Knickerbocker's History of New York, Complete eBook
Washington Irving
After his return from Scaghtikoke, Mr. Knickerbocker
took up his residence at a little rural retreat, which
the Stuyvesants had granted him on the family domain,
in gratitude for his honorable mention of their ancestor.
It was pleasantly situated on the borders of one of
the salt marshes beyond Corlear’s Hook; subject,
indeed, to be occasionally over-flowed, and much infested,
in the summer-time, with mosquitoes; but otherwise
very agreeable, producing abundant crops of salt grass
and bulrushes.
Here, we are sorry to say, the good old gentleman
fell dangerously ill of a fever, occasioned by the
neighboring marshes. When he found his end approaching,
he disposed of his worldly affairs, leaving the bulk
of his fortune to the New York Historical Society;
his Heidelberg Catechism and Vander Donck’s
work to the City Library; and his saddle-bags to Mr.
Handaside. He forgave all his enemies—that
is to say, all that bore any enmity towards him; for
as to himself, he declared he died in good-will to
all the world. And, after dictating several kind
messages, to his relations at Scaghtikoke, as well
as to certain of our most substantial Dutch citizens,
he expired in the arms of his friend the librarian.
His remains were interred, according to his own request,
in St. Mark’s Churchyard, close by the bones
of his favorite hero, Peter Stuyvesant; and it is
rumored that the Historical Society have it in mind
to erect a wooden monument to his memory in the Bowling
Green.
TO THE PUBLIC.
“To rescue from oblivion the memory of former
incidents, and to render a just tribute of renown
to the many great and wonderful transactions of our
Dutch progenitors, Diedrich Knickerbocker, native of
the city of New York, produces this historical essay."[1]
Like the great Father of History, whose words I have
just quoted, I treat of times long past, over which
the twilight of uncertainty had already thrown its
shadows, and the night of forgetfulness was about
to descend for ever. With great solicitude had
I long beheld the early history of this venerable
and ancient city gradually slipping from our grasp,
trembling on the lips of narrative old age, and day
by day dropping piecemeal into the tomb. In a
little while, thought I, and those revered Dutch burghers,
who serve as the tottering monuments of good old times,
will be gathered to their fathers; their children,
engrossed by the empty pleasures or insignificant transactions
of the present age, will neglect to treasure up the
recollections of the past, and posterity will search
in vain for memorials of the days of the Patriarchs.
The origin of our city will be buried in eternal oblivion,
and even the names and achievements of Wouter Van
Twiller, William Kieft, and Peter Stuyvesant be enveloped
in doubt and fiction, like those of Romulus and Remus,
of Charlemagne, King Arthur, Rinaldo, and Godfrey of
Boulogne.
Determined, therefore, to avert if possible this threatened
misfortune, I industriously set myself to work to
gather together all the fragments of our ancient history
which still existed; and, like my revered prototype,
Herodotus, where no written records could be found,
I have endeavored to continue the chain of history
by well-authenticated traditions.
