University of Virginia Library

7. CHAP. VII.

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

Resolutely bent however upon defending his
beloved city, in despite even of itself, he called unto
him his trusty Van Corlear, who was his right hand
man in all times of emergency. Him did he adjure
to take his war denouncing trumpet, and

mounting his horse, to beat up the country, night
and day—Sounding the alarm along the pastoral
borders of the Bronx—startling the wild solitudes
of Croton, arousing the rugged yeomanry of Wee-hawk
and Hoboken—the mighty men of battle of
Tappan Bay[23] —and the brave boys of Tarry town
and Sleepy hollow—together with all the other
warriors of the country round about; charging
them one and all, to sling their powder horns,
shoulder their fowling pieces, and march merrily
down to the Manhattoes.

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

It was a dark and stormy night when the good
Antony arrived at the famous creek (sagely denominated
Hærlem river) which separates the

island of Manna-hata from the main land. The
wind was high, the elements were in an uproar,
and no Charon could be found to ferry the adventurous
sounder of brass across the water. For a
short time he vapoured like an impatient ghost
upon the brink, and then, bethinking himself of the
urgency of his errand, took a hearty embrace of his
stone bottle, swore most valourously that he would
swim across, en spijt den Duyvel (in spite of the
devil!) and daringly plunged into the stream.—
Luckless Antony! scarce had he buffetted half way
over, when he was observed to struggle most violently
as if battling with the spirit of the waters—
instinctively he put his trumpet to his mouth and
giving a vehement blast—sunk forever to the bottom!

The potent clangour of his trumpet, like the
ivory horn of the renowned Paladin Orlando, when
expiring in the glorious field of Roncesvalles, rung
far and wide through the country, alarming the
neighbours round, who hurried in amazement to
the spot—Here an old Dutch burgher, famed for
his veracity, and who had been a witness of the
fact, related to them the melancholy affair; with
the fearful addition (to which I am slow of giving
belief) that he saw the duyvel, in the shape of a
huge Moss-bonker with an invisible fiery tail, and
vomiting boiling water, seize the sturdy Antony
by the leg, and drag him beneath the waves. Certain

it is, the place, with the adjoining promontory,
which projects into the Hudson, has been called
Spijt den duyvel, or Spiking devil, ever since—the
restless ghost of the unfortunate Antony still haunts
the surrounding solitudes, and his trumpet has often
been heard by the neighbours, of a stormy night,
mingling with the howling of the blast. No body
ever attempts to swim over the creek after dark;
on the contrary, a bridge has been built to guard
against such melancholy accidents in future—and
as to Moss-bonkers, they are held in such abhorrence,
that no true Dutchman will admit them to
his table, who loves good fish, and hates the devil.

Such was the end of Antony Van Corlear—
a man deserving of a better fate. He lived roundly
and soundly, like a true and jolly batchelor, until
the day of his death; but though he was never
married, yet did he leave behind some two or three
dozen children, in different parts of the country—
fine, chubby, brawling, flatulent little urchins, from
whom, if legends speak true, (and they are not apt
to lie) did descend the innumerable race of editors,
who people and defend this country, and who are
bountifully paid by the people for keeping up a constant
alarm—and making them miserable. Would
that they inherited the worth, as they do the wind,
of their renowned progenitor!

The tidings of this lamentable catastrophe imparted
a severer pang to the bosom of Peter Stuyvesant,

than did even the invasion of his beloved
Amsterdam. It came ruthlessly home to those
sweet affections that grow close around the heart,
and are nourished by its warmest current. As
some lorn pilgrim wandering in trackless wastes,
while the rude tempest whistles through his hoary
locks, and dreary night is gathering around, sees
stretched cold and lifeless, his faithful dog—the
sole companion of his lonely journeying, who had
shared his solitary meal, who had so often licked
his hand in humble gratitude, who had lain in his
bosom, and been unto him as a child—So did the
generous hearted hero of the Manhattoes contemplate
the untimely end of his faithful Antony. He
had been the humble attendant of his footsteps—he
had cheered him in many a heavy hour, by his
honest gaiety, and had followed him in loyalty and
affection, through many a scene of direful peril and
mishap—he was gone forever—and that too, at a
moment when every mongrel cur seemed skulking
from his side—This—Peter Stuyvesant—this was
the moment to try thy magnanimity; and this was
the moment, when thou didst indeed shine forth—
Peter the Headstrong!

The glare of day had long dispelled the horrors of
the last stormy night; still all was dull and gloomy.
The late jovial Apollo hid his face behind lugubrious
clouds, peeping out now and then, for an instant,
as if anxious, yet fearful, to see what was going

on, in his favourite city. This was the eventful
morning, when the great Peter was to give his reply,
to the audacious summons of the invaders. Already
was he closetted with his privy council, sitting in
grim state, brooding over the fate of his favourite
trumpeter, and anon boiling with indignation as the
insolence of his recreant Burgomasters flashed upon
his mind. While in this state of irritation, a courier
arrived in all haste from Winthrop, the subtle governor
of Connecticut, councilling him in the most
affectionate and disinterested manner to surrender
the province, and magnifying the dangers and calamities
to which a refusal would subject him.—
What a moment was this to intrude officious advice
upon a man, who never took advice in his whole
life!—The fiery old governor strode up and down
the chamber, with a vehemence, that made the
bosoms of his councillors to quake with awe—
railing at his unlucky fate, that thus made him the
constant butt of factious subjects, and jesuitical
advisers.

Just at this ill chosen juncture, the officious
Burgomasters, who were now completely on the
watch, and had got wind of the arrival of mysterious
dispatches, came marching in a resolute body, into
the room, with a legion of Schepens and toad-eaters
at their heels, and abruptly demanded a perusal of
the letter. Thus to be broken in upon by what he
esteemed a “rascal rabble,” and that too at the very

moment he was grinding under an irritation from
abroad, was too much for the spleen of the choleric
Peter. He tore the letter in a thousand pieces[24] —
threw it in the face of the nearest Burgomaster—
broke his pipe over the head of the next—hurled
his spitting box at an unlucky Schepen, who was
just making a masterly retreat out at the door, and
finally dissolved the whole meeting sine die, by
kicking them down stairs with his wooden leg!

As soon as the Burgomasters could recover
from the confusion into which their sudden exit
had thrown them, and had taken a little time to
breathe, they protested against the conduct of the
governor, which they did not hesitate to pronounce
tyrannical, unconstitutional, highly indecent, and
somewhat disrespectful. They then called a public
meeting, where they read the protest, and addressing
the assembly in a set speech related at
full length, and with appropriate colouring and exaggeration,
the despotic and vindictive deportment
of the governor; declaring that, for their own parts,
they did not value a straw the being kicked, cuffed,
and mauled by the timber toe of his excellency, but
they felt for the dignity of the sovereign people,
thus rudely insulted by the outrage committed on
the seats of honour of their representatives. The
latter part of the harangue had a violent effect upon

the sensibility of the people, as it came home at
once, to that delicacy of feeling and jealous pride
of character, vested in all true mobs: and there is
no knowing to what act of resentment they might
have been provoked, against the redoubtable Hard-koppig
Piet—had not the greasy rogues been somewhat
more afraid of their sturdy old governor, than
they were of St. Nicholas, the English—or the
D—l himself.