University of Virginia Library

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.