University of Virginia Library

BOOK VI.

1. CHAP. I.

Hitherto most venerable and courteous reader,
have I shewn thee the administration of the valourous
Stuyvesant, under the mild moonshine of
peace; or rather the grim tranquillity of awful preparation;
but now the war drum rumbles, the brazen
trumpet brays its thrilling note, and the rude
clash of hostile arms, speaks fearful prophecies of
coming troubles. The gallant warrior starts from
soft repose, from golden visions and voluptuous
ease; where in the dulcet, “piping time of peace,”
he sought sweet solace after all his toils. No more
in beauty's syren lap reclined, he weaves fair garlands
for his lady's brows; no more entwines with

flowers his shining sword, nor through the live-long
lazy summers day, chaunts forth his lovesick soul
in madrigals. To manhood roused, he spurns the
amorous flute; doffs from his brawny back the robe
of peace, and clothes his pampered limbs in panoply
of steel. O'er his dark brow, where late the myrtle
waved; where wanton roses breathed enervate
love, he rears the beaming casque and nodding
plume; grasps the bright shield and shakes the pondrous
lance; or mounts with eager pride his fiery
steed; and burns for deeds of glorious chivalry!

But soft, worthy reader! I would not have you
go about to imagine, that any preux chevalier thus
hideously begirt with iron existed in the city of
New Amsterdam.—This is but a lofty and gigantic
mode in which we heroic writers always talk of
war, thereby to give it a noble and imposing aspect;
equipping our warriors with bucklers, helms
and lances, and a host of other outlandish and obsolete
weapons, the like of which perchance they
had never seen or heard of; in the same manner
that a cunning statuary arrays a modern general or
an admiral in the accoutrements of a Cæsar or an
Alexander. The simple truth then of all this oratorical
flourish is this.—That the valiant Peter
Stuyvesant all of a sudden found it necessary to
scour his trusty blade, which too long had rusted
in its scabbard, and prepare himself to undergo

those hardy toils of war, in which his mighty soul
so much delighted.

Methinks I at this moment behold him in my
imagination—or rather I behold his goodly portrait,
which still hangs up in the family mansion of
the Stuyvesants—arrayed in all the terrors of a
true dutch general. His regimental coat of German
blue, gorgeously decorated with a goodly
shew of large brass buttons, reaching from his
waistband to his chin. The voluminous skirts
turned up at the corners and separating gallantly
behind, so as to display the seat of a sumptuous
pair of brimstone coloured trunk breeches—a graceful
style still prevalent among the warriors of our
day, and which is in conformity to the custom of
ancient heroes, who scorned to defend themselves
in rear.—His face rendered exceeding terrible and
warlike by a pair of black mustachios; his hair
strutting out on each side in stiffly pomatumed ear
locks and descending in a rat tail queue below his
waist; a shining stock of black leather supporting
his chin, and a little, but fierce cocked hat stuck
with a gallant and fiery air, over his left eye. Such
was the chivalric port of Peter the Headstrong;
and when he made a sudden halt, planted himself
firmly on his solid supporter, with his wooden leg,
inlaid with silver, a little in advance, in order to
strengthen his position; his right hand stuck akimbo,
his left resting upon the pummel of his

brass hilted sword; his head dressing spiritedly
to the right, with a most appalling and hard favoured
frown upon his brow—he presented altogether
one of the most commanding, bitter looking, and
soldierlike figures, that ever strutted upon canvass.
—Proceed we now to enquire the cause of this
warlike preparation.

The encroaching disposition of the Swedes, on
the south, or Delaware river, has been duly recorded
in the Chronicles of the reign of William
the Testy. These encroachments having been endured
with that heroic magnanimity, which is the
corner stone, or according to Aristotle, the left
hand neighbour of true courage, had been repeated
and wickedly aggravated.

The Swedes, who, were of that class of cunning
pretenders to Christianity, that read the Bible upside
down, whenever it interferes with their interests,
inverted the golden maxim, and when their
neighbour suffered them to smite him on the one
cheek, they generally smote him on the other also,
whether it was turned to them or not. Their repeated
aggressions had been among the numerous
sources of vexation, that conspired to keep the
irritable sensibilities of Wilhelmus Kieft, in a constant
fever, and it was only owing to the unfortunate
circumstance, that he had always a hundred
things to do at once, that he did not take such unrelenting
vengeance as their offences merited. But

they had now a chieftan of a different character to
deal with; and they were soon guilty of a piece of
treachery, that threw his honest blood in a ferment,
and precluded all further sufference.

Printz, the governor of the province of New
Sweden, being either deceased or removed, for of
this fact some uncertainty exists; he was succeeded
by Jan Risingh, a gigantic Swede, and who, had he
not been rather in-kneed and splay-footed, might
have served for the model of a Sampson, or a Hercules.
He was no less rapacious than mighty, and
withal as crafty as he was rapacious; so that in fact
there is very little doubt, had he lived some four or
five centuries before, he would have made one of
those wicked giants, who took such a cruel pleasure
in pocketing distressed damsels, when gadding about
the would, and locking them up in enchanted castles,
without a toilet, a change of linen, or any other
convenience.—In consequence of which enormities
they fell under the high displeasure of chivalry,
and all true, loyal and gallant knights, were instructed
to attack and slay outright any miscreant
they might happen to find above six feet high;
which is doubtless one reason that the race of large
men is nearly extinct, and the generations of latter
ages so exceeding small.

No sooner did governor Risingh enter upon
his office, than he immediately cast his eyes upon
the important post of Fort Casimer, and formed the

righteous resolution of taking it into his possession.
The only thing that remained to consider, was the
mode of carrying his resolution into effect; and
here I must do him the justice to say, that he exhibited
a humanity rarely to be met with among
leaders; and which I have never seen equalled in
modern times, excepting among the English, in
their glorious affair at Copenhagen. Willing to
spare the effusion of blood, and the miseries of open
warfare, he benevolently shunned every thing like
avowed hostility or regular seige, and resorted to
the less glorious, but more merciful expedient of
treachery.

Under pretence therefore, of paying a sociable,
neighbourly visit to general Von Poffenburgh, at
his new post of Fort Casimer, he made requisite
preparation, sailed in great state up the Delaware,
displayed his flag with the most ceremonious punctilio,
and honoured the fortress with a royal salute,
previous to dropping anchor. The unusual noise
awakened a veteran dutch centinel, who was napping
faithfully on his post, and who after hammering
his flint for good ten minutes, and rubbing its edge
with the corner of his ragged cocked hat, but all to
no purpose, contrived to return the compliment,
by discharging his rusty firelock with the spark of
a pipe, which he borrowed from one of his comrades.
The salute indeed would have been answered by
the guns of the fort, had they not unfortunately

been out of order, and the magazine deficient in
ammunition—accidents to which forts have in all
ages been liable, and which were the more excusable
in the present instance, as Fort Casimir had
only been erected about two years, and general
Von Poffenburgh, its mighty commander, had been
fully occupied wish matters of much greater self
importance.

Risingh, highly satisfied with this courteous
reply to his salute, treated the fort to a second,
for he well knew its puissant and pompous leader,
was marvellously delighted with these little ceremonials,
which he considered as so many acts of
homage paid unto his greatness. He then landed
in great state, attended by a suite of thirty men—
a prodigious and vain-glorious retinue, for a petty
governor of a petty settlement, in those days of
primitive simplicity; and to the full as great an
army as generally swells the pomp and marches in
the rear of our frontier commanders at the present
day.

The number in fact might have awakened suspicion,
had not the mind of the great Von Poffenburgh
been so completely engrossed with an all
pervading idea of himself, that he had not room to
admit a thought besides. In fact he considered
the concourse of Risingh's followers as a compliment
to himself—so apt are great men to stand
between themselves and the sun, and completely
eclipse the truth by their own shadow.

It may readily be imagined how much general
Von Poffenburgh was flattered by a visit from so
august a personage; his only embarrassment was,
how he should receive him in such a manner as to
appear to the greatest advantage, and make the
most advantageous impression. The main guard
was ordered immediately to turn out, and the arms
and regimentals (of which the garrison possessed
full half a dozen suits) were equally distributed
among the solidiers. One tall lank fellow, appeared
in a coat intended for a small man, the skirts of
which reached a little below his waist, the buttons
were between his shoulders and the sleeves half way
to his wrists, so that his hands looked like a couple
of huge spades—and the coat not being large enough
to meet in front, was linked together by loops,
made of a pair of red worsted garters. Another
had an old cocked hat, stuck on the back of his
head and decorated with a bunch of cocks tails—
a third had a pair of rusty gaiters hanging about
his heels—while a fourth, who was a short duck
legged little trojan, was equipped in a huge pair of
the general's cast off breeches, which he held up
with one hand, while he grasped his firelock with
the other. The rest were accoutred in similar
style, excepting three graceless raggamuffins, who
had no shirts and but a pair and half of breeches
between them, wherefore they were sent to the
black hole, to keep them out of view. There is

nothing in which the talents of a prudent commander
are more completely testified, than in thus setting
matters off to the greatest advantage; and it is for
this reason that our frontier posts at the present
day (that of Niagara in particular) display their
best suit of regimentals on the back of the centinel
who stands in sight of travellers.

His men being thus gallantly arrayed—those
who lacked muskets shouldering shovels and pick
axes, and every man being ordered to tuck in his
shirt tail and pull up his brogues, general Von
Poffenburgh first took a sturdy draught of foaming
ale, which like the magnanimous More of Morehall
[9] was his invariable practice on all great occasions—which
done he put himself at their head, ordered
the pine planks, which served as a draw bridge,
to be laid down, and issued forth from his castle,
like a mighty giant, just refreshed with wine. But
when the two heroes met, then began a scene of
warlike parade and chivalric courtesy, that beggars
all description. Risingh, who, as I before hinted,
was a shrewd, cunning politician, and had grown
grey much before his time, in consequence of his
craftiness, saw at one glance the ruling passion of

the great Von Poffenburgh, and humoured him in all
his valorous fantasies.

Their detachments were accordingly drawn up
in front of each other; they carried arms and they
presented arms; they gave the standing salute and
the passing salute—They rolled their drums, they
flourished their fifes and they waved their colours—
they faced to the left, and they faced to the right,
and they faced to the right about—They wheeled
forward, and they wheeled backward, and they
wheeled into echellon—They marched and they
countermarched, by grand divisions, by single divisions
and by sub-divisions—by platoons, by sections
and by files—In quick time, in slow time and in no
time at all; for, having gone through all the evolutions
of two great armies, including the eighteen
manœuvres of Dundas (which, not being yet invented
they must have anticipated by intuition or
inspiration) having exhausted all that they could
recollect or imagine of military tactics, including
sundry strange and irregular evolutions, the like of
which were never seen before or since, excepting
among certain of our newly raised drafts, the
two great commanders and their respective troops,
came at length to a dead halt, completely exhausted
by the toils of war—Never did two valiant train
band captains, or two buskin'd theatric heroes, in
the renowned tragedies of Pizarro, Tom Thumb, or
any other heroical and fighting tragedy, marshal

their gallows-looking, duck-legged, heavy-heeled,
sheep-stealing myrmidons with more glory and self-admiration.

These military compliments being finished, general
Von Poffenburgh escorted his illustrious visitor,
with great ceremony into the fort; attended him
throughout the fortifications; shewed him the horn
works, crown works, half moons, and various other
outworks; or rather the places where they ought to
be erected, and where they might be erected if he
pleased; plainly demonstrating that it was a place
of “great capability,” and though at present but a
little redoubt, yet that it evidently was a formidable
fortress, in embryo. This survey over, he next had
the whole garrison put under arms, exercised and
reviewed, and concluded by ordering the three bridewell
birds to be hauled out of the black hole, brought
up to the halberts and soundly flogged, for the
amusement of his visitor, and to convince him, that
he was a great disciplinarian.

There is no error more dangerous than for a
commander to make known the strength, or, as in
the present case, the weakness of his garrison; this
will be exemplified before I have arrived to an end
of my present story, which thus carries its moral
like a roasted goose his pudding in its very middle.
The cunning Risingh, while he pretended to be
struck dumb outright, with the puissance of the

great Von Poffenburgh, took silent note of the
incompetency of his garrison, of which he gave a
hint to his trusty followers; who tipped each other
the wink, and laughed most obstreperously—in
their sleeves.

The inspection, review, and flogging being concluded,
the party adjourned to the table; for
among his other great qualities, the general was remarkably
addicted to huge entertainments, or rather
carousals, and in one afternoon's campaign would
leave more dead men on the field, than he ever did
in the whole course of his military career. Many
bulletins of these bloodless victories do still remain
on record; and the whole province was once thrown
in amaze, by the return of one of his campaigns;
wherein it was stated, that though like captain
Bobadel, he had only twenty men to back him,
yet in the short space of six months he had conquered
and utterly aunihilated sixty oxen, ninety
hogs, one hundred sheep, ten thousand cabbages,
one thousand bushels of potatoes, one hundred and
fifty kilderkins of small beer, two thousand seven
hundred and thirty five pipes, seventy eight pounds
of sugar-plumbs, and forty bars of iron, besides
sundry small meats, game, poultry and garden stuff.
An atchievement unparalleled since the days of
Pantagruel and his all devouring army, and which
shewed that it was only necessary to let the great
general Von Poffenburgh, and his garrison, loose

in an enemies country, and in a little while they
would breed a famine, and starve all the inhabitants.

