University of Virginia Library

10. CHAP. X.

Thus then have I concluded this renowned
historical enterprize; but before I lay aside my
weary pen, there yet remains to be performed one
pious duty. If among the incredible host of readers
that shall peruse this book, there should haply be
found any of those souls of true nobility, which
glow with celestial fire, at the history of the generous
and the brave, they will doubtless be anxious
to know the fate of the gallant Peter Stuyvesant.
To gratify one such sterling heart of gold I would
go more lengths, than to instruct the cold blooded
curiosity of a whole fraternity of philosophers.

No sooner had that high mettled cavalier signed
the articles of capitulation than, determined not to
witness the humiliation of his favourite city, he
turned his back upon its walls and made a growling
retreat to his Bouwery, or country seat, which
was situated about two miles off, where he passed
the remainder of his days in patriarchal retirement.
There he enjoyed that tranquillity of
mind, which he had never known amid the distracting
cares of government, and tasted the sweets of
absolute and uncontrouled authority, which his

factious subjects had so often dashed with the bitterness
of opposition.

No persuasions could ever induce him to revisit
the city—on the contrary he would always have his
great arm chair placed with its back to the windows,
which looked in that direction; until a thick grove
of trees planted by his own hand grew up and
formed a screen, that effectually excluded it from
the prospect. He railed continually at the degenerate
innovations and improvements introduced by
the conquerors—forbade a word of their detested
language to be spoken in his family, a prohibition
readily obeyed, since none of the household could
speak any thing but dutch—and even ordered a fine
avenue to be cut down in front of his house, because
it consisted of English cherry trees.

The same incessant vigilance, that blazed forth
when he had a vast province under his care, now
shewed itself with equal vigour, though in narrower
limits. He patrolled with unceasing watchfulness
around the boundaries of his little territory;
repelled every encroachment with intrepid promptness;
punished every vagrant depredation upon his
orchard or his farm yard with inflexible severity—
and conducted every stray hog or cow in triumph
to the pound. But to the indigent neighbour, the
friendless stranger, or the weary wanderer, his spacious
door was ever open, and his capacious fire
place, that emblem of his own warm and generous

heart, had always a corner to receive and cherish
them. There was an exception to this, I must
confess, in case the ill starred applicant was an Englishman
or a Yankee, to whom, though he might
extend the hand of assistance, he could never be
brought to yield the rites of hospitality. Nay, if
peradventure some straggling merchant of the east,
should stop at his door with his cart load of tin
ware or wooden bowls, the fiery Peter would issue
forth like a giant from his castle, and make such a
furious clattering among his pots and kettles, that
the vender of “notions” was fain to betake himself
to instant flight.

His ancient suit of regimentals, worn threadbare
by the brush, were carefully hung up in the state
bed chamber, and regularly aired the first fair day
of every month—and his cocked hat and trusty
sword, were suspended in grim repose, over the
parlour mantle-piece, forming supporters to a full
length portrait of the renowned admiral Von
Tromp. In his domestic empire he maintained
strict discipline, and a well organized, despotic
government; but though his own will was the supreme
law, yet the good of his subjects was his
constant object. He watched over, not merely,
their immediate comforts, but their morals, and their
ultimate welfare; for he gave them abundance of
excellent admonition, nor could any of them complain,
that when occasion required, he was by any

means niggardly in bestowing wholesome correction.

The good old Dutch festivals, those periodical
demonstrations of an overflowing heart and a thankful
spirit, which are falling into sad disuse among
my fellow citizens, were faithfully observed in the
mansion of governor Stuyvesant. New year was
truly a day of open handed liberality, of jocund revelry,
and warm hearted congratulation—when the
bosom seemed to swell with genial good-fellowship
—and the plenteous table, was attended with an unceremonious
freedom, and honest broad mouthed
merriment, unknown in these days of degeneracy
and refinement. Paas and Pinxter were scrupulously
observed throughout his dominions; nor
was the day of St. Nicholas suffered to pass by,
without making presents, hanging the stocking in
the chimney, and complying with all its other ceremonies.

Once a year, on the first day of April, he used
to array himself in full regimentals, being the anniversary
of his triumphal entry into New Amsterdam,
after the conquest of New Sweden. This
was always a kind of saturnalia among the domestics,
when they considered themselves at liberty in
some measure, to say and do what they pleased;
for on this day their master was always observed to
unbend, and become exceeding pleasant and jocose,
sending the old greyheaded negroes on April fools
errands for pigeons milk; not one of whom but allowed

himself to be taken in, and humoured his
old master's jokes; as became a faithful and well
disciplined dependant. Thus did he reign, happily
and peacefully on his own land—injuring no man—
envying no man—molested by no outward strifes;
perplexed by no internal commotions—and the
mighty monarchs of the earth, who were vainly
seeking to maintain peace, and promote the welfare
of mankind, by war and desolation, would have
done well to have made a voyage to the little island
of Manna-hata, and learned a lesson in government,
from the domestic economy of Peter Stuyvesant.

