BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.
"Left his lodging some time ago, and has not been heard of since—a small elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat, by the name of Knickerbocker.... Any information concerning him will be thankfully received."
Such was the curious advertisement that appeared in the Evening Post under the date of October 26, 1809, attracting the attention of all New York. People read it as they sat at supper, talked of it afterward around their wood fires, and thought of it again and again before they fell asleep at night. And yet not a soul knew the missing old gentleman, or had ever heard of him before. Still, he was no stranger to them, for he was a Knickerbocker, and every one was interested in the Knickerbockers, and every one felt almost as if a grandfather or great-grandfather had suddenly come back to life, and disappeared again still more suddenly, without a word of explanation.
For some time nothing more was heard of Diedrich Knickerbocker, and then another advertisement appeared in the Post, saying he had been seen twice on the road to Albany. Some time again elapsed, and finally the landlord of the inn at which he had been reported to have stopped gave up hope of ever seeing his guest again, and declared that he should sell the manuscript of a book that Mr. Knickerbocker had left behind, and take the proceeds in payment of his bill. People were really excited about the fate of the old gentleman, and one of the city officials was upon the point of offering a reward for his discovery, when a curious thing happened. It was found that there was no old gentleman by the name of Knickerbocker who had wandered away from his lodging; that there was no inn at which he had lived, and no manuscript he had left behind, and that, in fact, Mr. Knickerbocker was simply the hero of a book of which the author took this clever means of advertising. The book claimed to be the true history of the discovery and settlement of New York, and began with an account of the creation of the world, passing on to the manners, customs, and historical achievements of the old Hollanders who settled Manhattan Island. Here we read of the golden reign of the first Dutch Governor, Wouter Van Twiller, who was exactly five feet six inches in height and six feet five inches in circumference, and who ate four hours a day, smoked eight, and slept twelve, and so administered the affairs of the colony that it was a marvel of prosperity. Next we hear of Governor Keift, of lofty descent, since his father was an inspector of windmills, how his nose turned up and his mouth turned down, how his legs were the size of spindles, and how he grew tougher and tougher with age, so that before his death he looked a veritable mummy. And then we see the redoubtable Peter Stuyvesant stumping around on his wooden leg, which was adorned with silver reliefs, furious with rage, menacing the British fleet which has come to take possession of the town, threatening vengeance dire upon the English King, and still cherishing his wrath with fiery bravery when the enemy finally occupy the old Dutch town and proceed to transform it into an English city.
The book was read with amazement, admiration, or interest, as the case might be. Some said it appeared too light and amusing for real history; others claimed that it held stories of wisdom that only the wise could understand; others still complained that the author was no doubt making fun of their respectable ancestors, and had written the book merely to hold them up to ridicule. Only a few saw that it was the brightest, cleverest piece of humor that had yet appeared in America, and that its writer had probably a career of fame before him. The author was Washington Irving, then a young man in his twenty-seventh year, and already known as the writer of some clever newspaper letters, and of a series of humorous essays published in a semimonthly periodical called Salmagundi.
IRVING AS A STAR.
Irving was born in New York on the 3d of April, 1783, and was named after George Washington. New York was then a small town, beyond the limits of which were orchards, farms, country-houses, and the high-road leading to Albany, along which the stage-coach passed at regular times. There were no railroads, and Irving was fourteen years old before the first steamboat puffed its way up the Hudson River frightening the country people into the belief that it was an evil monster come to devour them. All travelling was done by means of sailing vessels, stage-coaches, or private conveyances; all letters were carried by the stage-coach, and every one cost the sender or receiver twenty-five cents for postage. The telegraph was undreamed of, and if any one had hinted the possibility of talking to some one else a thousand miles away over a telephone-wire, he would have been considered a lunatic or, possibly, a witch. In fact, New York was a quiet, unpretentious little town whose inhabitants were still divided into English or Dutch families, according to their descent, and in whose households were found the customs of England and Holland in full force. Irving's father was a Scotch Presbyterian, who considered life a discipline, who thought all amusement a waste of precious time, and who made the children devote one out of the two half-weekly holidays to the study of the Catechism.
Forbidden to attend the theatre, Irving would risk his neck nightly by climbing out of his window to visit the play for an hour or so, and then rush home in terror lest his absence had been noted and his future fun imperilled, and many a night when sent early to bed he would steal away across the adjacent roofs to send a handful of stones clattering down the wide old-fashioned chimney of some innocent neighbor, who would start from his dreams to imagine robbers, spooks, or other unpleasant visitors in his bed-chamber. He was not particularly brilliant in his studies, but he distinguished himself as an actor in the tragedies which the boys gave in the school-room; at ten years of age he was the star of the company, who did not even lose respect for him when once, being called suddenly upon the stage through a mistake, he appeared with his month full of honey-cake, which he was obliged to swallow painfully, while the audience roared at the situation. Afterward when he rushed around the stage flourishing a wooden sabre he was not a tragedian to be trifled with. His favorite books were Robinson Crusoe, the Arabian Nights, Gulliver's Travels, and all stories of adventure and travel. The world beyond the sea always seemed a fairy-land to him; a little print of London Bridge and another of Kensington Gardens that hung in his bedroom stirred his heart wistfully; and he fairly envied the odd-looking old gentlemen and ladies who appeared to be loitering around the arches of St. John's Gate, as shown in a cut on the cover of an old magazine. Later on his imagination was also kindled by short excursions to the then wild regions of the Hudson and Mohawk valleys. Years afterward we find the remembrance of these days gracing with loving touch the pages of some of his choicest work.
