University of Virginia Library

5. CHAP. V.

In the year of our Lord, one thousand eight
hundred and four, on a fine afternoon, in the mellow
month of October, 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.
I remember well the season, for it immediately preceded
that remarkably cold winter, in which our
sagacious corporation, in a spasm of economical
philanthropy, pulled to pieces, at an expense of several
hundred dollars, the wooden ramparts, which
had cost them several thousand; and distributed
the rotten fragments, which were worth considerably
less than nothing, among the shivering poor of
the city—never, since the fall of the walls of Jericho,
or the heaven built battlements of Troy, had
there been known such a demolition—nor did it go
unpunished; five men, eleven old women and nineteen
children, besides cats, dogs and negroes, were
blinded, in vain attempts to smoke themselves warm,
with this charitable substitute for firewood, and an
epidemic complaint of sore eyes was moreover produced,

which has since recurred every winter; particularly
among those who undertake to burn rotten
logs—who warm themselves with the charity of
others—or who use patent chimnies.

On the year and month just designated, did I
take my accustomed walk of meditation, on that
same battery, which, though at present, no battery,
furnishes the most delightful walk, and commands
the noblest prospect, in the whole known world.
The ground on which I trod was hallowed by recollections
of the past, and as I slowly wandered
through the long alleys of poplars, which, like so
many birch brooms standing on end, diffused a melancholy
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 custom house by occupation, proudly reared
its brick walls and wooden pillars; there whilome
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 alone—alas! those
threatening bulwarks had long since been sapped by
time, and like the walls of Carthage, presented no
traces to the enquiring eye of the antiquarian. The
mud breast works had long been levelled with the

earth, and their scite converted into the green lawns
and leafy alleys of the battery; where the gay apprentice
sported his sunday coat, and the laborious
mechanic, relieved from the dirt and drudgery of
the week, poured his septennial tale of love into the
half averted ear of the sentimental chambermaid.
The capacious bay still presented the same expansive
sheet of water, studded with islands, sprinkled
with fishing boats, and bounded by shores of picturesque
beauty. But the dark forests which once
clothed these shores had been violated by the
savage hand of cultivation, and their tangled mazes,
and impracticable thickets, had degenerated into
teeming orchards and waving fields of grain. Even
Governors Island, once a smiling garden, appertaining
to the sovereigns of the province, was now
covered with fortifications, inclosing a tremendous
block house—so that this once peaceful island resembled
a fierce little warrior in a big cocked hat,
breathing gunpowder and defiance to the world!

For some time did I indulge in this pensive train
of thought; contrasting in sober sadness, the present
day, with the hallowed years behind the mountains;
lamenting the melancholy progress of improvement,
and praising the zeal, with which our
worthy burghers endeavour to preserve the wrecks
of venerable customs, prejudices and errors, from
the overwhelming tide of modern innovation—
when by degrees my ideas took a different turn,

and I insensibly awakened to an enjoyment of the
beauties around me.

It was one of those rich autumnal days which
heaven particularly bestows upon the beauteous
island of Mannahata and its vicinity—not a floating
cloud obscured the azure firmament—the sun,
rolling in glorious splendour through his etherial
course, seemed to expand his honest dutch
countenance into an unusual expression of benevolence,
as he smiled his evening salutation upon a
city, which he delights to visit with his most bounteous
beams—the very winds seemed to hold in
their breaths in mute attention, lest they should
ruffle the tranquillity of the hour—and the waveless
bosom of the bay presented a polished mirror,
in which nature beheld herself and smiled!—The
standard of our city, which, like a choice handkerchief,
is reserved for days of gala, hung motionless
on the flag staff, which forms the handle to a gigantic
churn; and even the tremulous leaves of the
poplar and the aspen, which, like the tongues of the
immortal sex, are seldom still, now ceased to vibrate
to the breath of heaven. Every thing seemed
to acquiesce in the profound repose of nature.—
The formidable eighteen pounders slept in the embrazures
of the wooden batteries, seemingly gathering
fresh strength, to fight the battles of their country
on the next fourth of July—the solitary drum
on Governor's island forgot to call the garrison to
their shovels—the evening gun had not yet sounded

its signal, for all the regular, well meaning poultry
throughout the country, to go to roost; and the
fleet of canoes, at anchor between Gibbet Island
and Communipaw, slumbered on their rakes, and
suffered the innocent oysters to lie for a while unmolested,
in the soft mud of their native banks!—
My own feelings sympathized in the contagious
tranquillity, and I should infallibly have dozed upon
one of those fragments of benches, which our
benevolent magistrates have provided for the benefit
of convalescent loungers, had not the extraordinary
inconvenience of the couch set all repose at
defiance.