In process of time, however, the old governor,
like all other children of mortality, began to exhibit
evident tokens of decay. Like an aged oak,
which though it long has braved the fury of the
elements, and still retains its gigantic proportions,
yet begins to shake and groan with every blast—
so the gallant Peter, though he still bore the port
and semblance of what he was, in the days of his
hardihood and chivalry, yet did age and infirmity
begin to sap the vigour of his frame—but his heart,
that most unconquerable citadel, still triumphed
unsubdued. With matchless avidity, would he
listen to every article of intelligence, concerning
the battles between the English and Dutch—Still
would his pulse beat high, whenever he heard of
the victories of De Ruyter—and his countenance
lower, and his eye brows knit, when fortune turned

in favour of the English. At length, as on a certain
day, he had just smoked his fifth pipe, and was
napping after dinner, in his arm chair, conquering
the whole British nation in his dreams, he was
suddenly aroused by a most fearful ringing of bells,
rattling of drums, and roaring of cannon, that put all
his blood in a ferment. But when he learnt, that
these rejoicings were in honour of a great victory
obtained by the combined English and French
fleets, over the brave De Ruyter, and the younger
Von Tromp, it went so much to his heart, that he
took to his bed, and in less than three days, was
brought to death's door, by a violent cholera morbus!
But even in this extremity, he still displayed the
unconquerable spirit of Peter the Headstrong; holding
out, to the last gasp, with most inflexible obstinacy,
against a whole army of old women, who were
bent upon driving the enemy out of his bowels,
after a true Dutch mode of defence, by inundating
the seat of war, with catnip and penny royal.

While he thus lay, lingering on the verge of
dissolution; news was brought him, that the brave
De Ruyter, had suffered but little loss—had made
good his retreat—and meant once more to meet
the enemy in battle. The closing eye of the old
warrior kindled at the words—he partly raised himself
in bed—a flash of martial fire beamed across
his visage—he clinched his withered hand, as if
he felt within his gripe that sword which waved

in triumph before the walls of Fort Christina, and
giving a grim smile of exultation, sunk back upon
his pillow, and expired.

Thus died Peter Stuyvesant, a valiant soldier
—a loyal subject—an upright governor, and an
honest Dutchman—who wanted only a few empires
to desolate, to have been immortalized as a
hero!

His funeral obsequies were celebrated with the
utmost grandeur and solemnity. The town was
perfectly emptied of its inhabitants, who crowded
in throngs to pay the last sad honours to their good
old governor. All his sterling qualities rushed in
full tide upon their recollections, while the memory
of his foibles, and his faults, had expired with him.
The ancient burghers contended who should have
the privilege of bearing the pall; the populace
strove who should walk nearest to the bier—and
the melancholy procession was closed by a number
of grey headed negroes, who had wintered and summered
in the household of their departed master,
for the greater part of a century.

With sad and gloomy countenances the multitude
gathered round the grave. They dwelt with
mournful hearts, on the sturdy virtues, the signal
services and the gallant exploits of the brave old
veteran. They recalled with secret upbraidings,
their own factious oppositions to his government
—and many an ancient burgher, whose phlegmatic

features had never been known to relax, nor his
eyes to moisten—was now observed to puff a pensive
pipe, and the big drop to steal down his cheek
—while he muttered with affectionate accent and
melancholy shake of the head—“Well den—Hard-kopping
Piet ben gone at last!”

His remains were deposited in the family
vault, under a chapel, which he had piously
erected on his estate and dedicated to St. Nicholas
—and which stood on the identical spot at present
occupied by St. Mark's church, where his tomb
stone is still to be seen. His estate, or Bouwery, as
it was called, has ever continued in the possession
of his descendants, who by the uniform integrity of
their conduct, and their strict adherence to the
customs and manners that prevailed in the good old
times, have proved themselves worthy of their illustrious
ancestor. Many a time and oft, has the
farm been haunted at night by enterprizing money-diggers,
in quest of pots of gold, said to have been
buried by the old governor—though I cannot learn
that any of them have ever been enriched by their
researches—and who is there, among my native
born fellow citizens, that does not remember, when
in the mischievous days of his boyhood, he conceived
it a great exploit, to rob “Stuyvesant's orchard”
on a holliday afternoon.

At this strong hold of the family may still be
seen certain memorials of the immortal Peter. His

full length portrait frowns in martial terrors from
the parlour wall—his cocked hat and sword still
hang up in the best bed room—His brimstone
coloured breeches were for a long while suspended
in the hall, until some years since they occasioned
a dispute between a new married couple—and his
silver mounted wooden leg is still treasured up in
the store room as an invaluable relique.

And now worthy reader, ere I take a sad farewell—which
alas! must be forever—willingly would
I part in cordial fellowship, and bespeak thy kind
hearted remembrance. That I have not written a
better history of the days of the patriarchs is not
my fault—had any other person written one, as good
I should not have attempted it at all.—That many
will hereafter spring up and surpass me in excellence,
I have very little doubt, and still less care;
well knowing, that when the great Christovallo Colon
(who is vulgarly called Columbus) had once stood
his egg upon its end, every one at table could stand
his up a thousand times more dexterously.—Should
any reader find matter of offence in this history, I
should heartily grieve, though I would on no account
question his penetration by telling him he is
mistaken—his good nature by telling him he is
captious—or his pure conscience by telling him he
is startled at a shadow.—Surely if he is so ingenious

in finding offence where none is intended, it were a
thousand pities he should not be suffered to enjoy
the benefit of his discovery.

I have too high an opinion of the understanding
of my fellow citizens, to think of yielding them
any instruction, and I covet too much their good
will, to forfeit it by giving them good advice.
I am none of those cynics who despise the world,
because it despises them—on the contrary, though
but low in its regard I look up to it with the most
perfect good nature, and my only sorrow is, that it
does not prove itself worthy of the unbounded love
I bear it.

If however in this my historic production—the
scanty fruit of a long and laborious life—I have
failed to gratify the dainty palate of the age, I can
only lament my misfortune—for it is too late in the
season for me even to hope to repair it. Already
has withering age showered his sterile snows upon
my brow; in a little while, and this genial warmth
which still lingers around my heart, and throbs—
worthy reader—throbs kindly towards thyself, shall
be chilled forever. Haply this frail compound of
dust, which while alive may have given birth to
naught but unprofitable weeds, may form a humble
sod of the valley, from whence shall spring many a
sweet wild flower, to adorn my beloved island of
Manna-hata!