something unnatural in this,especially in these times of ramble and research, when our citizens areantiquity-hunting in every part of the world. Curiosity, like charity,should begin at home; and I would enjoin it on our worthy burghers,especially those of the real Knickerbocker breed, before they send theirsons abroad to wonder and grow wise among the remains of Greece andRome, to let them make a tour of ancient Pavonia, from Weehawk evento the Kills, and meditate, with filial reverence, on the moss-grownmansions of Communipaw. Sir, I regard this much neglected village as oneof the most remarkable places in the country. The intelligent traveller,as he looks down upon it from the Bergen Heights, modestly nestled amongits cabbage-gardens, while the great flaunting city it has begotten isstretching far and wide on the opposite side of the bay, the intelligenttraveller, I say, will be filled with astonishment; not, Sir, at thevillage of Communipaw, which in truth is a very small village, but atthe almost incredible fact that so small a village should have producedso great a city. It looks to him, indeed, like some squat littledame, with a tall grenadier of a son strutting by her side; or somesimple-hearted hen that has unwittingly hatched out a long-leggedturkey.But this is not all for which Communipaw is remarkable. Sir, it isinteresting on another account. It is to the ancient province ofthe New-Netherlands and the classic era of the Dutch dynasty, whatHerculaneum and Pompeii are to ancient Rome and the glorious days of theempire. Here every thing remains in status quo, as it was in the days ofOloffe the Dreamer, Walter the Doubter, and the other worthies of thegolden age; the same broad-brimmed hats and broad-bottomed breeches;the same knee-buckles and shoe-buckles; the same close-quilled capsand linsey-woolsey short-gowns and petticoats; the same implements andutensils and forms and fashions; in a word, Communipaw at the presentday is a picture of what New-Amsterdam was before the conquest. The"intelligent traveller" aforesaid, as he treads its streets, is struckwith the primitive character of every thing around him. Instead ofGrecian temples for dwelling-houses, with a great column of pine boardsin the way of every window, he beholds high peaked roofs, gable endsto the street, with weather-cocks at top, and windows of all sorts andsizes; large ones for the grown-up members of the family, and littleones for the little folk. Instead of cold marble porches, withclose-locked doors and brass knockers, he sees the doors hospitablyopen; the worthy burgher smoking his pipe on the old-fashioned stoop infront, with his "vrouw" knitting beside him; and the cat and her kittensat their feet sleeping in the sunshine.Astonished at the obsolete and "old world" air of every thing aroundhim, the intelligent traveller demands how all this has come to pass.Herculaneum and Pompeii remain, it is true, unaffected by the varyingfashions of centuries; but they were buried by a volcano and preservedin ashes. What charmed spell has kept this wonderful little placeunchanged, though in sight of the most changeful city in the universe?Has it, too, been buried under its cabbage-gardens, and only dug outin modern days for the wonder and edification of the world? The replyinvolves a point of history, worthy of notice and record, and reflectingimmortal honor on Communipaw.At the time when New-Amsterdam was invaded and conquered by Britishfoes, as has been related in the history of the venerable Diedrich, agreat dispersion took place among the Dutch inhabitants. Many, like theillustrious Peter Stuyvesant, buried themselves in rural retreats in theBowerie; others, like Wolfert Acker, took refuge in various remoteparts of the Hudson; but there was one staunch, unconquerable band thatdetermined to keep together, and preserve themselves, like seed corn,for the future fructification and perpetuity of the Knickerbocker race.These were headed by one Garret Van Horne, a gigantic Dutchman, thePelayo of the New-Netherlands. Under his guidance, they retreated acrossthe bay and buried themselves among the marshes of ancient Pavonia, asdid the followers of Pelayo among the mountains of Asturias, when Spainwas overrun by its Arabian invaders.The gallant Van Horne set up his standard at Communipaw, and invitedall those to rally under it, who were true Nederlanders at heart, anddetermined to resist all foreign intermixture or encroachment. A strictnon-intercourse was observed with the captured city; not a boat evercrossed to it from Communipaw, and the English language was rigorouslytabooed throughout the village and its dependencies. Every man was swornto wear his hat, cut his coat, build his house, and harness his horses,exactly as his father had done before him; and to permit nothing but theDutch language to be spoken in his household.As a citadel of the place, and a strong-hold for the preservation anddefence of every thing Dutch, the gallant Van Horne erected a lordlymansion, with a chimney perched at every corner, which thence derivedthe