University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER VII.

Now did the high-minded Pieter de
Groodt shower down a pannier-load of
maledictions upon his burgomasters for a
set of self-willed, obstinate, headstrong
varlets, who would neither be convinced
nor persuaded; and determined thenceforth
to have nothing more to do with
them, but to consult merely the opinion
of his privy councillors, which he knew
from experience to be the best in the
world—inasmuch as it never differed
from his own. Nor did he omit, now
that his hand was in, to bestow some
thousand left-handed compliments upon
the sovereign people, whom he railed at
for a herd of poltroons, who had no relish
for the glorious hardships and illustrious
misadventures of battle—but would rather
stay at home, and eat and sleep in
ignoble ease, than gain immortality and
a broken head, by valiantly fighting in a
ditch.

Resolutely bent, however, upon defending
his beloved city, in despite even
of itself, he called unto him his trusty
Van Corlear, who was his right-hand
man in all times of emergency. Him
did he adjure to take his war-denouncing
trumpet, and, mounting his horse, to beat
up the country night and day—sounding
the alarm along the pastoral borders of
the Bronx—startling the wild solitudes of
Croton—arousing the rugged yeomanry of
Weehawk and Hoboken—the mighty men
of battle of Tappaan Bay—and the brave
boys of Tarry Town and Sleepy Hollow
—together with all the other warriors of
the country round about; charging them
one and all to sling their powder-horns,
shoulder their fowling-pieces, and march
merrily down to the Manhattoes.

Now there was nothing in all the
world, the divine sex excepted, that Anthony
Van Corlear loved better than
errands of this kind. So just stopping
to take a lusty dinner, and bracing to his
side his junk bottles, well charged with
heart-inspiring Hollands, he issued jollily
from the city gate, that looked out upon
what is at present called Broadway;
sounding as usual a farewell strain, that
rung in sprightly echoes through the
winding streets of New Amsterdam.
Alas! never more were they to be gladdened
by the melody of their favourite
trumpeter!

It was a dark and stormy night when
the good Anthony arrived at the creek
(sagely denominated Haerlem river)
which separates the island of Mannahata
from the main land. The wind
was high, the elements were in an uproar,
and no Charon could be found to
ferry the adventurous sounder of brass
across the water. For a short time he
vapoured like an impatient ghost upon
the brink, and then bethinking himself of
the urgency of his errand, took a hearty
embrace of his stone bottle, swore most
valorously that he would swim across,
en spijt den Duyrel, (in spite of the
devil!) and daringly plunged into the
stream. Luckless Anthony! scarce had
he buffeted half-way over, when he was
observed to struggle violently, as if battling
with the spirit of the waters—instinctively
he put his trumpet to his
mouth, and giving a vehement blast—
sunk for ever to the bottom!</