University of Virginia Library

This is a favourite step, and considered the test of good dancing among the farmers' sons and daughters. It was undoubtedly introduced into America by the natives of Africa, in their first involuntary emigrations; and as one of the few customs borrowed from that unlucky quarter of the world, is entitled to particular notice. Dancing appears to be an amusement equally common to the savage and civilized state, and the wild Indian of the north-west coast of America, the ignorant negro of Whidah, the barbarous native of Madagascar, as well as the refined Parisian, are equally fond of this universal amusement. Even the Cozack, and the bear, are capable of imbibing a strong predilection for it.

The dancing step, called “double trouble,” from its being twice as much trouble to dance it, as to dance any other, bears not the least resemblance to any of the ancient dances that have been described by learned men, nor to any of those of Europe; being altogether unique in itself, and possessing a character entirely distinct from all others. It consists in moving both feet without lifting them from the floor, in such a manner as to keep time to the music, and requires not only great dexterity of foot, but a very correct ear. It may be classed under the general head of shuffling, and is in fact the perfection of that difficult style of dancing, which is undoubtedly of African origin. The great distinction between the African and European modes of dancing, seems to be this, that the one strives to keep himself on the ground, and the other off of it. Thus the Mandingo, or Congo beau prides himself on his shuffling, and the French dancing-master, and his pupils, upon maintaining a sort of medium between heaven and earth, like some of those wandering ghosts, whose peculiar fate it was neither to belong to the world above, or the world below; and which were assuredly the shades of dancing-masters, if any such existed in those simple days.

The family of Joline, anciently Josselin, or Joccelin, is of great antiquity, as we learn from the edifying chronicles of the crusades, where one Josselin of Montmorenci, distinguished himself on a variety of occasions, but particularly by killing a “beestely gigaunt” as we learn from the following curious fragment.

From this confounding of the genders, it is difficult to decide whether, Josselyne and the gigaunt were male or female, unless we solve the difficulty by supposing the poet to have been a Welshman, which is probably the fact, as many of the Welch bards accompanied king Richard to the Holy Land.

There is a curious distich quoted in the notes of Dr. Clarke's travels in Palestine, which is probably about the same date with that just recited, and which shews that the poets of those days had some other criterion of distinction betwixt man and woman, than the mere gender.

If this poet was not a true Milesian, I am mistaken.

The Scottish, or as they are generally denominated, the Scotch Plains, are situated in the State of New-Jersey, in the neighbourhood of Pompton Plains, of which more will be said. From the name, it was probably settled by a colony of Scots, at a very early period, perhaps anterior to the discovery of America by Columbus; who probably gained some obscure hints of this matter, from the pedlars, who travelled through Europe, and was thus led to his great undertaking.

If this hypothesis should be genuine, as there are strong reasons to believe, the honour of the first discovery and colonization of America, belongs neither to Americus Vespuccius, Christopher Columbus, Sebastian Cabot, nor Prince Madoc, but to some other obscure adventurer, who by an unaccountable negligence in history, has been thus cruelly defrauded of immortality.

It may not be amiss to observe, that the custom here alluded to of “tiring swains,” is well known among the Lassies of Scotland; and this coincidence furnishes another proof of a common origin.

He was a celebrated dancing master from Paris, who taught little babies to dance and look like women, but died of chagrin, because he could not jump up and cross his legs six times, before he touched the floor.

Notwithstanding all that has been written about gentlemen peasants and shepherds, from the time of Theocritus to Allan Ramsay, I do most verily believe, that they have been, are, and always will be, from the very nature of their situation and employments, a set of indifferent fellows, who are ignorant without being simple, and whose ideas of love are limited pretty much to the ordinary conceptions of their near neighbours, the sheep and cattle. I can safely say, I never saw one with a clean face, except at a church or a review; and how a man without that indispensable requisite, can be an object of affection to any woman, except one who has a smutted face herself, I can form no conception. Pastoral poetry will probably never be very popular, except among the class of people thus caricatured, who of course, will be mightily tickled with it, and strut about in their borrowed plumage, like the daw in the peacock's feathers, or more appropriately, the ass in the lion's skin. If I were to look for homely honesty, or for sober matter-of-fact virtues, among any class of people, I would go to the labourers of the field, and the tenders of sheep and cattle; but he who expects to find among these classes the refinements of sensibility, or the purity of love, may look for soft hands and clean faces too.

