University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

More than a hundred and fifty years ago, there
lived, just without the goodly city of New York, but
far within its present precincts, a worthy Dutch
burgher whose name was not Van Corlear. It is
ventured, however, to borrow that venerable patronymic
in his behalf, withholding his real name, lest
some of his irascible descendants, jealous of ancestral
fame, may impugn the verity of those family secrets
which are about to be divulged. This prudential
arrangement in relation to names is intended also to
extend to the other personages mentioned in the
following history; and when thus much of fiction is
so frankly acknowledged, it is hoped that the reader
will be therewith content, and will be willing to concede

to the more material matters the credence they
deserve.

Whether Burleigh Van Corlear was christened after
Queen Elizabeth's treasurer, or whether his baptismal
name (which was usually written and pronounced
Burly) was bestowed in anticipation of his future
figure, it is difficult at this late day to determine.
That he was both rotund and robust, that his circumference
was equal to his height, and that it was no
easy matter to get around him, either literally or figuratively,
are points which are, fortunately, better
established. Burley had at one time been an alderman
of the city which now bounded him on the south; and
it required only to look at him to perceive his qualifications
for that office, and the faithful manner in which
its duties had been discharged. His appearance,
indeed, spoke a volume upon this subject. It was
no small gratification, either, to Mynheer Van Corlear
to remember the official honors which he had
thus enjoyed, and they formed the theme of much
pleasing reflection. Like many retired statesmen
of later days, he was consoled for present obscruity
by the consciousness of having once been

famous. Newspapers, indeed, were too scarce in that
age to admit of any reasonable hope that he should
ever see his name or titles emblazoned in print; but
the time would come—he often thought of it—when
they would be engraved in marble, and, suspended on
a mimic scroll, by the down-reaching arms of two
little fat cherubs, would proclaim to the world the
dignity of his dust.

Mynheer Van Corlear was third cousin to the great
patroon of Kenterhook, and annually, in the season
of the winter holidays, did that august personage pay
a visit to his city relations. It was in the latter part
of November, in the year 1689, that the household of
the alderman was thrown into commotion by the receipt
of a letter from the patroon, announcing his
approach. He would set sail, thus the bulletin ran,
on the first of December, and expected with favoring
winds to arrive at the metropolis on or about the tenth
of the same month. He came thus early to avoid the
fatigues of a journey by land, as the advancing season
would soon close the river with ice; but it was none
too early for the protracted and convivial visits of
those hospitable days.

Great was the note of preparation at Van Corlear's,
for old General Van Ness was in truth a personage not
to be slighted. He was the proprietor of a princely estate
on the banks of the Hudson, and his family mansion
had been a landmark for nearly half a century to the
navigators of that beautiful river. Wealthy almost
beyond competition in the province, he was also a
generous and benevolent old man, dispensing on every
side his bounteous charities, and making glad the
hearts of all who surrounded him. Like the latter
rain were his gifts, and like the dew of Hermon the
cheery smile with which he beheld and participated
in the happiness he bestowed. Many a poor neighbor
found his winter store of flour and meal at his door
upon opening it on a Christmas morning, with no other
clew to the donor than a feigned note from the merry
and ubiquitous saint of the season. At times, too, tied
in the mouth of the sack, like the rejected gold of
Joseph's brethren, a glittering guinea greeted the glad
eyes of the poverty-stricken laborer, who had passed
a sleepless night in harassing thoughts of quarter-day
at hand. The good old man's heart was indeed unfitted
for selfish joy; nor was he willing to celebrate

with unmeaning merriment alone, the day which commemorates
Heaven's highest mercy to mankind.

But the now anticipated visit of the patroon was to
be marked by an unusual feature, for his nephew and
prospective heir was to be his companion. For many
years a widower, and more recently rendered childless
by the loss of his only son, his paternal affection
had been transferred to his sister's child, and Harry
Livingston was everywhere known as the future lord
of the vast domains of his uncle. He had but recently
returned from a sojourn of several years in England
and the Netherlands, where he had been sent for the
completion of an education then considered unattainable
in the colonies. These opportunities, with the
additional advantages of travel, had not been lost
upon a mind naturally acute and discerning, and sustained
moreover by a strong substratum of good sense,
and the young Livingston had returned to his native
land, a well-educated and accomplished man. It
need scarcely be said that he brought with him no
repulsive airs, and no affected contempt of provincial
life.