In the midst of this soothing slumber of the soul,
my attention was attracted to a black speck, peering
above the western horizon, just in the rear of Bergen
steeple—gradually it augments and overhangs
the would-be cities of Jersey, Harsimus and Hoboken,
which, like three jockies, are starting cheek by
jowl on the career of existence, and jostling each
other at the commencement of the race. Now it
skirts the long shore of ancient Pavonia, spreading
its wide shadows from the high settlements at Weehawk
quite to the lazaretto and quarentine, erected
by the sagacity of our police, for the embarrassment
of commerce—now it climbs the serene vault of
heaven, cloud rolling over cloud, like successive billows,
shrouding the orb of day, darkening the vast
expanse, and bearing thunder and hail, and tempest

in its bosom. The earth seems agitated at the confusion
of the heavens—the late waveless mirror is
lashed into furious waves, that roll their broken
surges in hollow murmurs to the shore—the oyster
boats that erst sported in the placid vicinity of Gibbet
Island, now hurry affrighted to the shore—the
late dignified, unbending poplar, writhes and twists,
before the merciless blast—descending torrents of
drenching rain and sounding hail deluge the battery
walks, the gates are thronged by 'prentices, servant
maids and little Frenchmen, with their pocket
handkerchiefs over their hats, scampering from the
storm—the late beauteous prospect presents one
scene of anarchy and wild uproar, as though old
chaos had resumed his reign, and was hurling back
into one vast turmoil, the conflicting elements of
nature. Fancy to yourself, oh reader! the awful
combat sung by old Hesiod, of Jupiter, and the
Titans—fancy to yourself the long rebellowing artillery
of heaven, streaming at the heads of the gigantic
sons of earth.—In short, fancy to yourself
all that has ever been said or sung, of tempest, storm
and hurricane—and you will save me the trouble
of describing it.

Whether I fled from the fury of the storm, or
remained boldly at my post, as our gallant train
band captains, who march their soldiers through
the rain without flinching, are points which I leave
to the conjecture of the reader. It is possible he

may be a little perplexed also, to know the reason
why I introduced this most tremendous and unheard
of tempest, to disturb the serenity of my
work. On this latter point I will gratuitously instruct
his ignorance. The panorama view of the
battery was given, merely to gratify the reader with
a correct description of that celebrated place, and
the parts adjacent—secondly, the storm was played
off, partly to give a little bustle and life to this
tranquil part of my work, and to keep my drowsy
readers from falling asleep—and partly to serve as
a preparation, or rather an overture, to the tempestuous
times, that are about to assail the pacific
province of Nieuw Nederlandt—and that over-hang
the slumbrous administration of the renowned
Wouter Van Twiller. It is thus the experienced
play-wright puts all the fiddles, the french horns,
the kettle drums and trumpets of his orchestra in
requisition, to usher in one of those horrible and
brimstone uproars, called Melodrames—and it is
thus he discharges his thunder, his lightening, his
rosin and saltpetre, preparatory to the raising of a
ghost, or the murdering of a hero—We will now
proceed with our history.

Whatever Plato, Aristotle, Grotius, Puffendorf,
Sydney, Thomas Jefferson or Tom Paine may say
to the contrary, I insist that, as to nations, the old
maxim that “honesty is the best policy,” is a sheer
and ruinous mistake. It might have answered well

enough in the honest times when it was made; but
in these degenerate days, if a nation pretends to
rely merely upon the justice of its dealings, it will
fare something like an honest man among thieves,
who unless he has something more than his honest
to depend upon, stands but a poor chance of profiting
by his company. Such at least was the case with
the guileless government of the New Netherlands;
which, like a worthy unsuspicious old burgher,
quietly settled itself down into the city of New Amsterdam,
as into a snug elbow chair—and fell into a
comfortable nap—while in the mean time its cunning
neighbours stepp'd in and picked its pockets. Thus
may we acribe the commencement of all the woes
of this great province, and its magnificent metropolis,
to the tranquil security, or to speak more
accurately, to the unfortunate honesty of its government.
But as I dislike to begin an important part
of my history, towards the end of a chapter; and
as my readers like myself must doubtless be exceedingly
fatigued with the long walk we have
taken, and the tempest we have sustained—I hold
it meet we shut up the book, smoke a pipe and
having thus refreshed our spirits; take a fair start
in the next chapter.