Plato maintains that there were two Cupids, one of whom was a god, and the other a dæmon; by which he clearly meant to distinguish between that polished and refined affection, which is the boast of cultivated minds, and that animal passion, which is, in general, the only bond of union among the low, the ignorant, and the corrupted.

The custom of occasionally “squeaking the fiddle” as it is called, is common at country wakes and dances, all over America; and the lass, who on this occasion, refuses the salute of her partner, is held to be sophisticated, by an intercourse with proud conceited people. The law in this case, is as strict as in cases of forfeit, where it is well known the damsel is obliged to fulfil certain conditions, before she can recover her pledge. It is pleasing to see the customs of our forefathers thus growing up in a far distant country, and pervading a new world. Perhaps the time will come, when America will be the sole depository of these endearing modes of early youth, when the aged countries of Europe will again relapse into second childhood, as in the dark ages, which succeeded the destruction of the western empire. Nations, like individuals, have their progress from infancy to maturity, from maturity to age, and, as inevitably, feel the effects of time, as the individuals themselves. The eastern world receives the first rays of the rising sun, but his last light beams in the west; and thus probably will it be with the sun of science. The time may come, when America, though the youngest sister, will, like Joseph, receive the obeisance of her elders, and behold them paying homage to her sheaf of wheat.

Pompton is a beautiful little pastoral stream, which after winding lazily through the plain of that name, joins the Passaic, at a place called the Three Bridges. The character of this river and its adjacent scenery is such as I have described; soft, silent, and gentle. The water hardly moves; on its banks are vast numbers of stately elms, whose extensive shade, allures the herds and flocks, and whose spreading branches shelter an infinite number of birds, whose song is the delight of the solitary rambler. The red-winged blackbird, the thrush, and the clover loving boblincon, whose notes may vie with the boasted songsters of Europe—and above all the mock-bird, the variety of whose minstrelsy imitates the melody of the whole forest. All these, sport undisturbed through the livelong summer day, in the rich meadows that skirt the stream; whose edges, at short intervals, are fringed with a rich border of dwarf willows, the little tendrils whereof touch the surface of the water.

Enamoured of this still landscape, so favourable for meditation and sleep, the ancient Hollanders at a very early period settled on these plains; where their descendants still flourish in easy competency, and grow in wealth as well as numbers. Whenever a son marries, an additional door is knocked into the house, which is commonly of one story, but makes up in length what it wants in height; and thus an additional house is made off hand. Some of these long buildings are thus divided into several tenements, and not unfrequently, three or four generations will be found flourishing under the same roof. As they all dress invariably alike, it is often difficult to tell the relation in which they stand to each other, for they appear nearly of the same age, and very often the old grand-father will be found vying with his grand-son, in the labours of the field.

There is a sort of homely, yet comfortable simplicity in the lives of these people, which when soberly contemplated is somewhat touching to the imagination, as well as gratifying to the feelings. It is so peaceful, so smooth, so unagitated so like their own little river. In short, it exhibits so many of the features of that little nestling place which every man in his prospective fancy creates to himself, as the refuge of his declining years. Perhaps after all, one of the most genuine pictures of sober happiness which it falls to the lot of man to contemplate, is that of one of these old patriarchs, sitting at the door of a comfortable house, and smoking his long pipe on a summer's evening.

It has been objected to me, that I have, in my former productions, dwelt too long and too minutely on names and places, that have no title to the attention of any body but a provincial antiquarian; and that I have in this manner frivolously wasted the time of my readers who might have been better employed. In short, that my works resemble a road-book, where every little paltry town, blacksmith's shop, and tavern is laid down, and minutely particularized for the gratification of the curious traveller.

In consequence of these cavils, and as a poor author must sometimes pull off his hat to the critic, the reader will perceive that I have turned my back upon several towns that occur in the part of the minstrel, many of which are ennobled. by tradition. This is most particularly the case with the ancient city of Brunswick in New Jersey, where several centuries ago Michael Scot studied necromancy under Mother Shoulders. Tradition says, that long before he “clove Eildon Hill” with a few sharp words, he had signalized his power by sneezing down the steeple of the old Episcopal church at Brunswick, out of pure spite; he being an obstinate sectarian, and a great enemy of orthodoxy.