No sooner therefore had the general received
the first intimation of the visit of governor Risingh,
than he ordered a big dinner to be prepared; and
privately sent out a detachment of his most experienced
veterans, to rob all the hen-roosts in
the neighbourhood, and lay the pig-styes under
contribution; a service to which they had been
long enured, and which they discharged with such
incredible zeal and promptitude, that the garrison
table groaned under the weight of their spoils.

I wish with all my heart, my readers could see
the valiant Von Poffenburgh, as he presided at the
head of the banquet: it was a sight worth beholding—there
he sat, in his greatest glory, surrounded
by his soldiers, like that famous wine bibber
Alexander, whose thirsty virtues he did most ably
imitate—telling astounding stories of his hair-breadth
adventures and heroic exploits, at which,
though all his auditors knew them to be most incontinent
and outrageous gasconadoes, yet did they
cast up their eyes in admiration and utter many interjections
of astonishment. Nor could the general
pronounce any thing that bore the remotest
semblance to a joke, but the stout Risingh would
strike his brawny fist upon the table till every glass

rattled again, throwing himself back in his chair,
and uttering gigantic peals of laughter, swearing
most horribly, it was the best joke he ever heard
in his life.—Thus all was rout and revelry and hideous
carousal within Fort Casimer, and so lustily
did the great Von Poffenburgh ply the bottle, that
in less than four short hours he made himself, and
his whole garrison, who all sedulously emulated
the deeds of their chieftain, dead drunk, in singing
songs, quaffing bumpers, and drinking fourth of
July toasts, not one of which, but was as long as a
Welsh pedigee or a plea in chancery.

No sooner did things come unto this pass, than
the crafty Risingh and his Swedes, who had cunningly
kept themselves sober, rose on their entertainers,
tied them neck and heels, and took formal
possession of the fort, and all its dependencies, in
the name of queen Christina, of Sweden: administering,
at the same time, an oath of allegiance to all
the dutch soldiers, who could be made sober enough
to swallow it. Risingh then put the fortifications
in order, appointed his discreet and vigilant friend
Suen Scutz, a tall, wind-dried, water drinking
Swede, to the command, and departed bearing with
him this truly amiable garrison, and their puissant
commander; who when brought to himself by a
sound drubbing, bore no little resemblance to a
“deboshed fish;” or bloated sea monster, caught
upon dry land.

The transportation of the garrison was done
to prevent the transmission of intelligence to New
Amsterdam; for much as the cunning Risingh exulted
in his stratagem, he dreaded the vengeance of
the sturdy Peter Stuyvesant; whose name spread
as much terror in the neighbourhood, as did whilome
that of the unconquerable Scanderbeg among
his scurvy enemies the Turks.

2. CHAP. II.

Whoever first described common fame, or rumour,
as belonging to the sager sex, was a very owl
for shrewdness. She has in truth certain feminine
qualities to an astonishing degree; particularly that
benevolent anxiety to take care of the affairs of
others, which keeps her continually hunting after
secrets, and gadding about, proclaiming them.
Whatever is done openly and in the face of the
world, she takes but transient notice of, but whenever
a transaction is done in a corner, and attempted
to be shrouded in mystery, then her goddesship
is at her wit's end to find it out, and takes a most
mischievous and lady-like pleasure in publishing it
to the world. It is this truly feminine propensity
that induces her continually to be prying into cabinets
of princes; listening at the key holes of senate
chambers, and peering through chinks and
crannies, when our worthy Congress are sitting
with closed doors, deliberating between a dozen
excellent modes of ruining the nation. It is this
which makes her so obnoxious to all wary statesmen

and intriguing commanders—such a stumbling
block to private negociations and secret expeditions;
which she often betrays, by means and instruments
which never would have been thought of by any
but a female head.

Thus it was in the case of the affair of Fort Casimer.
No doubt the cunning Risingh imagined,
that by securing the garrison, he should for a long
time prevent the history of its fate from reaching the
ears of the gallant Stuyvesant; but his exploit was
blown to the world when he least expected it, and
by one of the last beings he would ever have suspected
of enlisting as trumpeter to the wide mouthed
deity.

This was one Dirk Schuiler (or Skulker),
a kind of hanger on to the garrison; who seemed
to belong to no body, and in a manner to be self outlawed.
One of those vagabond Cosmopolites, who
shirk about the world, as if they had no right or
business in it, and who infest the skirts of society,
like poachers and interlopers. Every garrison
and country village has one or more scape goats of
this kind, whose life is a kind of enigma, whose existence
is without motive, who comes from the
Lord knows where, who lives the Lord knows
how, and seems to be made for no other earthly
purpose but to keep up the antient and honourable
order of idleness—This vagrant philosopher was
supposed to have some Indian blood in his veins,

which was manifested by a certain Indian complexion
and cast of countenance; but more especially
by his propensities and habits. He was a tall, lank
fellow, swift of foot and long-winded. He was
generally equipped in a half Indian dress, with
belt, leggings, and moccasons. His hair hung in
straight gallows locks, about his ears, and added
not a little to his shirking demeanour. It is an old
remark, that persons of Indian mixture are half civilized,
half savage, and half devil, a third half being
expressly provided for their particular convenience.
It is for similar reasons, and probably with
equal truth, that the back-wood-men of Kentucky
are styled half man, half horse and half alligator, by
the settlers on the Mississippi, and held accordingly
in great respect and abhorrence.

The above character may have presented itself
to the garrison as applicable to Dirk Schuiler, whom
they familiarly dubbed Galgenbrok, or Gallows
Dirk. Certain it is, he appeared to acknowledge
allegiance to no one—was an utter enemy to work,
holding it in no manner of estimation—but lounged
about the fort, depending upon chance for a subsistence;
getting drunk whenever he could get liquor,
and stealing whatever he could lay his hands
on. Every day or two he was sure to get a sound
rib-roasting for some of his misdemeanours, which
however, as it broke no bones, he made very
light of, and scrupled not to repeat the offence,

whenever another opportunity presented. Sometimes
in consequence of some flagrant villainy, he
would abscond from the garrison, and be absent for
a month at a time; skulking about the woods and
swamps, with a long fowling piece on his shoulder,
laying in ambush for game—or squatting himself
down on the edge of a pond catching fish for hours
together, and bearing no little resemblance to that
notable bird ycleped the Mud-poke. When he
thought his crimes had been forgotten or forgiven, he
would sneak back to the fort with a bundle of skins,
or a bunch of poultry which perchance he had stolen,
and exchange them for liquor, with which, having
well soaked his carcass, he would lay in the sun and
enjoy all the luxurious indolence of that swinish philosopher
Diogenes. He was the terror of all the farm
yards in the country; into which he made fearful
inroads; and sometimes he would make his sudden
appearance at the garrison at day break, with the
whole neighbourhood at his heels; like a scoundrel
thief of a fox, detected in his maraudings and hunted
to his hole. Such was this Dirk Schuiler; and
from the total indifference he shewed to the world
or its concerns, and from his true Indian stoicism
and taciturnity, no one would ever have dreamt,
that he would have been the publisher of the treachery
of Risingh.

When the carousal was going on, which proved
so fatal to the brave Von Poffenburgh and his

watchful garrison, Dirk skulked about from room
to room, being a kind of privileged vagrant, or useless
hound, whom nobody noticed. But though a
fellow of few words, yet like your taciturn people,
his eyes and ears were always open, and in the
course of his prowlings he overheard the whole plot
of the Swedes. Dirk immediately settled in his
own mind, how he should turn the matter to his
own advantage. He played the perfect jack-of-both-sides—that
is to say, he made a prize of every
thing that came in his reach, robbed both parties,
stuck the copper bound cocked hat of the puissant
Von Poffenburgh, on his head, whipped a huge
pair of Risingh's jack boots under his arm, and
took to his heels, just before the denouement and
confusion at the garrison.

Finding himself completely dislodged from his
haunt in this quarter, he directed his flight towards
his native place, New Amsterdam, from whence
he had formerly been obliged to abscond precipitately,
in consequence of misfortune in business—
in other words, having been detected in the act of
sheep stealing. After wandering many days in the
woods, toiling through swamps, fording brooks,
swimming various rivers, and encountering a world
of hardships that would have killed any other being,
but an Indian, a back-wood-man, or the devil,
he at length arrived, half famished, and lank as a
starved weazle at Communipaw, where he stole a

canoe and paddled over to New Amsterdam. Immediately
on landing, he repaired to governor Stuyvesant,
and in more words than he had ever spoken
before, in the whole course of his life, gave an account
of the disastrous affair.

On receiving these direful tidings the valiant
Peter started from his seat, as did the stout king
Arthur when at “merry Carleile,” the news was
brought him of the uncourteous misdeeds of the
“grim barone”—without uttering a word, he dashed
the pipe he was smoking against the back of the
chimney—thrust a prodigious quid of negro head
tobacco into his left cheek—pulled up his galligaskins,
and strode up and down the room, humming,
as was customary with him, when in a passion a
most hideous north-west ditty. But, as I have before
shewn, he was not a man to vent his spleen in
idle vapouring. His first measure after the paroxysm
of wrath had subsided, was to stump up stairs, to
a huge wooden chest, which served as his armoury,
from whence he drew forth that identical suit of
regimentals described in the preceding chapter. In
these portentous habiliments he arrayed himself,
like Achilles in the armour of Vulcan, maintaining
all the while a most appalling silence; knitting his
brows and drawing his breath through his clinched
teeth. Being hastily equipped, he thundered down
into the parlour like a second Magog—jerked down
his trusty sword, from over the fire place, where it

was usually suspended; but before he girded it on
his thigh he drew it from its scabbard, and as his
eye coursed along the rusty blade, a grim smile
stole over his iron visage—It was the first smile
that had visited his countenance for five long weeks;
but every one who beheld it, prophesied that there
would soon be warm work in the province!

Thus armed at all points, with grizly war depicted
in each feature; his very cocked hat assuming
an air of uncommon defiance; he instantly put
himself on the alert, and dispatched Antony Van
Corlear hither and thither, this way and that way,
through all the muddy streets and crooked lanes of
the city: summoning by sound of trumpet his trusty
peers to assemble in instant council.—This done,
by way of expediting matters, according to the custom
of people in a hurry, he kept in continual bustle,
thrusting his bottom into every chair, popping his
head out of every window, and stumping up and
down stairs with his wooden leg in such brisk and
incessant motion, that, as I am informed by an authentic
historian of the times, the continual clatter
bore no small resemblance to the music of a cooper,
hooping a flour barrel.

A summons so peremptory, and from a man of
the governor's mettle, was not to be trifled with:
the sages forthwith repaired to the council chamber,
where the gallant Stuyvesant entered in martial
style, and took his chair, like another Charlemagne,

among his Paladins. The councillors seated themselves
with the utmost tranquillity, and lighting their
long pipes, gazed with unruffled composure on his
excellency and his regimentals; being, as all councillors
should be, not easily flustered, or taken by
surprise. The governor, not giving them time to
recover from the astonishment they did not feel,
addressed them in a short, but soul stirring harangue.

I am extremely sorry, that I have not the advantages
of Livy, Thucydides, Plutarch and others of my
predecessors, who were furnished as I am told, with
the speeches of all their great emperors, generals,
and orators, taken down in short hand, by the most
accurate stenographers of the time; whereby they
were enabled wonderfully to enrich their histories,
and delight their readers with sublime strains of eloqence.
Not having such important auxiliaries, I cannot
possibly pronounce, what was the tenor of governor
Stuyvesant's speech. Whether he with maiden
coyness hinted to his hearers that “there was a speck
of war in the horison;”—that it would be necessary
to resort to the “unprofitable trial of which could
do each other the most harm,”—or any other delicate
construction of language, whereby the odious
subject of war, is handled so fastidiously and
modestly by modern statesmen; as a gentleman
volunteer handles his filthy salt-petre weapons with
gloves, lest he should soil his dainty fingers.

I am bold however to say, from the tenor of Peter
Stuyvesant's character, that he did not wrap his
rugged subject in silks and ermines, and other sickly
trickeries of phrase; but spoke forth, like a man
of nerve and vigour, who scorned to shrink in
words, from those dangers which he stood ready to
encounter in very deed. This much is certain, that
he concluded by announcing his determination of
leading on his troops in person, and routing these
costard-monger Swedes, from their usurped quarters
at Fort Casimer. To this hardy resolution,
such of his council as were awake, gave their usual
signal of concurrence, and as to the rest, who had
fallen asleep about the middle of the harangue (their
“usual custom in the afternoon”)—they made not
the least objection.

And now was seen in the fair city of New Amsterdam,
a prodigious bustle and preparation for
iron war. Recruiting parties marched hither and
thither, trailing long standards in the mud, with
which as at the present day the streets were benevolently
covered, for the benefit of those unfortunate
wights who are aggrieved with corns. Thus did
they lustily call upon and invite all the scrubs, the
runagates and the tatterdemalions of the Manhattoes
and its vicinity, who had any ambition of six pence
a day, and immortal fame into the bargain, to enlist
in the cause of glory. For I would have you
note that your warlike heroes who trudge in the

rear of conquerors, are generally of that illustrious
class of gentlemen, who are equal candidates for the
army or the bridewell—the halberts or the whipping
post—for whom dame fortune has cast an even
die whether they shall make their exit by the sword
or the halter—and whose deaths shall, at all events,
be a lofty example to their countrymen.

