University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER V.

In the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and four, on a fine afternoon,
in the glowing month of September,
I took my customary walk upon the
battery, which is at once the pride and
bulwark of this ancient and impregnable
city of New York. The ground on which
I trod was hallowed by recollections of
the past, and as I slowly wandered
through the long alley of poplars, which
like so many birch brooms standing on
end, diffused a melaneholy and lugubrious
shade, my imagination drew a
contrast between the surrounding scenery,
and what it was in the classic days
of our forefathers. Where the government-house
by name, but the customhouse
by occupation, proudly reared its
brick walls and wooden pillars, there
whilom stood the low, but substantial,
red-tiled mansion of the renowned Wouter
Van Twiller. Around it the mighty
bulwarks of Fort Amsterdam frowned
defiance to every absent foe; but, like
many a whiskered warrior and gallant
militia captain, confined their martial
deeds to frowns alone. The mud breastworks
had long been levelled with the
earth, and their site converted into the
green lawns and leafy alleys of the Battery;
where the gay apprentice sported
his Sunday coat, and the laborious mechanic,
relieved from dirt and drudgery,
poured his weekly tale of love into the
half-averted ear of the sentimental chambermaid.
The capacious buy still presented
the same expansive sheet of water,
studded with islands, sprinkled with
fishing-boats, and bounded by shores of
picturesque beauty. But the dark forests
which once clothed these shores had
been violated by the savage hand of cultivation,
and their tangled mazes, and
impenetrable thickets, had degenerated
into teeming orchards and waving fields
of grain. Even Governor's Island, once
a smiling garden, appertaining to the
sovereigns of the province, was now
covered with forlifications, inclosing a
tremendous block-house—so that this
once-peaceful island resembled a fierce
little warrior in a big cocked hat, breathing
gunpowder and defiance to the world!

For some time did I indulge in this
pensive train of thought; contrasting, in
sober sadness, the present day with the
hallowed years behind the mountains;
lamenting the melancholy progress of
improvement, and praising the zeal with
which our worthy burghers endeavour
to preserve the wrecks of venerable customs,
prejudices, and errors, from the
overwhelming tide of modern innovation
—when by degrees my ideas took a different
turn, and I insensibly awakened to
an enjoyment of the beauties around me.

It was one of those rich autumnal
days which Heaven particularly bestows
upon the beauteous island of Mannahata
and its vicinity—not a floating cloud obscured
the azure firmament—the sun,
rolling in glorious splendour through his
ethereal course, seemed to expand his
honest Dutch countenance into an unusual
expression of benevolence, as he
smiled his evening salutation upon a
city, which he delights to visit with his
most bounteous beams—the very winds
seemed to hold in their breaths in mute
attention, lest they should ruffle the tranquillity
of the hour—and the waveless
bosom of the bay presented a polished
mirror, in which nature beheld herself
and smiled. The