Tradition, if it did not originate with, at least, owes its chief support to, the class of females here alluded to. If they did not give birth to it, they are its chief nurses. As all history must originate in oral tradition, it follows that the ancient matrons are the grand-mothers at least of historical narration, and that though Herodotus may be called the father of history, they have an equal title to the honour of its birth. In every town or village you will find a little knot of these industrious and curious antiquarians, pilfering from that same wallet, in which, as Shakespeare affirms, old time “putteth things for oblivion” a thousand precious little scraps of secret history, and a thousand invaluable memorials, which like a silver spoon in dish-water would be thrown away unless preserved by their pious care. Anon comes the antiquary, who gleans all these detached particles of gold-dust, by sifting old nurses, ancient matrons, and curious grey headed maids, and maketh a book highly interesting, and valuable. In it, is set forth with admirable particularity, all that has happened in the town or village for several generations: who erected the church steeple, who put up the weather cock, who built the old stone-house opposite, who was mayor in such a year, and whose tomb it is, the inscription of which is entirely obliterated.

Thus are the ancient matrons, the true chronicles of the times, and sorry as well as surprised am I, when I consider the base ingratitude of antiquarians and historians, who have thus maliciously, as well as wickedly, suppressed all mention of the sources from whence they, in all ages, have derived their most precious information.

In America, where the congregations are often dispersed over a large space of country, it is customary to preach two sermons, with a very short intermission, in order that the people may return home in time to their dinner. The interval between these “services,” as they are called, is devoted to rambling about the church-yard, reading epitaphs; or parading about the door, where are displayed all the new bonnets, and finery of the parish. Human nature is the same every where in respect to vanity, except that those who often get new bonnets, are not half so vain of them, as those who get them but seldom. The finest lady, dressed in all the gorgeous drapery of wealth, and fashion, and sparkling in jewels, displays not half the self-complacency exhibited by a rural damsel, appearing for the first time at church, in a new gown, or bonnet.

It has been hitherto supposed, that the people of America, like the birds of that country, are not naturally musical, because travellers have, I am told, drawn their conclusions, from what they observed in cities or along the public roads, without penetrating beyond the mere outside shell of the country. The real habits of any country, are not to be gathered in the streets or by the road side; but in lonely and remote situations, where the traveller never comes, and where with the exception of a wandering pedlar, a stranger is seldom seen. It is at the fire side of the farmer, where the ancient manners and customs, the natural tastes of a people make their last stand; and it is there and in his fields that I am assured, morning, noon, and evening, you may hear old ballads often sung by the workmen and maids, with whom it is altogether common and customary. With regard to the ballad of Rhino Die, I have been able to procure but two lines of it, which are the concluding ones of every verse, occupying the place of a sort of chorus. There is a simplicity in them which seems to indicate considerable antiquity.

This ballad is probably of American origin, as neither Mr. Ritson, Mr. Ellis, nor my friend Jacobus Porcus, have given any account of it. All I can gather from my correspondent, who like most other Americans, is barbarously indifferent to genuine minstrelsy, is, that it is twelve cows in length. That is, according to the ancient system of measuring ballads; which was by the number of cows milked by the maid, while she was singing them. Formerly the Hollanders measured time by the pipe, as the learned Diedrich Knickerbocker affirms in his history; and at present the natives of the East, have a custom, somewhat analogous, of measuring distances by time.

A famous border chief, principal of the three who captured major Andre, the particular friend of my late friend Miss Seward. There is extant a fragment of a ballad, which only wants age, to make it exceedingly curious and interesting. It relates to that celebrated event.

Nothing can afford a stronger proof of the high estimation in which this celebrated borderer is held in America, than his being thus put first in the chorus, than which circumstance, scarce any thing could more strongly indicate, that he was considered a greater man than even General Washington.

It is the custom in the country, thirty or forty miles from the cities, when the young men go sparkling as it is called, to judge of their reception by certain ceremonies which are well understood. If soon after his arrival, the damsel rises and takes a candle unto another room, it is understood as an acceptance of his devoirs, for that evening at least. If on the contrary, she remains in the room with her parents, he is said, I know not for what special reason, “to get the bag to hold.”

It has been objected to me, that in my attention to the lady and her spell, I have forgotten to inform the reader, whether Lord Joline was killed by the blow or not. The truth is, I left the matter in this kind of doubt, being aware, that uncertainty is one species of the sublime; and moreover, that the poet, by sometimes leaving the imagination of the reader to operate, often gives rise to a much better picture than his own fancy would have produced.