Bill Bramble

Burt Pringle and the “Bellesnickle”

European traditions had various punitive companions to Santa Claus, most of which did not seem to travel to the United States before or during the Victorian era. One exception was Belsnickel, who remained part of celebrations by the “Pennsylvania Dutch” (i.e. Deutsch) from Germany’s Rhineland. In appearance, Belsnickel is something like a rustic Santa but sometimes incorporating traits more closely related to Krampus. Descriptions of the tradition are not uncommon in English, but stories featuring him are. “Bill Bramble” wrote poetry and short fiction for the Syracuse, New York newspapers the Star and the Republican in the mid-1850s, occasionally reprinted by other papers. The following piece originally appeared in the Syracuse Republican on November 11, 1853.

As the holidays are coming on, and election is fairly over, the following anecdote may not be uninteresting to many of the readers of the [Syracuse] Republican. But before I go any farther let me explain to those who are unacquainted with the word, the meaning of “Bellesnickle.” As to its origin or derivation I have little to say. I know not whether it be Hog Latin or Lop-eared Dutch—perhaps a mixture of both—but this I do know: that it is used in the Pennsylvania German dialect to designate a very singular sort of a being: a great terror to “bad children,” and consequently a terror to all.—He is a kind of a Dutch Santa Claus but with this difference: Santa Claus is said to ride in a beautiful cutter drawn by reindeers, while Bellesnickle crams his pants in his boot-tops and journeys on foot; Santa Claus is said to make his entry by the chimney flue, and chooses the hour of midnight when everyone is soundly sleeping, for his visits, while Bellesnickle comes boldly in at the door, and is never later than nine; Santa Claus distributes his gifts according to age and merit, placing them in stockings which are hung up for that purpose; to the good, his gifts are appropriate, but sometimes the significant apparition of a rawhide peering from their pendant hosiery will strike terror into the hearts of “little disobedients;” but Bellesnickle seldom brings gifts but never fails to find a pretext for rigorously dusting the jackets of every “young one” he can lay his hands on, but they also have the right to defend themselves against his merciless castigations in any manner they may deem expedient. As the children of neighboring families generally congregate together on such occasions it not unfrequently happens that Bellesnickle’s visit is attended with some rare and exciting sport, for sometimes one or two of the party will “get their Dutch up” and a regular rough and tumble will ensue frequently to the entire discomfiture of poor Bellesnickle, often obliging him to make his exit rather hastily and sometimes minus a horn or a portion of his ghostly attire.

It is circumstance something similar to this of which I am about to speak and of which I was an eye witness.

In the little village of Wadsworth in Medina County, Ohio, there resided an honest, good hearted Pennsylvania Dutchman by the name of Peters—Daniel Peters. He was a tanner by trade but also owned and worked a large farm. Peters had in his employ an apprentice whose parents, while living, had resided at Akron, a large and flourishing village some twelve or fifteen miles from Wadsworth, and the county seat of Summit County; but they died and he was thrown upon the world, an orphan. But he was no drone, he had been taught to labor and he would not sit despondingly down now. The world was before him and he felt certain that where there was a will there was a way. So he gathered together all he owned in the world, which was but a small bundle at best, and praying Heaven to direct his steps, he set out, he knew not whither. But by good luck or a kind intervention of Providence, whichever you choose to call it, he had not proceeded far when he was overtaken by this Peters who it seems had been to Akron with a load of grain and was returning home. He invited the boy to ride and as they journied along the young man informed Peters of his circumstances and told him that his name was Burt Pringle. Peters agreed to take him home and if he wished, he would learn him the tanning trade; so Burt became his apprentice.

The village of Wadsworth, where Peters resided, was settled almost entirely by Pennsylvania Dutchmen, who, though they are an honest, and kind hearted people, are dreadfully ignorant and superstitious. Their children were frightened into obedience by stories of “spooks,” ghosts and goblins, or threats that the next Bellesnickle that came should carry them off.—Even the venerable Peters himself was tainted with this disease and would tell of many a horrid night, when things strange and unaccountable had happened and no consideration whatever could induce him to forego the observance of “signs.” But Burt was a philosopher. There was no superstition about him.—He was a regular harum scarum, devil may care sort of a boy, and for the matter of fear, he would as soon sleep in a graveyard as in his bed.