aristocratical name of "The House of the Four Chimneys." Hither hetransferred many of the precious reliques of New-Amsterdam; the greatround-crowned hat that once covered the capacious head of Walter theDoubter, and the identical shoe with which Peter the Headstrong kickedhis pusillanimous councillors down-stairs. St. Nicholas, it is said,took this loyal house under his especial protection; and a Dutchsoothsayer predicted, that as long as it should stand, Communipaw wouldbe safe from the intrusion either of Briton or Yankee.In this house would the gallant Van Home and his compeers hold frequentcouncils of war, as to the possibility of re-conquering the provincefrom the British; and here would they sit for hours, nay, days, togethersmoking their pipes and keeping watch upon the growing city of New-York;groaning in spirit whenever they saw a new house erected or shiplaunched, and persuading themselves that Admiral Van Tromp would oneday or other arrive to sweep out the invaders with the broom which hecarried at his mast-head.Years rolled by, but Van Tromp never arrived. The British strengthenedthemselves in the land, and the captured city flourished under theirdomination. Still, the worthies of Communipaw would not despair;something or other, they were sure, would turn up to restore the powerof the Hogen Mogens, the Lord States-General; so they kept smoking andsmoking, and watching and watching, and turning the same few thoughtsover and over in a perpetual circle, which is commonly calleddeliberating. In the mean time, being hemmed up within a narrow compass,between the broad bay and the Bergen hills, they grew poorer and poorer,until they had scarce the wherewithal to maintain their pipes in fuelduring their endless deliberations.And now must I relate a circumstance which will call for a littleexertion of faith on the part of the reader; but I can only say that ifhe doubts it, he had better not utter his doubts in Communipaw, as it isamong the religious beliefs of the place. It is, in fact, nothing morenor less than a miracle, worked by the blessed St. Nicholas, for therelief and sustenance of this loyal community.It so happened, in this time of extremity, that in the course ofcleaning the House of the Four Chimneys, by an ignorant housewife whoknew nothing of the historic value of the reliques it contained, the oldhat of Walter the Doubter and the executive shoe of Peter the Headstrongwere thrown out of doors as rubbish. But mark the consequence. The goodSt. Nicholas kept watch over these precious reliques, and wrought out ofthem a wonderful providence.The hat of Walter the Doubter falling on a stercoraceous heap ofcompost, in the rear of the house, began forthwith to vegetate. Itsbroad brim, spread forth grandly and exfoliated, and its round crownswelled and crimped and consolidated until the whole became a prodigiouscabbage, rivalling in magnitude the capacious head of the Doubter. In aword, it was the origin of that renowned species of cabbage known, byall Dutch epicures, by the name of the Governor's Head, and which is tothis day the glory of Communipaw.On the other hand, the shoe of Peter Stuyvesant being thrown into theriver, in front of the house, gradually hardened and concreted, andbecame covered with barnacles, and at length turned into a giganticoyster; being the progenitor of that illustrious species knownthroughout the gastronomical world by the name of the Governor's Foot.These miracles were the salvation of Communipaw. The sages of the placeimmediately saw in them the hand of St. Nicholas, and understood theirmystic signification. They set to work with all diligence to cultivateand multiply these great blessings; and so abundantly did thegubernatorial hat and shoe fructify and increase, that in a little timegreat patches of cabbages were to be seen extending from the village ofCommunipaw quite to the Bergen Hills; while the whole bottom of thebay in front became a vast bed of oysters. Ever since that time thisexcellent community has been divided into two great classes: those whocultivate the land and those who cultivate the water. The former havedevoted themselves to the nurture and edification of cabbages, rearingthem in all their varieties; while the latter have formed parks andplantations, under water, to which juvenile oysters are transplantedfrom foreign parts, to finish their education.As these great sources of profit multiplied upon their hands, the worthyinhabitants of Communipaw began to long for a market at which todispose of their superabundance. This gradually produced once more anintercourse with New-York; but it was always carried on by the oldpeople and the negroes; never would they permit the young folks, ofeither sex, to visit the city, lest they should get tainted with foreignmanners and bring home foreign fashions. Even to this day, if you see anold burgher in the market, with hat and garb of antique Dutch fashion,you may be sure he is one of the old unconquered race of the "bitterblood," who maintain their strong-hold at Communipaw.In modern days, the hereditary