But notwithstanding all this martial rout and
invitation, the ranks of honour were but scantily
supplied; so averse were the peaceful burghers of
New Amsterdam to enlist in foreign broils, or stir
beyond that home, which rounded all their earthly
ideas. Upon beholding this, the great Peter whose
noble heart was all on fire with war and sweet revenge,
determined to wait no longer for the tardy
assistance of these oily citizens, but to muster up
his merry men of the Hudson; who, brought up
among woods and wilds and savage beasts, like our
yeomen of Kentucky, delighted in nothing so much
as desperate adventures and perilous expeditions
through the wilderness. Thus resolving, he ordered
his trusty squire Antony Van Corlear to have his
state galley prepared and duly victualled; which being
faithfully performed he attended public service
at the great church of St. Nicholas, like a true
and pious governor, and then leaving peremptory
orders with his council to have the chivalry
of the Manhattoes marshalled out and appointed
against his return, departed upon his recruiting
voyage, up the waters of the Hudson.

3. CHAP III.

Now did the soft breezes of the south, steal
sweetly over the beauteous face of nature, tempering
the panting heats of summer into genial and prolific
warmth: when that miracle of hardihood and chivalric
virtue, the dauntless Peter Stuyvesant, spread
his canvass to the wind, and departed from the fair
island of Manna-hata. The galley in which he embarked
was sumptuously adorned with pendants and
streamers of gorgeous dyes, which fluttered gaily
in the wind, or drooped their ends into the bosom of
the stream. The bow and poop of this majestic
vessel were gallantly bedight, after the rarest dutch
fashion, with naked figures of little pursy cupids
with periwigs on their heads, and bearing in their
hands garlands of flowers, the like of which are
not to be found in any book of botany; being the
matchless flowers which flourished in the golden
age, and exist no longer, unless it be in the imaginations
of ingenious carvers of wood and discolourers
of canvass.

Thus rarely decorated, in style befitting the state
of the puissant potentate of the Manhattoes, did

the galley of Peter Stuyvesant launch forth upon the
bosom of the lordly Hudson; which as it rolled its
broad waves to the occan, seemed to pause for a
while, and swell with pride, as if conscious of the
illustrious burthen it sustained.

But trust me gentlefolk, far other was the scene
presented to the contemplation of the crew, from
that which may be witnessed at this degenerate day.
Wildness and savage majesty reigned on the borders
of this mighty river—the hand of cultivation
had not as yet laid low the dark forests, and tamed
the features of the landscape—nor had the frequent
sail of commerce yet broken in upon the profound
and awful solitude of ages. Here and there
might be seen a rude wigwam perched among the
cliffs of the mountains, with its curling column of
smoke mounting in the transparent atmosphere—
but so loftily situated that the whoopings of the savage
children, gambolling on the margin of the
dizzy heights, fell almost as faintly on the ear, as do
the notes of the lark, when lost in the azure vault
of heaven. Now and then from the beetling brow
of some rocky precipice, the wild deer would look
timidly down upon the splendid pageant as it passed
below; and then tossing his branching antlers in the
air, would bound away into the thickets of the
forest.

Through such scenes did the stately vessel of
Peter Stuyvesant pass. Now did they skirt the

bases of the rocky heights of Jersey, which spring
up like everlasting walls, reaching from the waves
unto the heavens; and were fashioned, if tradition
may be believed, in times long past, by the mighty
spirit Manetho, to protect his favourite abodes
from the unhallowed eyes of mortals. Now did
they career it gaily across the vast expanse of
Tappan bay, whose wide extended shores present
a vast variety of delectable scenery—here the bold
promontory, crowned with embowering trees advancing
into the bay—there the long woodland
slope, sweeping up from the shore in rich luxuriance,
and terminating in the rude upland precipice—
while at a distance a long waving line of rocky
heights, threw their gigantic shades across the
water. Now would they pass where some modest
little interval, opening among these stupendous
scenes, yet retreating as it were for protection into
the embraces of the neighbouring mountains, displayed
a rural paradise, fraught with sweet and pastoral
beauties; the velvet tufted lawn—the bushy
copse—the tinkling rivulet, stealing through the
fresh and vivid verdure—on whose banks was situated
some little Indian village, or peradventure,
the rude cabin of some solitary hunter.

The different periods of the revolving day
seemed each with cunning magic, to diffuse a different
charm over the scene. Now would the
jovial sun break gloriously from the east, blazing

from the summits of the eastern hills and sparkling
the landscape with a thousand dewy gems; while
along the borders of the river were seen heavy
masses of mist, which like midnight caitiffs, disturbed
at his approach, made a sluggish retreat,
rolling in sullen reluctance up the mountains. At
such times all was brightness and life and gaiety—
the atmosphere seemed of an indescribable pureness
and transparency—the birds broke forth in wanton
madrigals, and the freshening breezes wafted the
vessel merrily on her course. But when the sun
sunk amid a flood of glory in the west, mantling
the heavens and the earth with a thousand gorgeous
dyes—then all was calm and silent and
magnificent. The late swelling sail hung lifelessly
against the mast—the simple seaman with folded
arms leaned against the shrouds, lost in that involuntary
musing which the sober grandeur of nature
commands in the rudest of her children. The vast
bosom of the Hudson was like an unruffled mirror,
reflecting the golden splendour of the heavens,
excepting that now and then a bark canoe would
steal across its surface, filled with painted savages,
whose gay feathers glared brightly, as perchance a
lingering ray of the setting sun, gleamed upon
them from the western mountains.

But when the fairy hour of twilight spread
its magic mists around, then did the face of nature
assume a thousand fugitive charms, which to the

worthy heart that seeks enjoyment in the glorious
works of its maker, are inexpressibly captivating.
The mellow dubious light that prevailed, just
served to tinge with illusive colours, the softened
features of the scenery. The deceived but delighted
eye sought vainly to discern in the broad masses
of shade, the separating line between the land and
water; or to distinguish the fading objects that
seemed sinking into chaos. Now did the busy
fancy supply the feebleness of vision, producing
with industrious craft a fairy creation of her own.
Under her plastic wand the barren rocks frowned
upon the watery waste, in the semblance of lofty
towers and high embattled castles—trees assumed
the direful forms of mighty giants, and the inaccessible
summits of the mountains seemed peopled
with a thousand shadowy beings.

Now broke forth from the shores the notes of
an innumerable variety of insects, who filled the
air with a strange but not inharmonious concert—
while ever and anon was heard the melancholy
plaint of the Whip-poor-will, who, perched on
some lone tree, wearied the ear of night with his
incessant moanings. The mind, soothed into a
hallowed melancholy by the solemn mystery of the
scene, listened with pensive stillness to catch and
distinguish each sound, that vaguely echoed from
the shore—now and then startled perchance by the
whoop of some straggling savage, or the dreary

howl of some caitiff wolf, stealing forth upon his
nightly prowlings.

Thus happily did they pursue their course,
until they entered upon those awful defiles denominated
THE HIGHLANDS, where it would seem
that the gigantic Titans had erst waged their impious
war with heaven, piling up cliffs on cliffs, and
hurling vast masses of rock in wild confusion.
But in sooth very different is the history of these
cloud-capt mountains.—These in ancient days, before
the Hudson poured his waters from the lakes,
formed one vast prison, within whose rocky bosom
the omnipotent Manetho confined the rebellious
spirits who repined at his controul. Here, bound in
adamantine chains, or jammed in rifted pines, or
crushed by ponderous rocks, they groaned for many
an age.—At length the lordly Hudson, in his irresistible
career towards the ocean, burst open their
prison house, rolling his tide triumphantly through
its stupendous ruins.

Still however do many of them lurk about their
old abodes; and these it is, according to venerable
legends, that cause the echoes which resound
throughout these awful solitudes; which are
nothing but their angry clamours when any noise
disturbs the profoundness of their repose.—But
when the elements are agitated by tempest, when
the winds are up and the thunder rolls, then horrible
is the yelling and howling of these troubled

spirits—making the mountains to rebellow with
their hideous uproar; for at such times it is said,
they think the great Manetho is returning once
more to plunge them in gloomy caverns and renew
their intolerable captivity.

But all these fair and glorious scenes were lost
upon the gallant Stuyvesant; naught occupied his
active mind but thoughts of iron war, and proud
anticipations of hardy deeds of arms. Neither did
his honest crew trouble their vacant minds with
any romantic speculations of the kind. The pilot
at the helm quietly smoked his pipe, thinking of
nothing either past present or to come—those of
his comrades who were not industriously snoring
under the hatches, were listening with open mouths
to Antony Van Corlear; who, seated on the windlass,
was relating to them the marvellous history of
those myriads of fire flies, that sparkled like gems
and spangles upon the dusky robe of night. These,
according to tradition, were originally a race of
pestilent sempiternous beldames, who peopled these
parts long before the memory of man; being of
that abominated race emphatically called brimstones;
and who for their innumerable sins against
the children of men, and to furnish an awful warning
to the beauteous sex, were doomed to infest the
earth in the shape of these threatening and terrible
little bugs; enduring the internal torments of that
fire, which they formerly carried in their hearts

and breathed forth in their words; but now are
sentenced to bear about forever—in their tails!

And now am I going to tell a fact, which I
doubt me much my readers will hesitate to believe;
but if they do, they are welcome not to believe a word
in this whole history, for nothing which it contains
is more true. It must be known then that the nose
of Antony the trumpeter was of a very lusty size,
strutting boldly from his countenance like a mountain
of Golconda; being sumptuously bedecked
with rubies and other precious stones—the true regalia
of a king of good fellows, which jolly Bacchus
grants to all who bouse it heartily at the flaggon.
Now thus it happened, that bright and early in the
morning, the good Antony having washed his burley
visage, was leaning over the quarter railing of
the galley, contemplating it in the glassy wave below—Just
at this moment the illustrious sun, breaking
in all his splendour from behind one of the high
bluffs of the Highlands, did dart one of his most
potent beams full upon the refulgent nose of the
sounder of brass—the reflection of which shot
straightway down, hissing hot, into the water, and
killed a mighty sturgeon that was sporting beside
the vessel! This huge monster being with infinite
labour hoisted on board, furnished a luxurious repast
to all the crew, being accounted of excellent
flavour, excepting about the wound, where it smacked
a little of brimstone—and this, on my veracity,

was the first time that ever sturgeon was eaten in
these parts, by christian people.[10]

When this astonishing miracle came to be made
known to Peter Stuyvesant, and that he tasted of
the unknown fish, he, as may well be supposed,
marvelled exceedingly; and as a monument thereof,
he gave the name of Anthony's Nose to a stout
promontory in the neighbourhood—and it has continued
to be called Anthony's nose ever since that
time.

But hold—Whether am I wandering?—By the
mass, if I attempt to accompany the good Peter Stuyvesant
on this voyage, I shall never make an end,
for never was there a voyage so fraught with marvellous
incidents, nor a river so abounding with
transcendent beauties, worthy of being severally recorded.
Even now I have it on the point of my
pen to relate, how his crew were most horribly
frightened, on going on shore above the highlands,
by a gang of merry roystering devils, frisking and
curvetting on a huge flat rock, which projected into
the river—and which is called the Duyvel's Dans-Kamer
to this very day—But no! Diedrich Knickerbocker—it

becomes thee not to idle thus in thy
historic way-faring.

Recollect that while dwelling with the fond garrullity
of age, over these fairy scenes, endeared to
thee, by the recollections of thy youth, and the charms
of a thousand legendary tales which beguiled the
simple ear of thy childhood; recollect that thou art
trifling with those fleeting moments which should
be devoted to loftier themes.—Is not time—relentless
time!—shaking with palsied hand, his almost
exhausted hour glass before thee?—hasten then to
pursue thy weary task, lest the last sands be run,
ere thou hast finished thy renowned history of the
Manhattoes.

Let us then commit the dauntless Peter, his
brave galley and his loyal crew, to the protection of
the blessed St. Nicholas; who I have no doubt will
prosper him in his voyage, while we await his return
at the great city of New Amsterdam.

4. CHAP. IV.

While thus the enterprizing Peter was coasting,
with flowing sail up the shores of the lordly
Hudson, and arousing all the phlegmatic little dutch
settlements upon its borders, a great and puissant
concourse of warriors was assembling at the city of
New Amsterdam. And here that most invaluable
fragment of antiquity, the Stuyvesant manuscript,
is more than commonly particular; by which means
I am enabled to record the illustrious host that encamped
themselves in the public square, in front
of the fort, at present denominated the Bowling
Green.