Christmas was drawing near and Burt was often reminded by the neighbor’s boys in the settlement that when a newcomer appeared among them he was sure to get “broken in;” and consequently he might expect that Bellesnickle would give him a regular walloping on that occasion. But Burt kept his own counsel and only occasionally muttered to himself “just let old Bellesnickle wallop if he wants to, and see who’ll get broken in, that’s all. These boys here are regular thick heads; they believe, and try to make me believe that this Bellesnickle is a ghost. Ghost!—humph! just let him lay his finger on me and see how quick I’ll take his ghostliness out of him. They can’t fool me. I know all about that great pair of horns and that whopping big cow hide they hid upstairs in that pile of hair, and didn’t I hear Jake Burkman last night telling Peters that it was all right, that Phoebe Stoffer had agreed to make him a dough face and that he had some red ink at home that he could make himself look as if his throat was cut? and didn’t I pry a clapboard off of the old mill last Sunday and ketch him practicing, with Stoffer’s big chain tied to his leg? Now Jake is a darned clever feller and I like him first rate, but if he goes to playing up ghost and tries to maul me with that big gad he’s hung up in the mill, I’m a-thinking he’ll wish he was a ghost, before he gets through with me. Ghosts! ha! ha! I wonder if ghosts can swim?”

The day before Christmas at last arrived and Peters loaded his wagon with grain and leaving Burt to take care of the children and everything else in general, went with his wife to Akron to make their usual Christmas purchases. Nearly all day Burt was busily occupied in the tan yard. There was an old vat in the middle of the yard that had long before been condemned and filled up with tan. This tan Burt had removed and had pumped the vat full of water, after accomplishing which he spread some hide over the top of it and slightly covered the whole with tan. He then distributed the remainder of the tan which he had taken from the vat, evenly about the yard, causing it to present the same appearance as it did before he had touched it.

“There,” said he, as he gave it the finishing touch, “now let him wallop, and see who’ll get broke in!”

Just at dusk, Peters came home and Burt was called to put out the team, which duty he performed and then got out the old lap stone and hammer and while supper was cooking he and Peters cracked nuts and talked over the adventures of the day and speculated upon the probability of a visit from the Bellesnickle.

“Now what sort of a looking critter is he, any how?” asked Burt.

“Well Burty, I don’t know as I could tell you exactly, but I suppose he’ll have great horns, and perhaps be covered with hair like an ox, and they generally go about with chains tied to their feet and their throats cut.”

“Can they swim?” asked Burt with a singular expression of countenance.

“Swim!” echoed old Peters in astonishment, “why no! spooks don’t swim!”

“Don’t they, well I think they’d better learn then,” said Burt.

“Why what do you mean, Burt?”

“Nothing, only I was thinking the Bellesnickle might take it into his head to cross the pond and you know the ice is very thin.”

“Oh, he couldn’t break through if it was ever so thin. Spooks ain’t like other folks.”

“Glad to hear it said,” said Burt, “but let’s drop the subject and go to supper.”

After supper the neighbors’ boys began to gather in and among them came George Burkman, a brother of Jake’s.

Burt’s quick eye soon informed him that Jake was not with them and therefore might soon be expected in the capacity of Bellesnickle. But to be certain, he asked George where Jake was, and why he did not come over with the rest of them?

“He said he did not feel well enough to get out to-night,” was the reply.

“He feels just well enough to get in, then,” thought Burt.

“But I say, Burt,” continued George, “if the Bellesnickle comes are you going to show fight or take your thrashing quietly?”

“Neither,” said Burt.

“How are you going to get around it?” asked George somewhat puzzled.

“I shall run!” said Burt.

“Run!” echoed George. “Why Burt, that’s cowardly; besides it won’t do you any good, for he will certainly chase you.”

“Do you think so? How far do you suppose he will chase me?”

“He would chase you to Texas and back but what he would catch you,” said George.

“Well, now, I’ll bet he gives up the race before we get half way across the tan yard,” said Burt.

“My knife against yours that he won’t,” said George.

“Done!” said Burt.

The stakes were put in Peters’ hands, who evidently began to smell a mice, for he nudged Burt in the ribs and whispered with a wink, “ah, Burty, you rogue, what you been up to?”

“Up to!” echoed Burt, “why, just what your Bellesnickle will soon be in to!”

Just then the rattle of a chain was heard on the porch and a general stampede was made by the timid portion of the assembly. Some dodged under the table and some under the beds; others crawled into the corners, each one endeavoring to get behind his neighbor. Burt sat alone unnerved. The apparition advanced towards him and raised its huge baton to strike, but Burt slipped out of its way and sprang out of the door calling on George to follow, if he wished to see who won.

On went Burt and the Bellesnickle followed close in his wake, and George, old Peters and all the rest came tearing along in the rear. But now Burt has reached the tan yard and the Bellesnickle———

“Ha! ha! ha!” Hear Burt laugh! “Ha! ha! ha! the Bellesnickle has tumbled into the old vat. Ah! ha! Jake, who’s broke in now?—” asked Burt tauntingly. Jake has forgiven but never can forget Burt.