University of Virginia Library

The dignified Retirement and mortal Surrender of Peter
the Headstrong.

Thus then have I concluded this great historical enterprise;
but, before I lay aside my weary pen, there yet

remains to be performed one pious duty. If among the
variety of readers that may 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 on 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 uncontrolled
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 showed 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, tht 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 bedchamber, 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 mantlepiece, forming supporters to a
full length portrait of the renowned Admiral Von Tromp.
In his domestic empire he maintained strick 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 exceedingly pleasant and jocose, sending
the old gray-headed negroes on April fools' errands for
pigeon's 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-hatta, 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 eyebrows 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 fearful ringing of
bells, rattling of drums, and roaring of cannon, that put all
his blood in a ferment. But when he learned 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 the 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
pennyroyal.

While he thus lay, lingering on the verge of dissolution,
news was brought him, that the brave 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 clenched 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 gray-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 worthy. 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-Koppig Peter 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 tombstone 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 enterprising 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 holiday
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.