“I wonder what figure our Dutch belles or beaux of 1700, or thereabout, would make at a rout, or the Italian opera? I'faith I believe they would be more out of their element than the Indian I spoke of just now. They would certainly make rare sport in a cotillon, and I doubt would never arrive at that acme of modern refinement, which enables people to prefer sounds without sense, to sense without sound—and to expire with ecstasy at sentiments expressed in a language of which they don't comprehend a word.”
“But did they believe in ghosts, grandfather?” asked the youngest little granddaughter, who was just beginning to dip in the modern wonders of romance, and had been caught by the word ghost in the old gentleman's harangue.
“Ay, that they did, and in everything else. Now people believe in nothing except what they see in the newspapers—and the only exercise of their faith appears, not indeed in believing a crust of bread is a shoulder of mutton, but that a greasy rag of paper is a guinea. I have heard my grandfather tell fifty stories of ghosts and witches; but they have all passed from my memory, except one about a little Dutch sentinel, which he used to repeat so often, that I have never forgotten it to this day.”
“Oh, tell us the story,” cried the little romance reader, who was the old gentleman's prime favourite, and to whom he never thought of denying anything, either in or out of reason. “I'll give you two kisses if you will.”
“A bargain,” cried the good Aurie; “come hither, baggage.” The little girl presented first one rosy cheek and then the other, which he kissed affectionately, and began as follows, while we all gathered about him, and listened like so many Schahriars.
“Once upon a time, then, to use the words of a pleasant and instructive historian, the governors of New-Amsterdam were little kings, and the burgomasters such great men, that whoever spoke ill of one of them, had a bridle put into his mouth, rods under his arms, and a label on his breast recording his crime. In this trim he was led by the sheriff and tied to a post, where he remained a spectacle to the public, and an example to all evil doers—or rather evil sayers. I wonder how such a custom would go down nowadays, with the great champions of the liberty of the press? Then, too, instead of street inspectors, whose duty it is to take care of one side of a street and let the other take care of itself, there were roy meesters to look to the fences, and keep the cows from trespassing on their neighbour's pastures—then the houses were covered with reeds and straw, and the chimneys were made of wood—then all matrimonial disputes were settled by ‘a commissary of marriage affairs,’ and no man could eat a loaf of bread, except the flour had been inspected by the ‘comptroller general of the company's windmill,’ who could be no other than the sage Don Quixote himself—then, the distinction of ranks, instead of being designated by great and little barons, was signified by great and little burghers, who danced hipsey-saw and reels—plucked the goose—rambled on the commons, now the park, for nuts and strawberries—made parties of pleasure to enjoy the retired shades of the Ladies' Valley, since metamorphosed into Maiden Lane—shot bears in the impenetrable forests of Harlem Heights—hunted the deer along the Bloomingdale road—and erected Maypoles on the first of May, in the great meadow where the college now stands.”
“In what year of our Lord was that?” asked the little pet lady.
“Why, in the year 1670, or thereabout, you baggage.”
“I declare I thought it must have been somewhere about the year one,” said she, laughing. The old man patted her cheek, and went on.