CHAPTER V.
In which the reader is beguiled into a delectable walk, which ends very differently from what it commenced.
In the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and four, on a fine afternoon,
in the glowing month of September,
I took my customary walk upon the
battery, which is at once the pride and
bulwark of this ancient and impregnable
city of New York. The ground on which
I trod was hallowed by recollections of
the past, and as I slowly wandered
through the long alley of poplars, which
like so many birch brooms standing on
end, diffused a melaneholy and lugubrious
shade, my imagination drew a
contrast between the surrounding scenery,
and what it was in the classic days
of our forefathers. Where the government-house
by name, but the customhouse
by occupation, proudly reared its
brick walls and wooden pillars, there
whilom stood the low, but substantial,
red-tiled mansion of the renowned Wouter
Van Twiller. Around it the mighty
bulwarks of Fort Amsterdam frowned
defiance to every absent foe; but, like
many a whiskered warrior and gallant
militia captain, confined their martial
deeds to frowns