In the centre then, was pitched the tent of the
men of battle of the Manhattoes, who being the
inmates of the metropolis, composed the life guards
of the governor. These were commanded by the
valiant Stoffel Brinkerhoff, who whilome had acquired
such immortal fame at Oyster Bay—they
displayed as a standard, a mighty beaver rampant
on a field of orange; being the arms of the pro

vince, and denoting the persevering industry, and
the amphibious origin of the valiant Nederlanders.[11]

Then might be seen on their right hand, the
vassals of that renowned Mynheer, Michael Paw,[12]
who lorded it over the fair regions of ancient Pavonia,
and the lands away south, even unto the Navesink
mountains,[13] and was moreover patroon of
Gibbet Island. His standard was borne by his
trusty squire, Cornelius Van Vorst; consisting of
a huge oyster recumbent upon a sea-green field;
being the armorial bearings of his favourite metropolis,
Communipaw. He brought to the camp a
stout force of warriors, heavily armed, being each
clad in ten pair of linsey woolsey breeches, and
overshadowed by broad brimmed beavers, with
short pipes twisted in their hatbands. These were
the men who vegetated in the mud along the shores

of Pavonia; being of the race of genuine copper-heads,
and were fabled to have sprung from oysters.

At a little distance was encamped the tribe of
warriors who came from the neighbourhood of
Hell-gate. These were commanded by the Suy
Dams, and the Van Dams, most incontinent hard
swearers, as their names betoken—they were terrible
looking fellows, clad in broad skirted gaberdines,
of that curious coloured cloth, called thunder and
lightning—and bore as a standard three Devil's-darning-needles,
volant, in a flame coloured field.

Hard by was the tent of the men of battle from
the marshy borders of the Wael-bogtig,[14] and the
country thereabouts—these were of a sour aspect,
by reason that they lived on crabs which abound in
these parts. They were the first institutors of that
honourable order of knighthood, called Fly market
shirks, and if tradition speak true, did likewise
introduce the far-famed step in dancing, called
“double trouble.” They were commanded by the
fearless Jacobus Varra Vanger, and had moreover
a jolly band of Brooklyn ferry-men, who performed
a brave concerto on conch shells.

But I refrain from pursuing this minute description,
which goes on to describe the warriors of
Bloemen dael, and Wee-hawk, and Hoboken, and

sundry other places, well known in history and song—
for now does the sound of martial music alarm the
people of New Amsterdam, sounding afar from
beyond the walls of the city. But this alarm was
in a little while relieved, for lo, from the midst of
a vast cloud of dust, they recognized the brimstone
coloured breeches, and splendid silver leg of Peter
Stuyvesant, glaring in the sun beams; and beheld
him approaching at the head of a formidable army,
which he had mustered along the banks of the Hudson.
And here the excellent, but anonymous writer
of the Stuyvesant manuscript breaks out into a brave
and glorious description of the forces, as they defiled
through the principal gate of the city, that
stood by the head of wall street.

First of all came the Van Bummels who inhabit
the pleasant borders of the Bronx—These were
short fat men, wearing exceeding large trunk
breeches, and are renowned for feats of the
trencher—they were the first inventors of Suppawn
or Mush and milk—Close in their rear
marched the Van Vlotens of Kaats kill, most horrible
quaffers of new cyder, and arrant braggarts in
their liquor—After them came the famous Van
Pelts of Esopus, dextrous horsemen, mounted upon
goodly switch tailed steeds of the Esopus breed—
these were mighty hunters of minks and musk rats,
whence came the word Peltry—Then the Van
Nests of Kinderhook, valiant robbers of birds nests,

as their name denotes; to these if report may be
believed, are we indebted for the invention of slap
jacks, or buck-wheat cakes.—Then the Van Grolls
of Anthony's Nose, who carried their liquor in
fair round little pottles, by reason they could not
bouse it out of their canteens, having such rare long
noses.—Then the Gardeniers of Hudson and thereabouts,
distinguished by many triumphant feats, such
as robbing water melon patches, smoking rabbits
out of their holes and the like; and by being great
lovers of roasted pigs tails; these were the ancestors
of the renowned congress man of that name.—Then
the Van Hoesens of Sing-Sing, great choristers and
players upon the jews harp; these marched two
and two, singing the great song of St. Nicholas.—
Then the Counhovens, of Sleepy Hollow, these
gave birth to a jolly race of publicans, who first
discovered the magic artifice of conjuring a quart
of wine into a pint bottle.—Then the Van Courtlandts
who lived on the wild banks of the Croton,
and were great killers of wild ducks, being much
spoken of for their skill in shooting with the long
bow.—Then the Bunschotens of Nyack and Kakiat
who were the first that did ever kick with the left
foot; they were gallant bush-whackers and hunters
of racoons by moon-light.—Then the Van Winkles
of Haerlem, potent suckers of eggs, and noted for
running of horses and running up of scores at taverns;
they were the first that ever winked with both eyes
at once.—Lastly came the Knickerbockers of the
great town of Scaghtikoke, where the folk lay stones
upon the houses in windy weather, lest they should
be blown away. These derive their name, as some
say, from Knicker to shake, and Beker a goblet, indicating
thereby that they were sturdy toss pots of
yore; but in truth it was derived from Knicker to
nod, and Boeken books; plainly meaning that they
were great nodders or dozers over books—from
them did descend the writer of this History.

Such was the legion of sturdy bush beaters that
poured into the grand gate of New Amsterdam;
the Stuyvesant manuscript indeed speaks of many
more, whose names I omit to mention, seeing that
it behoves me to hasten to matters of greater
moment. Nothing could surpass the joy and martial
pride of the lion hearted Peter as he reviewed
this mighty host of warriors, and he determined no
longer to defer the gratification of his much wished
for revenge, upon the scoundrel Swedes at Fort
Casimer.

But before I hasten on to record those unmatchable
events, which will be found in the sequel
of this renowned history, let me pause to notice
the fate of Jacobus Von Poffenburgh, the discomfited
commander in chief of the armies of the New
Netherlands. Such is the inherent uncharitableness
of human nature, that scarcely did the news become
public of his deplorable discomfiture at Fort Casimer;

than a thousand scurvey rumours were set afloat
in New Amsterdam, wherein it was insinuated,
that he had in reality a treacherous understanding
with the Swedish commander; that he had long
been in the practice of privately communicating with
the Swedes, together with divers hints about “secret
service money”—To all which deadly charges
I do not give a jot more credit—than I think they
deserve.

Certain it is, that the general vindicated his
character by the most vehement oaths and protestations,
and put every man out of the ranks of honour
who dared to doubt his integrity. Moreover on
returning to New Amsterdam, he paraded up and
down the streets with a crew of hard swearers at
his heels—sturdy bottle companions, whom he
gorged and fattened, and who were ready to bolster
him through all the courts of justice—Heroes of
his own kidney, fierce whiskered, broad shouldered,
colbrand looking swaggerers—not one of whom but
looked as if he could eat up an ox, and pick his
teeth with the horns. These life guard men quarreled
all his quarrels, were ready to fight all his
battles, and scowled at every man that turned up
his nose at the general, as though they would devour
him alive. Their conversation was interspersed
with oaths like minute guns, and every
bombastic rodomontade was rounded off by a thundering

execration, like a patriotic toast honoured
with a discharge of artillery.

All these valorous vapourings had a considerable
effect in convincing certain profound sages, many of
whom began to think the general a hero of most
unutterable loftiness and magnanimity of soul,
particularly as he was continually protesting on the
honour of a soldier—a marvelously high sounding
asserveration. Nay one of the members of the
council went so far as to propose they should immortalize
him by an imperishable statue of plaster
of Paris!

But the vigilant Peter the Headstrong was not
thus to be deceived—Sending privately for the commander
in chief of all the armies, and having heard
all his story, garnished with the customary pious
oaths, protestations and ejaculations—“Harkee,
Metgelsel,” cried he, “though by your own account
you are the most brave, upright and honourable
man in the whole province, yet do you lie under
the misfortune of being most damnably traduced,
and immeasureably despised. Now though it is
certainly hard to punish a man for his misfortunes,
and though it is very possible you are totally innocent
of the crimes laid to your charge, yet as heaven,
at present, doubtless for some wise purpose, sees
fit to withhold all proofs of your innocence, far be
it from me to counteract its sovereign will. Beside,
I cannot consent to venture my armies with a commander

whom they despise, or to trust the welfare
of my people to a champion whom they distrust.
Retire therefore, my friend, from the irksome toils
and cares of public life, with this comforting reflection—that
if you are guilty, you are but enjoying
your just reward—and if you are innocent, that you
are not the first great and good man, who has most
wrongfully been slandered and maltreated in this
wicked world—doubtless to be better treated in a
better world, where there shall be neither error,
calumny nor persecution.—In the mean time let
me never see your face again, for I have a horrible
antipathy to the countenances of unfortunate great
men like yourself.”

5. CHAP. V.

As my readers and myself, are about entering
on as many perils and difficulties, as ever a confederacy
of meddlesome knights-errant wilfully
ran their heads into; it is meet that like those
hardy adventurers, we should join hands, bury all
differences, and swear to stand by one another, in
weal or woe, to the end of the enterprize. My
readers must doubtless perceive, how completely I
have altered my tone and deportment, since we
first set out together. I warrant they then thought
me a crabbed, cynical, impertinent little son of a
Dutchman; for I never gave them a civil word,
nor so much as touched my beaver, when I had occasion
to address them. But as we jogged along
together, in the high-road of my history, I gradually
began to relax, to grow more courteous, and
occasionally to enter into familiar discourse, until
at length I came to conceive a most social, companionable
kind of regard for them. This is just
my way—I am always a little cold and reserved at

first, particularly to people about whom I neither
know nor care the value of a brass farthing or a Vermont
bank note, and am only to be completely won
by long intimacy.

Besides; why should I have been sociable
to the host of how-d'ye-do acquaintances, who
flocked around me at my first appearance? They
were merely attracted by a new face; many of
them only stared me full in the title page, and
then walked off without saying a word; while
others lingered yawningly through the preface, and
having gratified their short-lived curiosity, soon
dropped off one by one.—But more especially to
try their mettle, I had recourse to an expedient,
similar to one which we are told was used, by that
peerless flower of chivalry, king Arthur; who
before he admitted any knight to his intimacy, first
required that he should shew himself superior to
danger or hardships, by encountering unheard of
mishaps, slaying some dozen giants, vanquishing
wicked enchanters, not to say a word of dwarfs,
hyppogriffs and fiery dragons. On a similar principle
I cunningly led my readers, at the first sally,
into two or three knotty chapters, where they were
most woefully belaboured and buffetted, by a host
of pagan philosophers and infidel writers. It did
my midriff good, by reason of the excessive laughter
into which I was thrown at seeing the utter
confusion and dismay of my valiant cavaliers—some

dropped down dead (asleep) on the field; others
threw down my book in the middle of the first
chapter, took to their heels, and never ceased
scampering until they had fairly run it out of sight;
when they stopped to take breath, to tell their
friends what troubles they had undergone, and to
warn all others from venturing on so thankless an
expedition. Every page thinned my ranks more
and more; and of the mighty host that first set
out, but a comparatively few made shift to survive,
in exceedingly battered condition, through the five
introductory chapters.

What then! would you have had me take such
sun shine, faint hearted recreants to my bosom, at
our first acquaintance? No—no. I reserved my
friendship for those who deserved it; for those who
undauntedly bore me company, in despite of difficulties,
dangers and fatigues. And now as to
those who adhere to me at present, I take them affectionately
by the hand.—Worthy and thrice beloved
readers! brave and well tried comrades!
who have faithfully followed my footsteps through
all my wanderings—I salute you from my heart—
I pledge myself to stand by you to the last; and to
conduct you, (so heaven speed this trusty weapon
which I now hold between my fingers,) triumphantly
to the end of this our stupenduous undertaking.

But hark! while we are thus talking, the city

of New Amsterdam is in a constant bustle. The
gallant host of warriors encamped in the bowling
green are striking their tents; the brazen trumpet
of Antony Van Corlear makes the welkin to resound
with portentous clangour—the drums beat—the
standards of the Manhattoes, of Hell-gate and of
Michael Paw wave proudly in the air. And now
behold where the mariners are busily prepared,
hoisting the sails of yon top sail schooner, and those
two clump built Albany sloops, which are to waft
the army of the Nederlanders to gather immortal
laurels on the Delaware!

The entire population of the city, man woman and
child, turned out to behold the chivalry of New Amsterdam,
as it paraded the streets previous to embarkation.
Many a dirty pocket handkerchief was
waved out of the windows; many a fair nose was
blown in melodious sorrow, on the mournful occasion.
The grief of the fair dames and beauteous
damsels of Grenada, could not have been more vociferous
on the banishment of the gallant tribe of
Abencerrages, than was that of the kind hearted
Yfrouws of New Amsterdam, on the departure of
their intrepid warriors. Every love sick maiden
fondly crammed the pockets of her hero with gingerbread
and dough-nuts—many a copper ring was exchanged
and crooked sixpence broken, in pledge of
eternal constancy—and there remain extant to this
day, some love verses written on that occasion, sufficiently

crabbed and incomprehensible to confound
the whole universe.

But it was a moving sight to see the buxom
lasses, how they hung about the doughty Antony
Van Corlear—for he was a jolly, rosy faced, lusty
bachelor, and withal a great royster, fond of his
joke and a desperate rogue among the women. Fain
would they have kept him to comfort them while
the army was away; for besides what I have said
of him, it is no more than justice to add, that he was
a kind hearted soul, noted for his benevolent attentions
in comforting disconsolate wives during the
absence of their husbands—and this made him to
be very much regarded by the honest burghers of
the city. But nothing could keep the valiant Antony
from following the heels of the old governor,
whom he loved as he did his very soul—so embracing
all the young vrouws and giving every one of them
that had good teeth and a clean mouth, a dozen
hearty smacks—he departed loaded with their kind
wishes.

