University of Virginia Library

PETER STUYVESANT'S VOYAGE UP THE HUDSON.
FROM THE HISTORY OF NEW YORK.

Now did the soft breezes of the south steal sweetly over the
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
canvas 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 gayly 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 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 discolorers of canvas.

Thus rarely decorated, in style befitting 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 ocean, seemed to pause for a while and
swell with pride, as if conscious of the illustrious burden 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 forest, and
tamed the features of the landscape—nor had the frequent sail
of commerce 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
precipice, the wild deer would look timidly down upon the
splendid pageant as it passed below; and then, tossing his
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 favorite abodes from the unhallowed
eyes of mortals. Now did they career it gayly across the vast
expanse of Tappan Bay, whose wide-extended shores present a
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 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 neighboring mountains, displayed a rural paradise,
fraught with sweet and pastoral beauties; the velvet-tufted
lawn—the bushy copse—the twinkling 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 to the scene.
Now would the jovial sun break gloriously from the east,

blazing from the summits of the 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 gayety—the atmosphere was
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 sank
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 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 splendor 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 hour of twilight spread its majestic 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 colors 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, which 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,
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
by the dreary howl of a 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 its waters from the
lakes, formed one vast prison, within whose rocky bosom the
omnipotent Manetho confined the rebellious spirits who repined
at his control. Here, bound in adamantine chains, or jammed
in rifted pines, or crushed by ponderous rocks, they groaned
for many an age. At length, the conquering Hudson, in its
career towards the ocean, burst open their prison-house, rolling
its tide triumphantly through the 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 clamors when any noise disturbs
the profoundness of their repose. For 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 that 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 mind but thoughts of
iron war, and proud anticipations of hardy deeds of arms.
Neither did his honest crew trouble their heads 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
smoking 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
fireflies, 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 for ever—in their tails!

And now I am going to tell a fact, which I doubt 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 Anthony 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 flagon.
Now thus it happened, that bright and early in the morning,
the good Antony, having washed his burly 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 splendor from behind a high bluff 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 labor hoisted on board,
furnished a luxurious repast to all the crew, being accounted of
excellent flavor, 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.[1]

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 Antony's Nose to a
stout promontory in the neighborhood—and it has continued to
be called Anthony's Nose ever since that time.

But hold: whither 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 roistering
devils, frisking and curvetting on a 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 wayfaring.

Recollect that while dwelling with the fond garrulity 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 tha
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 history of the
Manhattoes.