University of Virginia Library

A DOLEFUL DISASTER OF ANTHONY
THE TRUMPETER.

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[1] ;—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 Anthony 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
Broad-way; 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 Anthony
arrived at the famous creek (sagely denominated Harlem
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 valorously, that he would swim across, en spijt den
duyvel (in spite of the devil!) and daringly plunged into
the stream.—Luckless Anthony! scarce had he buffeted
half-way over, when he was observed to struggle violently,
as if battling with the spirit of the waters—instinctively
he put his trumpet to his mouth, and giving a vehement
blast, sunk for ever 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,
seize the sturdy Anthony 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 duyvel ever since,
—the restless ghost of the unfortunate Anthony 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. Nobody 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 Anthony Van Corlear—a man
deserving of a better fate. He lived roundly and soundly,
like a true and jolly bachelor, 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!