Nor was the departure of the gallant Peter
among the least causes of public distress. Though
the old governor was by no means indulgent to the
follies and waywardness of his subjects; and had
turned over a complete “new leaf,” from that which
was presented in the days of William the Testy,
yet some how or another he had become strangely
popular among the people. There is something so

captivating in personal bravery, that, with the common
mass of mankind, it takes the lead of most
other merits. The simple folk of New Amsterdam
looked upon Peter Stuyvesant, as a prodigy
of valour. His wooden leg, that trophy of his martial
encounters, was regarded with reverence and
admiration. Every old burgher had a budget of
miraculous stories to tell about the exploits of Hard-koppig
Piet, wherewith he regaled his children,
of a long winter night, and on which he dwelt with
as much delight and exaggeration, as do our honest
country yeomen on the hardy adventures of old general
Putnam (or as he is familiarly termed Old
Put,) during our glorious revolution—Not an individual
but verily believed the old governor was a
match for Belzebub himself; and there was even
a story told with great mystery, and under the rose,
of his having shot the devil with a silver bullet one
dark stormy night, as he was sailing in a canoe
through Hell-gate—But this I do not record as being
an absolute fact—perish the man, who would let
fall a drop that should discolour the pure stream of
history!

Certain it is, not an old woman in New Amsterdam,
but considered Peter Stuyvesant as a tower of
strength, and rested satisfied, that the public welfare
was secure as long as he was in the city. It
is not surprising then that they looked upon his departure
as a sore affliction. With heavy hearts

they draggled at the heels of his troop, as they
marched down to the river side to embark. The
governor from the stern of his schooner, gave a
short, but truly patriarchal address to his citizens;
wherein he recommended them to comport
like loyal and peaceful subjects—to go to church
regularly on sundays, and to mind their business
all the week besides—That the women should be
dutiful and affectionate to their husbands—looking
after no bodies concerns but their own: eschewing
all gossippings, and morning gaddings—and carrying
short tongues and long petticoats. That the
men should abstain from ward meetings and porter
houses, entrusting the cares of government to
the officers appointed to support them—staying
home, like good citizens, making money for themselves,
and getting children for the benefit of their
country. That the burgomasters should look well
to the public interest—not oppressing the poor, nor
indulging the rich—not tasking their sagacity to
devise new laws, but faithfully enforcing those
which were already made—rather bending their attention
to prevent evil than to punish it; ever recollecting
that civil magistrates should consider
themselves more as guardians of public morals,
than rat catchers employed to entrap public delinquents.
Finally, he exhorted them, one and all,
high and low, rich and poor, to conduct themselves
as well as they could; assuring them that if they
faithfully and conscientiously complied with this
golden rule there was no danger but that they
would all conduct themselves well enough.—This
done he gave them a paternal benediction; the
sturdy Antony sounded a most loving farewell
with his trumpet, the jolly crews put up a lusty
shout of triumph, and the invincible armada swept
off proudly down the bay.

The good people of New Amsterdam crowded
down to the Battery—that blest resort, from
whence so many a tender prayer has been wafted,
so many a fair hand waved, so many a tearful look
been cast by lovesick damsel, after the lessening
bark, which bore her adventurous swain to distant
climes!—Here the populace watched with
straining eyes the gallant squadron, as it slowly
floated down the bay, and when the intervening
land at the Narrows shut it from their sight,
gradually dispersed with silent tongues and downcast
countenances.

A heavy gloom hung over the late bustling
city—The honest burghers smoked their pipes in
profound thoughtfulness, casting many a wistful
look to the weather cock, on the church of St. Nicholas,
and all the old women, having no longer
the presence of Hard-koppig Piet to hearten them,
gathered their children home, and barricadoed
the doors and windows every evening at sun down.

In the mean while the armada of the sturdy
Peter proceeded prosperously on its voyage, and
after encountering about as many storms and water
spouts and whales and other horrors and phenomena,
as generally befall adventurous landsmen,
in perilous voyages of the kind; after undergoing
a severe scouring from that deplorable and unpitied
malady called sea sickness; and suffering from a
little touch of constipation or dispepsy, which was
cured by a box of Anderson's pills, the whole
squadron arrived safely in the Delaware.

Without so much as dropping anchor and
giving his wearied ships time to breathe after labouring
so long in the ocean, the intrepid Peter
pursued his course up the Delaware, and made a
sudden appearance before Fort Casimer. Having
summoned the astonished garrison by a terrific
blast from the trumpet of the long winded Van
Corlear, he demanded, in a tone of thunder, an instant
surrender of the fort. To this demand Suen
Scutz, the wind dried commandant, replied in a
shrill, whiffling voice, which by reason of his extreme
spareness, sounded like the wind whistling
through a broken bellows—“that he had no very
strong reasons for refusing, except that the demand
was particularly disagreeable, as he had been ordered
to maintain his post to the last extremity.” He
requested time therefore, to consult with governor
Risingh, and proposed a truce for that purpose

The choleric Peter, indignant at having his
rightful fort so treacherously taken from him, and
thus pertinaceously withheld; refused the proposed
armistice, and swore by the pipe of St. Nicholas,
which like the sacred fire was never extinguished,
that unless the fort was surrendered in ten minutes,
he would incontinently storm the works, make all
the garrison run the gauntlet, and split their scoundrel
of a commander, like a pickled shad. To give
this menace the greater effect, he drew forth his
trusty sword, and shook it at them with such a
fierce and vigorous motion, that doubtless, if it had
not been exceedingly rusty, it would have lightened
terror into the eyes and hearts of the enemy.
He then ordered his men to bring a broadside to
bear upon the fort, consisting of two swivels, three
muskets, a long duck fowling piece and two brace
of horse pistols.

In the mean time the sturdy Van Corlear
marshalled all his forces, and commenced his warlike
operations.—Distending his cheeks like a very
Boreas, he kept up a most horrific twanging of his
trumpet—the lusty choristers of Sing-Sing broke
forth into a hideous song of battle—the warriors of
Brooklyn and the Wael bogtig blew a potent and
astounding blast on their conch shells, all together
forming as outrageous a concerto, as though five
thousand French orchestras were displaying their
skill in a modern overture—at the hearing of

which I warrant me not a Swede in the fortress
but felt himself literally distilling away, with pure
affright and bad music.

Whether the formidable front of war thus suddenly
presented, smote the garrison with sore dismay—or
whether tbe concluding terms of the summons,
which mentioned that he should surrender
at discretion, were mistaken by Suen Scutz, who
though a Swede, was a very considerate easy tempered
man—as a compliment to his discretion, I will
not take upon me to say; certain it is, he found it
impossible to resist so courteous a demand. Accordingly,
in the very nick of time, just as the cabin
boy had gone after a coal of fire, to discharge the
swivels, a chamade was beat on the rampart, by the
only drum in the garrison, to the no small satisfaction
of both parties; who, notwithstanding their
great stomach for fighting, had full as good an inclination,
to cat a quiet dinner, as to exchange black
eyes and bloody noses.

Thus did this impregnable fortress, once more
return to the domination of their high mightinesses;
Scutz, and his garrison of twenty men, were allowed
to march out with the honours of war, and the victorious
Peter, who was as generous as brave, permitted
them to keep possession of all their arms and
ammunition—the same on inspection being found
totally unfit for service, having long rusted in the magazine
of the fortress, even before it was wrested by

the Swedes from the magnanimous, but windy Von
Poffenburgh. But I must not omit to mention, that
the governor was so well pleased with the services
of his faithful squire Van Corlear, in the reduction
of this great fortress, that he made him on the spot,
lord of a goodly domain in the vicinity of New Amsterdam—which
goes by the name of Corlear's
Hook, unto this very day.[15]

The unexampled liberality of the valiant Stuyvesant,
towards the Swedes, who certainly had used
his government very scurvily—occasioned great,
surprize in the city of New Amsterdam—nay, certain
of those factious individuals, who had been
enlightened by the political meetings, that prevailed
during the days of William the Testy—but who
had not dared to indulge their meddlesome habits,
under the eye of their present ruler; now
emboldened by his absence, dared even to give
vent to their censures in the streets—Murmurs,
equally loud with those uttered by that nation of
genuine grumblers, the British, in consequence of
the convention of Portugal; were heard in the very
council chamber of New Amsterdam; and there
is no knowing whether they would not have broken

out into downright speeches and invectives, had
not the sturdy Peter, privately sent home his walking
staff, to be laid as a mace, on the table of the
council chamber, in the midst of his councillors;
who, like wise men took the hint, and forever after
held their peace.

6. CHAP. VI.

“Strike while the Iron is hot,” was a favourite
saying of Peter the Great, while an apprentice in a
blacksmith's shop, at Amsterdam. It is one of
those proverbial sayings, which speak a word to
the ear, but a volume to the understanding—and
contain a world of wisdom, condensed within a
narrow compass—Thus every art and profession
has thrown a gem of the kind, into the public stock,
enriching society by some sage maxim and pithy
apothegm drawn from its own experience; in which
is conveyed, not only the arcana of that individual
art or profession, but also the important secret of a
prosperous and happy life. “Cut your coat according
to your cloth,” says the taylor—“Stick to
your last,” cries the cobler—“Make hay while the
sun shines,” says the farmer—“Prevention is better
than cure,” hints the physician—Surely a man
has but to travel through the world, with open ears,
and by the time he is grey, he will have all the
wisdom of Solomon—and then he has nothing to

do but to grow young again, and turn it to the best
advantage.

“Strike while the Iron is hot,” was not more
invariably the saying of Peter the great, than it was
the practice of Peter the Headstrong. Like as a
mighty alderman, when at a corporation feast the
first spoonful of turtle soup salutes his palate, feels
his impatient appetite but ten fold quickened, and
redoubles his vigorous attacks upon the tureen,
while his voracious eyes, projecting from his head,
roll greedily round devouring every thing at table—
so did the mettlesome Peter Stuyvesant, feel that
intolerable hunger for martial glory, which raged
within his very bowels, inflamed by the capture of
Fort Casimer, and nothing could allay it, but the
conquest of all New Sweden. No sooner therefore
had he secured his conquest, than he stumped resolutely
on, flushed with success, to gather fresh
laurels at Fort Christina.[16]

This was the grand Swedish post, established
on a small river (or as it is termed, creek,) of the
same name, which empties into the Delaware; and
here that crafty governor Jan Risingh, like another
Charles the twelfth, commanded his subjects in
person.

Thus have I fairly pitted two of the most
potent chieftans that ever this country beheld,
against each other, and what will be the result of
their contest, I am equally anxious with my readers
to ascertain. This will doubtless appear a paradox
to such of them, as do not know the way in
which I write. The fact is, that as I am not engaged
in a work of imagination, but a faithful and
veritable history, it is not necessary, that I should
trouble my head, by anticipating its incidents and
catastrophe. On the contrary, I generally make it
a rule, not to examine the annals of the times
whereof I treat, further than exactly a page in advance
of my own work; hence I am equally interested
in the progress of my history, with him who
reads it, and equally unconscious, what occurrence
is next to happen. Darkness and doubt hang over
each coming chapter—with trembling pen and anxious
mind I conduct my beloved native city through
the dangers and difficulties, with which it is continually
surrounded; and in treating of my favourite
hero, the gallant Peter Stuyvesant, I often shrink
back with dismay, as I turn another page, lest I
should find his undaunted spirit hurrying him into
some dolorous misadventure.

Thus am I situated at present. I have just
conducted him into the very teeth of peril—nor can
I tell, any more than my reader, what will be the
issue of this horrid din of arms, with which our

ears are mutually assailed. It is true, I possess
one advantage over my reader, which tends marvelously
to soothe my apprehensions—which is, that
though I cannot save the life of my favourite hero,
nor absolutely contradict the event of a battle, (both
of which misrepresentations, though much practised
by the French writers, of the present reign, I
hold to be utterly unworthy of a scrupulous historian)
yet I can now and then make him bestow
on his enemy a sturdy back stroke, sufficient to fell
a giant; though in honest truth he may never have
done any thing of the kind—or I can drive his
antagonist clear round and round the field, as did
Dan Homer most falsely make that fine fellow
Hector scamper like a poltroon around the walls of
Troy; for which in my humble opinion the prince
of Poets, deserved to have his head broken—as no
doubt he would, had those terrible fellows the
Edinburgh reviewers, existed in those days—or if
my hero should be pushed too hard by his opponent,
I can just step in, and with one dash of my pen,
give him a hearty thwack over the sconce, that would
have cracked the scull of Hercules himself—like a
faithful second in boxing, who when he sees his
principal down, and likely to be worsted, puts in a
sly blow, that knocks the wind out of his adversary,
and changes the whole state of the contest.

I am aware that many conscientious readers
will be ready to cry out “foul play!” whenever I

render such assistance—but I insist that it is one
of those little privileges, strenuously asserted and
exercised by historiographers of all ages—and one
which has never been disputed. An historian, in
fact, is in some measure bound in honour to stand
by his hero—the fame of the latter is entrusted to
his hands, and it is his duty to do the best by it he
can. Never was there a general, an admiral or
any other commander, who in giving an account of
any battle he had fought, did not sorely belabour
the enemy; and I have no doubt that, had my
heroes written the history of their own atchievements,
they would have hit much harder blows,
than any I shall recount. Standing forth therefore,
as the guardian of their fame, it behoves me to do
them the same justice, they would have done themselves;
and if I happen to be a little hard upon the
Swedes, I give free leave to any of their descendants,
who may write a history of the state of Delaware,
to take fair retaliation, and thump Peter Stuyvesant
as hard as they please.