bitterness against the English has lostmuch of its asperity, or rather has become merged in a new source ofjealousy and apprehension: I allude to the incessant and wide-spreadingirruptions from New-England. Word has been continually brought back toCommunipaw, by those of the community who return from their tradingvoyages in cabbages and oysters, of the alarming power which the Yankeesare gaining in the ancient city of New-Amsterdam; elbowing the genuineKnickerbockers out of all civic posts of honor and profit; bargainingthem out of their hereditary homesteads; pulling down the venerablehouses, with crow-step gables, which have stood since the time of theDutch rule, and erecting, instead, granite stores, and marble banks; ina word, evincing a deadly determination to obliterate every vestige ofthe good old Dutch times.In consequence of the jealousy thus awakened, the worthy traders fromCommunipaw confine their dealings, as much as possible, to the genuineDutch families. If they furnish the Yankees at all, it is with inferiorarticles. Never can the latter procure a real "Governor's Head," or"Governor's Foot," though they have offered extravagant prices for thesame, to grace their table on the annual festival of the New-EnglandSociety.But what has carried this hostility to the Yankees to the highest pitch,was an attempt made by that all-pervading race to get possession ofCommunipaw itself. Yes, Sir; during the late mania for land speculation,a daring company of Yankee projectors landed before the village; stoppedthe honest burghers on the public highway, and endeavored to bargainthem out of their hereditary acres; displayed lithographic maps,in which their cabbage-gardens were laid out into town lots: theiroyster-parks into docks and quays; and even the House of the FourChimneys metamorphosed into a bank, which was to enrich the wholeneighborhood with paper money.Fortunately, the gallant Van Hornes came to the rescue, just as some ofthe worthy burghers were on the point of capitulating. The Yankees wereput to the rout, with signal confusion, and have never since dared toshow their faces in the place. The good people continue to cultivatetheir cabbages, and rear their oysters; they know nothing of banks, norjoint stock companies, but treasure up their money in stocking-feet, atthe bottom of the family chest, or bury it in iron pots, as did theirfathers and grandfathers before them.As to the House of the Four Chimneys, it still remains in the great andtall family of the Van Hornes. Here are to be seen ancient Dutch cornercupboards, chests of drawers, and massive clothes-presses, quaintlycarved, and carefully waxed and polished; together with divers thick,black-letter volumes, with brass clasps, printed of yore in Leydon andAmsterdam, and handed down from generation to generation, in the family,but never read. They are preserved in the archives, among sundry oldparchment deeds, in Dutch and English, bearing the seals of the earlygovernors of the province.In this house, the primitive Dutch holidays of Paas and Pinxterare faithfully kept up; and New-Year celebrated with cookies andcherry-bounce; nor is the festival of the blessed St. Nicholasforgotten, when all the children are sure to hang up their stockings,and to have them filled according to their deserts; though, it is said,the good saint is occasionally perplexed in his nocturnal visits, whichchimney to descend.Of late, this portentous mansion has begun to give signs of dilapidationand decay. Some have attributed this to the visits made by the youngpeople to the city, and their bringing thence various modern fashions;and to their neglect of the Dutch language, which is gradually becomingconfined to the older persons in the community. The house, too, wasgreatly shaken by high winds, during the prevalence of the speculationmania, especially at the time of the landing of the Yankees. Seeing howmysteriously the fate of Communipaw is identified with this venerablemansion, we cannot wonder that the older and wiser heads of thecommunity should be filled with dismay, whenever a brick is toppleddown from one of the chimneys, or a weather-cock is blown off from agable-end.The present lord of this historic pile, I am happy to say, is calculatedto maintain it in all its integrity. He is of patriarchal age, and isworthy of the days of the patriarchs. He has done his utmost to increaseand multiply the true race in the land. His wife has not been inferiorto him in zeal, and they are surrounded by a goodly progeny of children,and grand-children, and great-grand-children, who promise to perpetuatethe name of Van Horne, until time shall be no more. So be it! Long maythe horn of the Van Hornes continue to be exalted in the land! Tall asthey are, may their shadows never be less! May the House of the FourChimneys remain for ages, the citadel of Communipaw, and the smoke ofits chimneys continue to ascend, a sweet-smelling incense in the hose ofSt. Nicholas!With great respect, Mr. Editor,Your ob't servant,HERMANUS VANDERDONK.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *