A LEGEND OF GERMANTOWN.
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BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW.
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When a man becomes so far lost to a sense of self-importance, as not only to tell, but actually to write stories,—thus recording his turpitude in black and white—it is not to be presumed that slight consequences will deter him from his purpose. Indeed, it is rather to be supposed that he has made up his mind to despise public opinion, and to brave all indignation. His hand is sure to follow as his pen may lead, and whatever he may resolve, when the story is written, it is, somehow or other, sure to find its way into print. The best motives of a writer may therefore be mistaken, or his strongest resolves puffed to the winds by a single breath, so that it may well be supposed in what a predicament we were, when we found our best intentions frustrated, and had to encounter the wrath and tobacco smoke of our German neighbors, and were obliged to write this apologetic introduction, and all through a villanous blunder of our greedy devil.
The facts are these. We sat down, a few evenings since, after enjoying a comfortable cup of pure Java,—which we still continue to enjoy, notwithstanding the anathemas of a fellow with a villanous name, of “bran bread” repute,—to commit to paper a few notes of a conversation which we had with a relative long since. Having unluckily fallen into a doze, our devil, who had been going about for more than an hour roaring for copy, took a peep into the sanctum, and, seeing how matters stood, slipt off the following article, “in the crack o’ a thumb,” by way of filling up an odd form, which, in an unlucky fit of liberality, we had resolved to squeeze into the present number. It may well be supposed that, before we had fairly rubbed our eyes open, the matter was blown to the world, and a whole avalanche of country cousins, who hail from Germantown, were down upon us. Of course we said at once that the article was not ours, as no man can be expected to acknowledge his guilt until it is proved upon him. This, however, did not satisfy them, although they professed to have no difficulty in believing it, for they continued to smoke their pipes with such fury, and swore so stoutly in real jaw-breaking Dutch—for every mother’s son is German, even to the cut of his pantaloons—that we were glad to get off upon the condition of making a handsome apology, which we think we have now fully done.
Among the many delightful villages in Pennsylvania, which owe their origin to German settlers, and maintain, amid surrounding improvements, the unchanged marks of ancestry, there is none more prominent than Germantown. It is but half an hour’s drive from Philadelphia, extending along the main road for more than two miles, with, for the most part, old-fashioned stone houses, which date prior to the revolution, sprinkled plenteously on both sides of the road, forming a village of most unconscionable length, but—like the pockets of most dandies of the present day—with no depth or body to support its extensive pretensions. It is famous in history, as being the ground of a battle during the struggle for independence, in which victory, though for a time doubtful, declared for the enemy, in consequence of the incompetency of an American officer. The present inhabitants are mostly the descendants of German families—true sprigs of the old branches, imitating most of the virtues of their forefathers, indulging in no luxuries, pursuing a rigid economy, and clinging with an unyielding regard to the money bequeathed them. Nor is this regard in any degree weakened by the devices of those who have recently settled in the village, and who vainly hope by improving their houses, fitting up their grounds, and clipping and beautifying their shrubbery, to induce an imitation of their example. The old-roof tree stands, as it stood half a century ago, and the very stones of the building, from between which the mortar has in many cases long since dropped, grin defiance on the passer by, who dares to harbor a thought of improvement or repair. The owner is content to live as his ancestors lived, but would like to die a little richer. The patrimony, amassed by the hand of unceasing toil, is religiously bequeathed from sire to son, together with the peculiar habits of thought and the superstitious sentiments of an age gone by. In many cases no education has been suffered to weaken or invade, and in others has been so slight as only to harmonize the mind with the general character of the place, which at best seems to belong more to a past generation than to the present. From these causes, things which better tutored minds scout with scorn, in the one case, are held as true as matters of religious belief, and in the other are only doubted, not disbelieved. In fact so thoroughly does superstition, and the gross follies which an intercourse with the world and education always dispel, prevail, that many of the inhabitants can tell you to a nicety when there will be a change of weather, by the belligerent attitude in which the moon turns up her horns when she grows restive, and that there will be company when the cat licks her paws, when a fork sticks up in the floor, or when the old cock brushes up his feathers and crows in the door-way. There are others who go still deeper into mysteries of this sort, and can predict to you a birth, a marriage, or a death, by the kinks in a cow’s tail; but as they are entirely beyond our depth, and seem to have this knowledge all to themselves, it may be well not to disturb them in their profound wisdom. Nevertheless, let no young man, who values the affections of any fair Dutch damsel in Germantown, venture to present her with a pair of scissors, unless he wishes to cut the sentimental cord that binds her to him. Thus much we feel in duty bound to record as a warning to young gentlemen, as many a man has lost the confidence and affections of his lady love in consequence of less matters than a pair of scissors.
It might be expected that a village so contiguous to a great city, would soon lose these distinctive marks of character, and that the extravagance, follies and vices of the metropolis would be generally imitated. Not so, however. With very little exception, the place is as entirely distinct as if it were miles in the interior. The moral mantle of Germanism seems to hang like a cloud over the place, and, blended with the superstition of the portion of inhabitants spoken of, there is a high-toned morality so imbedded in the hearts of the people, that honesty and a strict regard to truth, next to making money and keeping it, may be considered the great texts by which they live.
It will easily be understood that among a people thus constituted, a ghost has but to be seen by one of their number, and his appearance announced, to be generally dreaded. If he has been seen, there is an end of all doubting, and the only thing thereafter to be done, is to keep out of his way. There will be no use, in such a case, to multiply arguments about him, but every man must take care of himself. And, what may seem a little singular, a good sound-minded, rational apparition will, in all cases, most delight to visit a people who pay him so much deference; taking especial care to show himself off frequently, and in all manner of ways, that there may be no doubt that he does exist in one shape or another, and having established the matter to his own satisfaction, that it is better to range the upper world, where he can be seen, than to dwell below in the dark, damp ground of the tomb, where he cannot be seen, where his very existence may be doubted, and where, at the best, the quarters are most uncomfortably chilly,—we say a sane ghost, under such circumstances, would naturally grow familiar—or rather attempt to—and having sought out and established himself in comfortable quarters, and having enjoyed an oblivious nap during the day, would seek to regale himself in the evening, after his own will and pleasure, by little trips by moonlight, over the fields, around the old barns, and especially on the tops of the stone fences—if any there be—of the neighborhood. A ghost certainly has the right, if any body has, of doing pretty much as he pleases, and of keeping out of the dust and gravel of a country side-walk, and of cutting up his antics, by way of recreation, on the top of a stone wall. At least these were the sentiments entertained by the ghost in question, and he took the liberty—unlike most politicians—of acting them out without regard to consequences.
One morning, early in November, 18—, the inhabitants of the goodly village of Germantown were thrown into great consternation and dismay, by the important intelligence that a ghost had been seen the previous evening, perched upon Chew’s wall, dressed in white, and rattling a heavy chain, which some maintained he had been hung in, in consequence of some great crime. Some said that it was only a log-chain, which he intended to use, after his own fashion, on the first man he got in his clutches, while others, with a great show of reason, maintained that the chain was fastened around his own ankle, and that he was no less a personage than the ghost of the dead soldier who had deserted from the British during the revolution, and was accidentally shot during the battle of Germantown, while a prisoner in a baggage-wagon, as had been said, but who, it was very likely, had been murdered during the heat of the fray, by some enemy in his own ranks—a rival in love, perhaps, or an heir to some estate, who wished him out of the way. Be all this as it may, the ghost had been seen upon the wall, and he had a chain about him in some way, and some unheard of atrocity might confidently be looked for. The greatest mystery of the affair was that as soon as the rumor got on the wind, the man who had seen him was no where to be found, nor could any body tell who he was. Somebody had seen him, however, and that was enough, and any inhabitant of Germantown would as soon have doubted the existence of sour-krout—a belief of which substantial proof was given daily—as to have felt the least incredulity in regard to the ghost.