Therefore stand by for broken heads and bloody
noses! my pen has long itched for a battle—siege
after siege have I carried on, without blows or bloodshed;
but now I have at length got a chance, and
I vow to heaven and St. Nicholas, that, let the
chronicles of the times say what they please, neither
Sallust, Livy, Tacitus, Polybius, or any other battle
monger of them all, did ever record a fiercer

fight, than that in which my valiant chieftans are
now about to engage.

And thou, most excellent reader, who, for thy
faithful adherence to my heels, I could lodge in the
best parlour of my heart—be not uneasy—trust the
fate of our favourite Stuyvesant to me—for by the
rood, come what will, I'll stick by Hard-koppig
Piet to the last; I'll make him drive about these
lossels vile as did the renowned Launcelot of the
lake, a herd of recreant cornish Knights—and if he
does fall, let me never draw my pen to fight another
battle, in behalf of a brave man, if I don't make
these lubberly Swedes pay for it!

No sooner had Peter Stuyvesant arrived before
fort Christina than he proceeded without delay to
entrench himself, and immediately on running his
first parallel, dispatched Antony Van Corlear, that
incomparable trumpeter, to summon the fortress to
surrender. Van Corlear was received with all due
formality, hoodwinked at the portal, and conducted
through a pestiferous smell of salt fish and onions,
to the citadel, a substantial hut built of pine logs.
His eyes were here uncovered, and he found himself
in the august presence of governor Risingh,
who, having been accidentally likened to Charles
XII, the intelligent reader will instantly perceive,
must have been a tall, robustious, able bodied, mean
looking man, clad in a coarse blue coat with brass
buttons, a shirt which for a week, had longed in vain

for the wash-tub, a pair of foxey coloured jack
boots—and engaged in the act of shaving his grizly
beard, at a bit of broken looking glass, with a villainous
patent Brummagem razor. Antony Van
Corlear delivered in a few words, being a kind of
short hand speaker, a long message from his excellency,
recounting the whole history of the province,
with a recapitulation of grievances, enumeration of
claims, &c.&c. and concluding with a peremptory demand
of instant surrender: which done, he turned
aside, took his nose between his thumb and finger,
and blew a tremendous blast, not unlike the flourish
of a trumpet of defiance—which it had doubtless
learned from a long and intimate neighbourhood
with that melodious instrument.

Governor Risingh heard him through, trumpet
and all, but with infinite impatience; leaning at
times, as was his usual custom, on the pommel of
his sword, and at times twirling a huge steel watch
chain or snapping his fingers. Van Corlear having
finished he bluntly replied, that Peter Stuyvesant
and his summons might go to the D—l, whither
he hoped to send him and his crew of raggamuffins
before supper time. Then unsheathing his brass
hilted sword, and throwing away the scabbard—
“Fore gad,” quod he, “but I will not sheathe thee
again, until I make a scabbard of the smoke dried
leathern hide, of this runegate Dutchman.” Then
having flung a fierce defiance in the teeth of his

adversary, by the lips of his messenger, the latter
was reconducted to the portal, with all the ceremonious
civility due to the trumpeter, squire and
ambassador of so great a commander, and being
again unblinded, was courteously dismissed with a
tweak of the nose, to assist him in recollecting his
message.

No sooner did the gallant Peter receive this
insolent reply, than he let fly a tremendous volley
of red hot, four and forty pounder execrations,
that would infallibly have battered down the fortifications
and blown up the powder magazines, about
the ears of the fiery Swede, had not the ramparts
been remarkably strong, and the magazine bomb
proof. Perceiving that the works withstood this
terrific blast, and that it was utterly impossible (as
it really was in those unphilosophic days) to carry
on a war with words, he ordered his merry men all,
to prepare for immediate assault. But here a
strange murmur broke out among his troops, beginning
with the tribe of the Van Bummels, those
valiant trencher men of the Bronx, and spreading
from man to man, accompanied with certain mutinous
looks and discontented murmurs. For once
in his life, and only for once, did the great Peter
turn pale, for he verily thought his warriors were
going to faulter in this hour of perilous trial, and
thus tarnish forever the fame of the province of
New Nederlands.

But soon did he discover to his great joy, that
in this suspicion he deeply wronged this most undaunted
army; for the cause of this agitation and
uneasiness simply was, that the hour of dinner was
at hand, and it would have almost broken the hearts
of these regular dutch warriors, to have broken in
upon the invariable routine of their habits. Beside
it was an established rule among our valiant ancestors,
always to fight upon a full stomach, and to this
may be doubtless attributed the circumstance that
they came to be so renowned in arms.

And now are the hearty men of the Manhattoes,
and their no less hearty comrades, all lustily engaged
under the trees, buffeting stoutly with the contents of
their wallets, and taking such affectionate embraces
of their canteens and pottles, as though they verily
believed they were to be the last. And as I foresee
we shall have hot work in a page or two, I advise
my readers to do the same, for which purpose I
will bring this chapter to a close; giving them my
word of honour that no advantage shall be taken
of this armistice, to surprise, or in any wise
molest, the honest Nederlanders, while at their vigorous
repast.

Before we part however, I have one small
favour to ask of them; which is, that when I have
set both armies by the cars in the next chapter, and
am hurrying about, like a very devil, in the midst—
they will just stand a little on one side, out of harms

way—and on no account attempt to interrupt me
by a single question or remonstrance. As the
whole spirit, hurry and sublimity of the battle will
depend on my exertions, the moment I should stop
to speak, the whole business would stand still—
wherefore I shall not be able to say a word to my
readers, throughout the whole of the next chapter,
but I promise them in the one after, I'll listen to
all they have to say, and answer any questions they
may ask.

7. CHAP. VII.

“Now had the Dutchmen snatch'd a huge repast,”
and finding themselves wonderfully encouraged
and animated thereby, prepared to take the
field. Expectation, says a faithful matter of fact
dutch poet, whose works were unfortunately destroyed
in the conflagration of the Alexandrian
library—Expectation now stood on stilts. The
world forgot to turn round, or rather stood still, that
it might witness the affray; like a fat round bellied
alderman, watching the combat of two chivalric
flies upon his jerkin. The eyes of all mankind, as
usual in such cases, were turned upon Fort Christina.
The sun, like a little man in a crowd, at a
puppet shew, scampered about the heavens, popping
his head here and there, and endeavouring to get a
peep between the unmannerly clouds, that obtruded
themselves in his way. The historians filled their inkhorns—the
poets went without their dinners, either
that they might buy paper and goose-quills, or because
they could not get any thing to eat—antiquity
scowled sulkily out of its grave, to see itself outdone—while

even posterity stood mute, gazing in
gaping extacy of retrospection, on the eventful field!

The immortal deities, who whilome had seen
service at the “affair” of Troy—now mounted
their feather-bed clouds, and sailed over the plain,
or mingled among the combatants in different disguises,
all itching to have a finger in the pie. Jupiter
sent off his thunderbolt to a noted coppersmiths,
to have it furbished up for the direful
occasion. Venus, swore by her chastity she'd patronize
the Swedes, and in semblance of a blear
eyed trull, paraded the battlements of Fort Christina,
accompanied by Diana, as a serjeant's widow,
of cracked reputation—The noted bully Mars, stuck
two horse pistols into his belt, shouldered a rusty
firelock, and gallantly swaggered at their elbow, as
a drunken corporal—while Apollo trudged in their
rear, as a bandy-legged fifer, playing most villainously
out of tune.

On the other side, the ox-eyed Juno, who had
won a pair of black eyes over night, in one of her
curtain lectures with old Jupiter, displayed her
haughty beauties on a baggage waggon—Minerva,
as a brawny gin suttler, tucked up her skirts, brandished
her fists, and swore most heroically, in exceeding
bad dutch, (having but lately studied the
language) by way of keeping up the spirits of the
soldiers; while Vulcan halted as a club-footed blacksmith,
lately promoted to be a captain of militia.

All was silent horror, or bustling preparation; war
reared his horrid front, gnashed loud his iron fangs,
and shook his direful crest of bristling bayonets.

And now the mighty chieftans marshalled out
their hosts. Here stood stout Risingh, firm as a
thousand rocks—encrusted with stockades, and entrenched
to the chin in mud batteries—His artillery
consisting of two swivels and a carronade, loaded
to the muzzle, the touch holes primed, and a
whiskerd bombardier stationed at each, with lighted
match in hand, waiting the word. His valiant infantry,
that had never turned back upon an enemy
(having never seen any before)—lined the breast
work in grim array, each having his mustachios
fiercely greased, and his hair pomatomed back, and
queued so stiffly, that he grinned above the ramparts
like a grizly death's head.

There came on the intrepid Hard-koppig Piet,
—a second Bayard, without fear or reproach—his
brows knit, his teeth clenched, his breath held hard,
rushing on like ten thousand bellowing bulls of
Bashan. His faithful squire Van Corlear, trudging
valiantly at his heels, with his trumpet gorgeously
bedecked with red and yellow ribbands, the
remembrances of his fair mistresses at the Manhattoes.
Then came waddling on his sturdy comrades,
swarming like the myrmidons of Achilles.
There were the Van Wycks and the Van Dycks
and the Ten Eycks—the Van Nesses the Van

Tassels, the Van Grolls; the Van Hœsens, the
Van Giesons, and the Van Blarcoms—The Van
Warts, the Van Winkles, the Van Dams; the Van
Pelts, the Van Rippers, and the Van Brunts.—
There were the Van Horns, the Van Borsums,
the Van Bunschotens; the Van Gelders, the Van Arsdales,
and the Van Bummels—The Vander Belts,
the Vander Hoofs, the Vander Voorts, the Vander
Lyns, the Vander Pools and the Vander Spiegels.
—There came the Hoffmans, the Hooglands, the
Hoppers, the Cloppers, the Oothouts, the Quackenbosses,
the Roerbacks, the Garrebrantzs the Onderdonks
the Varra Vangers, the Schermerhorns,
the Brinkerhoffs, the Bontecous, the Knickerbockers,
the Hockstrassers, the Ten Breecheses and
the Tough Breecheses, with a host more of valiant
worthies, whose names are too crabbed to be written,
or if they could be written, it would be impossible
for man to utter—all fortified with a mighty
dinner, and to use the words of a great Dutch poet

For an instant the mighty Peter paused in the
midst of his career, and mounting on a rotten
stump addressed his troops in eloquent low dutch,
exhorting them to fight like duyvels, and assuring
them that if they conquered, they should get plenty
of booty—if they fell they should be allowed the

unparalleled satisfaction, while dying, of reflecting
that it was in the service of their country—and
after they were dead, of seeing their names inscribed
in the temple of renown and handed down, in
company with all the other great men of the year,
for the admiration of posterity.—Finally he swore
to them, on the word of a governor (and they
knew him too well to doubt it for a moment) that
if he caught any mother's son of them looking
pale, or playing craven, he'd curry his hide till he
made him run out of it like a snake in spring time.—
Then lugging out his direful snickersnee, he brandished
it three times over his head, ordered Van
Corlear to sound a tremendous charge, and shouting
the word “St. Nicholas and the Manhattoes!”
courageously dashed forwards. His warlike followers,
who had employed the interval in lighting
their pipes, instantly stuck them in their mouths,
gave a furious puff, and charged gallantly, under
cover of the smoke.

The Swedish garrison, ordered by the cunning
Risingh not to fire until they could distinguish the
whites of their assailants' eyes, stood in horrid
silence on the covert-way; until the eager dutchmen
had half ascended the glacis. Then did they
pour into them such a tremendous volley, that the
very hills quaked around, and were terrified even
unto an incontinence of water, insomuch that certain
springs burst forth from their sides, which

continue to run unto the present day. Not a
dutchman but would have bit the dust, beneath that
dreadful fire, had not the protecting Minerva kindly
taken care, that the Swedes should one and all,
observe their usual custom of shutting their eyes
and turning away their heads, at the moment of
discharge.

But were not the muskets levelled in vain, for
the balls, winged with unerring fate, went point
blank into a flock of wild geese, which, like geese
as they were, happened at that moment to be flying
past— and brought down seventy dozen of them—
which furnished a luxurious supper to the conquerors,
being well seasoned and stuffed with onions.