But while these distinguished travellers are darting

down the Hudson at the rate of “fifteen miles in sixteen
hours,” and stopping nightly to avoid collision
with a vessel which was expected to pass up the river
during the same month, an opportunity will be afforded
us to visit that mysterious household of the alderman,
to which allusion has been made. Please, then,
to drop into the clairvoyant state for a moment, gentle
reader, and you shall be speedily enlightened on this
subject. A few “passes,” if you please—there—thus
—a moment's steady gaze of the eye—and now I think
you are en rapport. And now, as the French mesmerist
informed his gaping patient, I shall tell you
what you shall see; to which with easy acquiescence
you are expected to assent.

Endwise to the street standeth the dingy yellow
brick mansion of Burley Van Corlear, dated in front,
in iron letters built into the wall, 1666. Essentially
Dutch, “from turret to foundation stone,” its shape and
proportions have evidently been fashioned after some
fantastic old-world model, yet with a curious nicety
of detail which speaks plainer than words its builder's
faith in its being the very perfection of architecture.
With two wings and a tail-like appendage, it looks

not altogether unlike some huge bird which has settled
heavily down upon the landscape, with ruffled
pinions projecting at many points, in the shape of ill-hung
window blinds, of which the one half cannot be
opened, and the other half cannot be shut. An iron
weather-cock, somewhat opinionated on the subject
of the wind, and like its proprietor, not easily moved,
surmounts the summit of the building, and its walls
are decorated with little martin houses, to be let, rent
free, and already hospitably open for their expected
tenants. The out-buildings, arranged in the heterogeneous
order, stand pointing at their principal from
every direction as if in amazement at the extraordinary
spectacle, while an arched and open-mouthed
carriage house, on the side of the court, stares ceaselessly
at it, with undisguised astonishment.

But it is less with the clumsy and ungainly casket
that we have to do, than with the jewels within.
And jewels, indeed, there were; to say nothing of
Burley himself, a precious old ruby, or of Vrow Van
Corlear, a very pearl in her way, albeit in dimensions
one that would have made even a Shrewsbury
oyster stand agape. One more magnetic touch, one

gentle pass along the temples, (start not, fair reader!
those clustering curls shall not be harmed,) and these
richer gems shall become visible. Look now through
that open doorway which partly reveals the mysteries
of a half-acre kitchen, and tell me what you see. I do
not want to know about the mountain of freshly fried
cookies on the hearth, or the long row of pale and unbaked
mince pies on the dresser, or the depth or
breadth of that Shadrach looking oven, glowing with
uncommon heat for their reception. But rather—ah,
yes—you see her now—crimping with white fingers
the edge of the forty-second pie, and turning around
with a face bewitching in its unconscious beauty, to
give a laughing word to a little crowing brother on
the floor. That round snowy arm, upraised in playful
menace, those soft, blue, laughing eyes, those glittering
teeth, revealed by “chirrups,” and that brown
glossy hair, scarce kept by force from curling, are
part and parcel all of sweet little Jessie Van Corlear.
The golden beams of the wintry sun, streaming
through the window, are bathing her beautiful form in
light, and casting moving shadows upon the floor,
thrice strange and wondrous to the little learner there.
But Jessie has another sunlight, emanating from within,
the perpetual product of a joyous and innocent
heart, gilding and permeating all things with its
beams.

But what other vision, equally radiant and dazzling,
is this, which rises suddenly to our view? Queenly
is her gait, tall and Juno-like her figure, her eyes are
dark and flashing, her brow the home of Thought—
while, flitting o'er her curling lip, steals that dread
bane of beauty, pride. An ornament and almost a fixture
of the parlor, the pride and hope of the family,
the future bride, perhaps, of the heir of Kenterhook,
(for to such a height did the daring ambition of Burley
Van Corlear rise,) is the beautiful Gertrude. She has
by no means descended to the kitchen for the purpose
of assisting in its labors, nor is she expected so to do.
She has come, rather, to learn the progress of affairs.
Accustomed to deference, she must not be too highly
blamed, but there might, methinks, be a little more of
kindness in the tone of her voice as she addresses the

gentle Jessie, and, it may be fancy, but there seems
an air of chillness in her deportment as, rustling in
silks, and shining in antique jewelry, she returns
speedily to her apartment.

But the mystic fluid is failing—the room grows
dark—the building itself recedes, until with a twinkling
motion of its last grotesque chimney, it vanishes
from view, followed by its whole group of satellites.