 | COMMUNIPAW. A book of the Hudson |  |
COMMUNIPAW.
It used to be a favorite assertion of the venerable Diedrich
Knickerbocker, that there was no region more rich in themes
for the writer of historic novels, heroic melodramas, and
rough-shod epics, than the ancient province of the New
Netherlands, and its quondam capital, at the Manhattoes.
“We live,” he used to say, “in the midst of history, mystery,
and romance; he who would find these elements, however,
must not seek them among the modern improvements and
monied people of the monied metropolis; he must dig for
them, as for Kidd the pirate's treasures, in out of the way
places, and among the ruins of the past.” Never did sage
speak more truly. Poetry and romance received a fatal blow
at the overthrow of the ancient Dutch dynasty, and have ever
since been gradually withering under the growing domination
of the Yankees. They abandoned our hearths when the old
Dutch tiles were superseded by marble chimney pieces; when
brass andirons made way for polished grates, and the crackling
and blazing fire of nut wood gave place to the smoke and
stench of Liverpool coal; and on the downfall of the last
crow-step gables, their requiem was tolled from the tower of
the Dutch Church in Nassau street, by the old bell that came
from Holland. But poetry and romance still lurk unseen
among us, or seen only by the enlightened few who are able
to contemplate the common-place scenes and objects of the
the associations of foregone ages.
He who would seek these elements in the country, must
avoid all turnpikes, railroads, steamboats, and other abominable
inventions, by which the usurping Yankees are strengthening
themselves in the land, and subduing everything to utility
and common-place. He must avoid all towns and cities of
white clapboard palaces, and Grecian temples, studded with
“academies,” “seminaries,” and “institutes,” which glisten
along our bays and rivers; these are the strongholds of Yankee
usurpation; but should he haply light upon some rough, rambling
road, winding between stone fences, grey with moss, and
overgrown with elder, poke berry, mullein, and sweet brier,
and here and there a low, red-roofed, whitewashed farmhouse,
cowering among apple and cherry trees; an old stone
church, with elms, willows, and button-wood, as old looking
as itself, and tombstones almost buried in their own graves,
and peradventure a small log-built school-house, at a crossroad,
where the English language is still taught, with a thickness
of the tongue instead of a twang of the nose, he may thank
his stars that he has found one of the lingering haunts of
poetry and romance.
Among these favored places, the renowned village of Communipaw
was ever held by the historian of New Amsterdam
in especial veneration. Here the intrepid crew of the Goede
Vrouw first cast the seeds of empire. Hence proceeded the
expedition under Oloffe, the Dreamer, to found the city of New
Amsterdam, vulgarly called New York, which, inheriting the
genius of its founder, has ever been a city of dreams and
speculations. Communipaw, therefore, may truly be called
the parent of New York, though, on comparing the lowly village
with the great flaunting city which it has engendered, one
is forcibly reminded of a squat little hen that has unwittingly
hatched out a long-legged turkey.
It is a mirror also of New Amsterdam, as it was before the
conquest. Everything bears the stamp of the days of Oloffe,
of the golden age; the same gable-fronted houses, surmounted
with weathercocks, the same knee-buckles and
shoe-buckles, and close quilled caps, and linsey woolsey petticoats,
and multifarious breeches. In a word, Communipaw is
a little Dutch Herculaneum or Pompeii, where the reliques of
the classic days of the New Netherlands are preserved in their
pristine state, with the exception that they have never been
buried.
The secret of all this wonderful conservation is simple. At
the time that New Amsterdam was subjugated by the Yankees
and their British allies, as Spain was, in ancient days, by the
Saracens, a great dispersion took place among the inhabitants.
One resolute band determined never to bend their necks to the
yoke of the invaders, and, led by Garret Van Horne, a gigantic
Dutchman, the Pelaye of the New Netherlands, crossed the
bay, and buried themselves among the marshes of Communipaw,
as did the Spaniards of yore among the Asturian mountains.
Here they cut off all communication with the captured
city, forbade the English language to be spoken in their community,
kept themselves free from foreign marriage and intermixture,
and have thus remained the pure Dutch seed of the
Manhattoes, with which the city may be repeopled, whenever
it is effectually delivered from the Yankees.
The citadel erected by Garret Van Horne exists to this day
in possession of his descendants, and is known by the lordly
appellation of The House of the four Chimneys, from having a
chimney perched like a turret at every corner. Here are to be
seen articles of furniture which came over with the first settlers
from Holland; ancient chests of drawers, and massive clothes
presses, quaintly carved, and waxed and polished until they shine
like mirrors. Here are old black letter volumes with brass
clasps, printed of yore in Leyden, and handed down from
generation to generation, but never read. Also old parchment
deeds in Dutch and English, bearing the seals of the early
governors of the province.
In this house the primitive Dutch Holy Days of Paas and
Pinxter, are faithfully kept up, and New Year celebrated with
cookies and cherry bounce; nor is the festival of the good St.
Nicholas forgotten; 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, which chimney to descend. A
tradition exists concerning this mansion, which, however
dubious it may seem, is treasured up with good faith by the
inhabitants. It is said that at the founding of it St. Nicholas
took it under his protection, and the Dutch Dominie of the
place, who was a kind of soothsayer, predicted that as long
as these four chimneys stood Communipaw would flourish.
Now it came to pass that some years since, during the great
mania for land speculation, a Yankee speculator found his way
into the Communipaw; bewildered the old burghers with a
project to erect their village into a great sea-port; made a
lithographic map, in which their oyster beds were transformed
into docks and quays, their cabbage gardens laid out in town
lots and squares, and the House of the Four Chimneys metamorphosed
into a great bank, with granite pillars, which was
to enrich the whole neighborhood with paper money.
Fortunately at this juncture there rose a high wind, which
shook the venerable pile to its foundation, toppled down one of
the chimneys, and blew off a weathercock, the lord knows
whither. The community took the alarm, they drove the land
speculator from their shores, and since that day not a Yankee
has dared to show his face in Communipaw.
The following legend concerning this venerable place was
found among the papers of the authentic Diedrich.
| COMMUNIPAW. A book of the Hudson | |