Neither was the volley useless to the musqueteers,
for the hostile wind, commissioned by the implacable
Juno, carried the smoke and dust full in
the faces of the dutchmen, and would inevitably
have blinded them, had their eyes been open. The
Swedes followed up their fire, by leaping the counterscarp,
and falling tooth and nail upon the foe,
with furious outcries. And now might be seen
prodigies of valour, of which neither history nor
song have ever recorded a parallel. Here was beheld
the sturdy Stoffel Brinkerhoff brandishing his
lusty quarter staff, like the terrible giant Blanderon
his oak tree (for he scorned to carry any other weapon,)
and drumming a horrific tune upon the heads of
whole squadrons of Swedes. There were the crafty

Van Courtlandts, posted at a distance, like the little
Locrian archers of yore, and plying it most potently
with the long bow, for which they were so
justly renowned. At another place were collected
on a rising knoll the valiant men of Sing-Sing, who
assisted marvellously in the fight, by chaunting forth
the great song of St. Nicholas. In a different part
of the field might be seen the Van Grolls of Anthony's
nose; but they were horribly perplexed in
a defile between two little hills, by reason of the
length of their noses. There were the Van Bunschotens
of Nyack and Kakiat, so renowned for kicking
with the left foot, but their skill availed them little
at present, being short of wind in consequence of
the hearty dinner they had eaten—and they would
irretrievably have been put to rout, had they not
been reinforced by a gallant corps of Voltigeurs composed
of the Hoppers, who advanced to their assistance
nimbly on one foot. At another place might
you see the Van Arsdales, and the Van Bummels,
who ever went together, gallantly pressing forward
to bombard the fortress—but as to the Gardeniers
of Hudson, they were absent from the battle, having
been sent on a marauding party, to lay waste
the neighbouring water-melon patches. Nor must
I omit to mention the incomparable atchievement
of Antony Van Corlear, who, for a good quarter of
an hour waged horrid fight with a little pursy
Swedish drummer, whose hide he drummed most
magnificently; and had he not come into the battle
with no other weapon but his trumpet, would infallibly
have put him to an untimely end.

But now the combat thickened—on came the
mighty Jacobus Varra Vanger and the fighting men
of the Wael Bogtig; after them thundered the Van
Pelts of Esopus, together with the Van Rippers and
the Van Brunts, bearing down all before them—
then the Suy Dams and the Van Dams, pressing
forward with many a blustering oath, at the head
of the warriors of Hell-gate, clad in their thunder
and lighting gaberdines; and lastly the standard
bearers and body guards of Peter Stuyvesant, bearing
the great beaver of the Manhattoes.

And now commenced the horrid din, the desperate
struggle, the maddening ferocity, the frantic desperation,
the confusion and self abandonment of war.
Dutchman and Swede commingled, tugged, panted
and blowed. The heavens were darkened with a tempest
of missives. Carcasses, fire balls, smoke balls,
stink balls and hand grenades, jostling each other,
in the air. Bang! went the guns—whack! struck
the broad swords—thump! went the cudgels—
crash! went the musket stocks—blows—kicks—
cuffs—scratches—black eyes and bloody noses swelling
the horrors of the scene! Thick-thwack, cut
and hack, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, hurley-burley,
head over heels, klip-klap, slag op slag,
hob over bol, rough and tumble!—Dunder

and blixum! swore the dutchmen, splitter and splutter!
cried the Swedes—Storm the works! shouted
Hard-koppig Piet—fire the mine! roared stout
Risingh—Tantara-ra-ra! twang'd the trumpet of
Antony Van Corlear—until all voice and sound became
unintelligible—grunts of pain, yells of fury,
and shouts of triumph commingling in one hideous
clamour. The earth shook as if struck with a paralytic
stroke—The trees shrunk aghast, and wilted
at the sight—The rocks burrowed in the ground
like rabbits, and even Christina creek turned from its
course, and ran up a mountain in breathless terror!

Nothing, save the dullness of their weapons, the
damaged condition of their powder, and the singular
accident of one and all striking with the flat instead
of the edge of their swords, could have prevented
a most horrible carnage—As it was, the
sweat prodigiously streaming, ran in rivers on the
field, fortunately without drowning a soul, the
combatants being to a man, expert swimmers, and
furnished with cork jackets for the occasion—but
many a valiant head was broken, many a stubborn
rib belaboured, and many a broken winded hero
drew short breath that day!

Long hung the contest doubtful, for though a
heavy shower of rain, sent by the “cloud compelling
Jove,” in some measure cooled their ardour, as
doth a bucket of water thrown on a group of fighting
mastiffs, yet did they but pause for a moment,

to return with tenfold fury to the charge, belabouring
each other with black and bloody bruises. Just
at this juncture was seen a vast and dense column
of smoke, slowly rolling towards the scene of battle,
which for a while made even the furious combatants
to stay their arms in mute astonishment—but
the wind for a moment dispersing the murky cloud,
from the midst thereof emerged the flaunting banner
of the immortal Michael Paw. This noble
chieftain came fearlessly on, leading a solid phalanx
of oyster-fed Pavonians, who had remained
behind, partly as a corps de reserve, and partly to
digest the enormous dinner they had eaten. These
sturdy yeomen, nothing daunted, did trudge manfully
forward, smoaking their pipes with outrageous
vigour, so as to raise the awful cloud that has
been mentioned; but marching exceedingly slow,
being short of leg and of great rotundity in the
belt.

And now the protecting deities of the army of
New Amsterdam, having unthinkingly left the field
and stept into a neighbouring tavern to refresh
themselves with a pot of beer, a direful catastrophe
had well nigh chanced to befall the Nederlanders.
Scarcely had the myrmidons of the puissant
Paw attained the front of battle, before the
Swedes, instructed by the cunning Risingh, levelled
a shower of blows, full at their tobacco pipes.
Astounded at this unexpected assault, and totally

discomfited at seeing their pipes broken by this
“d—d nonsense,” the valiant dutchmen fall in vast
confusion—already they begin to fly—like a frightened
drove of unwieldy Elephants they throw their
own army in an uproar—bearing down a whole
legion of little Hoppers—the sacred banner on
which is blazoned the gigantic oyster of Communipaw
is trampled in the dirt—The Swedes pluck
up new spirits and pressing on their rear, apply
their feet a parte poste with a vigour that prodigiously
accelerates their motions—nor doth the renowned
Paw himself, fail to receive divers grievous
and intolerable visitations of shoe leather!

But what, Oh muse! was the rage of the gallant
Peter, when from afar he saw his army yield?
With a voice of thunder did he roar after his
recreant warriors, putting up such a war whoop,
as did the stern Achilles, when the Trojan troops
were on the point of burning all his gunboats.
The dreadful shout rung in long echoes through
the woods—trees toppled at the noise; bears, wolves
and panthers jumped out of their skins, in pure
affright; several wild looking hills bounced clear
over the Delaware; and all the small beer in Fort
Christina, turned sour at the sound!

The men of the Manhattoes plucked up new
courage when they heard their leader—or rather
they dreaded his fierce displeasure, of which they
stood in more awe than of all the Swedes in Christendom—but

the daring Peter, not waiting for their
aid, plunged sword in hand, into the thickest of the
foe. Then did he display some such incredible
atchievements, as have never been known since
the miraculous days of the giants. Wherever he
went the enemy shrunk before him—with fierce
impetuosity he pushed forward, driving the Swedes,
like dogs, into their own ditch—but as he fearlessly
advanced, the foe, like rushing waves which close
upon the scudding bark, thronged in his rear, and
hung upon his flank with fearful peril. One desperate
Swede, who had a mighty heart, almost as
large as a pepper corn, drove his dastard sword
full at the hero's heart. But the protecting power
that watches over the safety of all great and good
men turned aside the hostile blade, and directed it
to a large side pocket, where reposed an enormous
Iron Tobacco Box, endowed like the shield of
Achilles with supernatural powers—no doubt in
consequence of its being piously decorated with a
portrait of the blessed St. Nicholas. Thus was
the dreadful blow repelled, but not without occasioning
to the great Peter a fearful loss of wind.

Like as a furious bear, when gored by worrying
curs, turns fiercely round, shews his dread teeth,
and springs upon the foe, so did our hero turn upon
the treacherous Swede. The miserable varlet
sought in flight, for safety—but the active Peter,
seizing him by an immeasurable queue, that dangled

from his head—“Ah Whoreson Caterpillar!”
roared he, “here is what shall make dog's meat of
thee!” So saying he whirled his trusty sword, and
made a blow, that would have decapitated him, had
he, like Briareus, half a hundred heads, but that the
pitying steel struck short and shaved the queue forever
from his crown. At this very moment a cunning
arquebusier, perched on the summit of a neighbouring
mound, levelled his deadly instrument, and
would have sent the gallant Stuyvesant, a wailing
ghost to haunt the Stygian shore—had not the
watchful Minerva, who had just stopped to tie up
her garter, saw the great peril of her favourite chief,
and dispatched old Boreas with his bellows; who
in the very nick of time, just as the direful match
descended to the pan, gave such a lucky blast, as
blew all the priming from the touch hole!

Thus waged the horrid fight—when the stout
Risingh, surveying the battle from the top of a little
ravelin, perceived his faithful troops, banged, beaten
and kicked by the invincible Peter. Language
cannot describe the choler with which he was seized
at the sight—he only stopped for a moment to
disburthen himself of five thousand anathemas;
and then drawing his immeasurable cheese toaster,
straddled down to the field of combat, with some
such thundering strides, as Jupiter is said by old
Hesiod to have taken, when he strode down the
spheres, to play off his sky rockets at the Titans.

No sooner did these two rival heroes come face
to face, than they each made a prodigious start of
fifty feet, (flemish measure) such as is made by
your most experienced stage champions. Then
did they regard each other for a moment, with
bitter aspect, like two furious ram cats, on the very
point of a clapper clawing. Then did they throw
themselves in one attitude, then in another, striking
their swords on the ground, first on the right side,
then on the left, at last at it they went, like five
hundred houses on fire! Words cannot tell the
prodigies of strength and valour, displayed in this
direful encounter—an encounter, compared to
which the far famed battles of Ajax with Hector,
of Eneas with Turnus, Orlando with Rodomont,
Guy of Warwick with Colbrand the Dane, or of
that renowned Welsh Knight Sir Owen of the
mountains with the giant Guylon, were all gentle
sports and holliday recreations. At length the
valiant Peter watching his opportunity, aimed a
fearful blow with the full intention of cleaving his
adversary to the very chine; but Risingh nimbly
raising his sword, warded it off so narrowly, that
glancing on one side, it shaved away a huge canteen
full of fourth proof brandy, that he always carried
swung on one side; thence pursuing its tranchant
course, it severed off a deep coat pocket, stored
with bread and cheese—all which dainties rolling
among the armies, occasioned a fearful scrambling
between the Swedes and Dutchmen, and made the

general battle to wax ten times more furious than
ever.

Enraged to see his military stores thus woefully
laid waste, the stout Risingh collecting all his forces,
aimed a mighty blow, full at the hero's crest. In
vain did his fierce little cocked hat oppose its course;
the biting steel clove through the stubborn ram
beaver, and would infallibly have cracked his gallant
crown, but that the scull was of such adamantine
hardness that the brittle weapon shivered into five
and twenty pieces, shedding a thousand sparks,
like beams of glory, round his grizly visage.

Stunned with the blow the valiant Peter reeled,
turned up his eyes and beheld fifty thousand suns,
besides moons and stars, dancing Scotch reels about
the firmament—at length, missing his footing, by
reason of his wooden leg, down he came, on his
seat of honour, with a crash that shook the surrounding
hills, and would infallibly have wracked
his anatomical system, had he not been received
into a cushion softer than velvet, which providence,
or Minerva, or St. Nicholas, or some kindly cow,
had benevolently prepared for his reception.

The furious Risingh, in despight of that noble
maxim, cherished by all true knights, that “fair
play is a jewel,” hastened to take advantage of the
hero's fall; but just as he was stooping to give the
fatal blow, the ever vigilant Peter bestowed him a
sturdy thwack over the sconce, with his wooden leg,

that set some dozen chimes of bells ringing triple
bob-majors in his cerebellum. The bewildered
Swede staggered with the blow, and in the mean
time the wary Peter, espying a pocket pistol lying
hard by (which had dropped from the wallet of his
faithful squire and trumpeter Van Corlear during
his furious encounter with the drummer) discharged
it full at the head of the reeling Risingh—Let not
my reader mistake—it was not a murderous weapon
loaded with powder and ball, but a little sturdy
stone pottle, charged to the muzzle with a double
dram of true dutch courage, which the knowing Van
Corlear always carried about him by way of replenishing
his valour. The hideous missive sung through
the air, and true to its course, as was the mighty
fragment of a rock, discharged at Hector by bully
Ajax, encountered the huge head of the gigantic
Swede with matchless violence.

This heaven directed blow decided the eventful
battle. The ponderous pericranium of general Jan
Risingh sunk upon his breast; his knees tottered
under under him; a deathlike torpor seized upon
his Titan frame, and he tumbled to the earth with
such tremendous violence, that old Pluto started
with affright, lest he should have broken through
the roof of his infernal palace.

His fall, like that of Goliah, was the signal for
defeat and victory—The Swedes gave way—the
Dutch pressed forward; the former took to their

heels, the latter hotly pursued—Some entered with
them, pell mell, through the sally port—others
stormed the bastion, and others scrambled over the
curtain. Thus in a little while the impregnable
fortress of Fort Christina, which like another Troy
had stood a siege of full ten hours, was finally carried
by assault, without the loss of a single man on
either side. Victory in the likeness of a gigantic
ox fly, sat perched upon the little cocked hat of the
gallant Stuyvesant, and it was universally declared,
by all the writers, whom he hired to write the history
of his expedition, that on this memorable day
he gained a sufficient quantity of glory to immortalize
a dozen of the greatest heroes in Christendom!

8. CHAP. VIII.

Thanks to St. Nicholas! I have fairly got
through this tremendous battle: let us sit down,
my worthy reader, and cool ourselves, for truly I
am in a prodigious sweat and agitation—Body o'me,
but this fighting of battles is hot work! And if your
great commanders, did but know what trouble they
give their historians, they would not have the conscience
to atchieve so many horrible victories. I
already hear my reader complaining, that throughout
all this boasted battle, there is not the least
slaughter, nor a single individual maimed, if we
except the unhappy Swede, who was shorn of his
queue by the tranchant blade of Peter Stuyvesant—
all which is a manifest outrage on probability, and
highly injurious to the interest of the narrative.

For once I candidly confess my captious reader
has some grounds for his murmuring—But though
I could give a variety of substantial reasons for not
having deluded my whole page with blood, and
swelled the cadence of every sentence with dying
groans, yet I will content myself with barely mentioning

one; which if it be not sufficient to satisfy
every reasonable man on the face of the earth, I
will consent that my book shall be cast into the
flames—The simple truth then is this, that on consulting
every history, manuscript and tradition,
which relates to this memorable, though long forgotten
battle, I cannot find that a single man was killed,
or even wounded, throughout the whole affair!

My readers, if they have any bowels, must easily
feel the distressing situation in which I was placed.
I had already promised to furnish them with a
hideous and unparalleled battle—I had made incredible
preparations for the same—and had moreover
worked myself up into a most warlike and
blood-thirsty state of mind—my honour, as a historian,
and my feelings, as a man of spirit, were
both too deeply engaged in the business, to back
out. Beside, I had transported a great and powerful
force of warriors from the Nederlandts, at vast
trouble and expense, and I could not reconcile it to
my own conscience, or to that reverence which I
entertain for them, and their illustrious descendants,
to have suffered them to return home, like a renowned
British expedition—with a flea in their
ears.

How to extract myself from this dilemma was
truly perplexing. Had the inexorable fates only allowed
me half a dozen dead men, I should have
been contented, for I would have made them such

heroes as abounded in the olden time, but whose
race is now unfortunately extinct. Men, who, if
we may believe those authentic writers, the poets,
could drive great armies like sheep before them,
and conquer and desolate whole cities by their single
arm. I'd have given every mother's son of
them as many lives as a cat, and made them die
hard, I warrant you.

But seeing that I had not a single carcass at my
disposal, all that was left for me, was to make the
most I could of my battle, by means of kicks and
cuffs, and bruises—black eyes, and bloody noses,
and such like ignoble wounds. My greatest difficulty
however, was, when I had once put my warriors
in a passion, and let them loose into the midst
of the enemy; to keep them from doing mischief.
Many a time had I to restrain the sturdy Peter, from
cleaving a gigantic Swede, to the very waist-band,
or spitting half a dozen little fellows on his sword,
like so many sparrows—And when I had set some
hundreds of missives flying in the air, I did not
dare to suffer one of them to reach the ground, lest
it should have put an end to some unlucky Dutchman.

The reader cannot conceive how much I suffered
from thus in a manner having my hands tied,
and how many tempting opportunities I had to
wink at, where I might have made as fine a
death blow, as any recorded in history or song.

From my own experience, I begin to doubt
most potently of the authenticity of many of Dan
Homer's stories. I verily believe, that when he
had once launched one of his hearty blades among
a crowd of the enemy, he cut down many an honest
fellow, without any authority for so doing,
excepting that he presented a fair mark—and that
often a poor devil was sent to grim Pluto's domains,
merely because he had a name that would
give a sounding turn to a period. But I disclaim
all such unprincipled liberties—let me but have
truth and the law on my side, and no man would
fight harder than myself—but since the various records
I consulted did not warrant it, I had too
much conscience to kill a single soldier.—By St.
Nicholas, but it would have been a pretty piece of
business! My enemies the critics, who I foresee
will be ready enough to lay any crime they can
discover, at my door, might have charged me with
murder outright—and I should have esteemed myself
lucky to escape, with no harsher verdict than
manslaughter!

And now gentle reader that we are tranquilly
sitting down here, smoking our pipes, permit me
to indulge in a melancholy reflection which at this
moment passes across my mind.—How vain, how
fleeting, how uncertain are all those gaudy bubbles
after which we are panting and toiling in this
world of fair delusions. The wealthy store which

the hoary miser has painfully amassed with so
many weary days, so many sleepless nights, a
spendthrift heir shall squander away in joyless
prodigality—The noblest monuments which pride
has ever reared to perpetuate a name, the hand of
time shall shortly tumble into promiscuous ruins—
and even the brightest laurels, gained by hardiest
feats of arms, may wither and be forever blighted
by the chilling neglect of mankind.—“How many
illustrious heroes,” says the good Boëtius, “who
were once the pride and glory of the age, hath the
silence of historians buried in eternal oblivion!”
And this it was, that made the Spartans when they
went to battle, solemnly to sacrifice to the muses,
supplicating that their atchievements should be
worthily recorded. Had not Homer tuned his
lofty lyre, observes the elegant Cicero, the valour
of Achilles had remained unsung.—And such too,
after all the toils and perils he had braved, after
all the gallant actions he had atchieved, such too
had nearly been the fate of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant,
but that I fortunately stepped in and engraved
his name on the indelible tablet of history,
just as the caitiff Time was silently brushing it away
forever!

The more I reflect, the more am I astonished
to think, what important beings are we historians!
We are the sovereign censors who decide upon
the renown or infamy of our fellow mortals—We

are the public almoners of fame, dealing out her
favours according to our judgment or caprice—
we are the benefactors of kings—we are the guardians
of truth—we are the scourgers of guilt—we
are the instructors of the world—we are—in short,
what are we not!—And yet how often does the
lofty patrician or lordly Burgomaster stalk contemptuously
by the little, plodding, dusty historian
like myself, little thinking that this humble mortal
is the arbiter of his fate, on whom it shall depend
whether he shall live in future ages, or be forgotten
in the dirt, as were his ancestors before him. “Insult
not the dervise” said a wise caliph to his son,
“lest thou offend thine historian;” and many a
mighty man of the olden time, had he observed so
obvious a maxim, would have escaped divers cruel
wipes of the pen, which have been drawn across
his character.

But let not my readers think I am indulging in
vain glorious boasting, from the consciousness of
my own power and importance. On the contrary
I shudder to think what direful commotions, what
heart rending calamities we historians occasion in
the world—I swear to thee, honest reader, as I am
a man, I weep at the very idea!—Why, let me ask,
are so many illustrious men daily tearing themselves
away from the embraces of their distracted
families—slighting the smiles of beauty—despising
the allurements of fortune, and exposing themselves

to all the miseries of war?—Why are renowned
generals cutting the throats of thousands who never
injured them in their lives?—Why are kings desolating
empires and depopulating whole countries?
in short, what induces all great men, of all ages
and countries to commit so many horrible victories
and misdeeds, and inflict so many miseries upon
mankind and on themselves; but the mere hope
that we historians will kindly take them into notice,
and admit them into a corner of our volumes. So
that the mighty object of all their toils, their hardships
and privations is nothing but immortal fame—
and what is immortal fame?—why, half a page of
dirty paper!—alas! alas! how humiliating
the idea—that the renown of so great a man as
Peter Stuyvesant, should depend upon the pen of
so little a man, as Diedrich Knickerbocker!

And now, having refreshed ourselves after the
fatigues and perils of the field, it behoves us to
return once more to the scene of conflict, and inquire
what were the results of this renowned
conquest. The Fortress of Christina being the
fair metropolis and in a manner the Key to New
Sweden, its capture was speedily followed by the
entire subjugation of the province. This was not
a little promoted by the gallant and courteous deportment
of the chivalric Peter. Though a man
terrible in battle, yet in the hour of victory was he
endued with a spirit generous, merciful and humane—He

vaunted not over his enemies, nor did
he make defeat more galling by unmanly insults;
for like that mirror of Knightly virtue, the renowned
Paladin Orlando, he was more anxious to do
great actions, than to talk of them after they were
done. He put no man to death; ordered no houses
to be burnt down; permitted no ravages to be perpetrated
on the property of the vanquished, and
even gave one of his braves staff officers a severe
rib-roasting, who was detected in the act of sacking
a hen roost.

He moreover issued a proclamation inviting
the inhabitants to submit to the authority of their
high mightinesses; but declaring, with unexampled
clemency, that whoever refused, should be lodged
at the public expense, in a goodly castle provided
for the purpose, and have an armed retinue to wait
on them in the bargain. In consequence of these
beneficent terms, about thirty Swedes stepped manfully
forward and took the oath of allegiance; in
reward for which they were graciously permitted
to remain on the banks of the Delaware, where
their descendants reside at this very day. But I am
told by sundry observant travellers, that they have
never been able to get over the chap-fallen looks of
their ancestors, and do still unaccountably transmit
from father to son, manifest marks of the sound
drubbing given them by the sturdy Amsterdammers.

The whole country of New Sweden, having thus
yielded to the arms of the triumphant Peter, was
reduced to a colony called South River, and placed
under the superintendance of a lieutenant governor;
subject to the controul of the supreme government
at New Amsterdam. This great dignitary, was
called Mynheer William Beekman, or rather Beck
man, who derived his surname, as did Ovidius Naso
of yore, from the lordly dimensions of his nose,
which projected from the centre of his countenance,
like the beak of a parrot. Indeed, it is furthermore
insinuated by various ancient records, that
this was not only the origin of his name, but likewise
the foundation of his fortune, for, as the city
was as yet unprovided with a clock, the public
made use of Mynheer Beckman's face, as a sun
dial. Thus did this romantic, and truly picturesque
feature, first thrust itself into public notice, dragging
its possessor along with it, who in his turn
dragged after him the whole Beckman family—
These, as the story further adds, were for a long
time among the most ancient and honourable
families of the province, and gratefully commemorated
the origin of their dignity, not as your noble
families in England would do, by having a glowing
proboscis emblazoned in their escutcheon, but by
one and all, wearing a right goodly nose, stuck in
the very middle of their faces.

Thus was this perilous enterprize gloriously

terminated, with the loss of only two men; Wolfert
Van Horne, a tall spare man, who was knocked
overboard by the boom of a sloop, in a flaw of
wind: and fat Brom Van Bummel, who was suddenly
carried off by a villainous indigestion; both,
however, were immortalized, as having bravely
fallen, in the service of their country. True it is,
Peter Stuyvesant had one of his limbs terribly
fractured, being shattered to pieces in the act of
storming the fortress; but as it was fortunately his
wooden leg, the wound was promptly and effectually
healed.

And now nothing remains to this branch of my
history, but to mention, that this immaculate hero,
and his victorious army, returned joyously to the
Manhattoes, marching under the shade of their
laurels, as did the followers of young Malcolm,
under the moving forest of Dunsinane. Thus did
they make a solemn and triumphant entry into
New Amsterdam, bearing with them the conquered
Risingh, and the remnant of his battered crew, who
had refused allegiance. For it appears that the
gigantic Swede, had only fallen into a swound, at
the end of the battle, from whence he was speedily
restored by a wholesome tweak of the nose.

These captive heroes were lodged, according to
the promise of the governor, at the public expense, in
a fair and spacious castle; being the prison of state,
of which Stoffel Brinkerhoff, the immortal conqueror

of Oyster Bay, was appointed Lord Lieutenant; and
which has ever since remained in the possession of
his descendants.[17]

It was a pleasant and goodly sight to witness
the joy of the people of New Amsterdam, at beholding
their warriors once more returned, from
this war in the wilderness. The old women thronged
round Antony Van Corlear, who gave the whole
history of the campaign with matchless accuracy;
saving that he took the credit of fighting the whole
battle himself, and especially of vanquishing the
stout Risingh, which he considered himself as
clearly entitled to, seeing that it was effected by
his own stone pottle. The schoolmasters throughout
the town gave holliday to their little urchins,
who followed in droves after the drums, with paper
caps on their heads and sticks in their breeches,
thus taking the first lesson in vagabondizing. As to
the sturdy rabble they thronged at the heels of
Peter Stuyvesant wherever he went, waving their
greasy hats in the air, and shouting “Hard-koppig
Piet forever!”

It was indeed a day of roaring rout and jubilee.
A huge dinner was prepared at the Stadt-house
in honour of the conquerors, where were assembled
in one glorious constellation, the great and the

little luminaries of New Amsterdam. There were
the lordly Schout and his obsequious deputy—the
Burgomasters with their officious Schepens at their
elbows—the subaltern officers at the elbows of the
Schepens, and so on to the lowest grade of illustrious
hangers-on of police; every Tag having his
Rag at his side, to finish his pipe, drink off his
heel-taps, and laugh at his flights of immortal dullness.
In short—for a city feast is a city feast all
the world over, and has been a city feast ever
since the creation—the dinner went off much the
same as do our great corporation junkettings and
fourth of July banquets. Loads of fish, flesh and
fowl were devoured, oceans of liquor drank, thousands
of pipes smoked, and many a dull joke honoured
with much obstreperous fat sided laughter.

I must not omit to mention that to this far-famed
victory Peter Stuyvesant was indebted for
another of his many titles—for so hugely delighted
were the honest burghers with his atchievements,
that they unanimously honoured him with the name
of Pieter de Groodt, that is to say Peter the Great,
or as it was translated by the people of New Amsterdam,
Piet de Pig—an appellation which he
maintained even unto the day of his death.