488

HOW PETER TREATED THE MEMORIAL.

figures, which I cannot enumerate.-Neither indeed need I, for they were exactly the same that are used in all popular harangues and patriotic orations at the present day, and may be classed in rhetoric under the general title of RIGMAROLE.

The speech of this inspired burgomaster being finished, the meeting fell into a kind of popular fermentation, which produced not only a string of right wise resolutions, but likewise a most resolute memorial, addressed to the governor, remonstrating at his conduct-which was no sooner handed to him, than he handed it into the fire; and thus deprived posterity of an invaluable document that might have served as a precedent to the enlightened cobblers and tailors of the present day, in their sage intermeddlings with politics.

PETER'S WRATH, AND RESOLUTION.

489

CHAPTER VII.

Containing a doleful disaster of Antony the Trumpeter-And how Peter Stuyvesant, like a second Cromwell, suddenly dissolved a rump Parliament.

Now did the high-minded Pieter de Groodt shower down a pannier load of benedictions upon his burgomasters for a set of self-willed, obstinate, headstrong varlets, who would neither be convinced nor persuaded; and determined thenceforth to have nothing more to do with them, but to consult merely the opinion of his privy counsellors, which he knew from experience to be the best in the world-inasmuch as it never differed from his own. Nor did he omit, now that his hand was in, to bestow some thousand left-handed compliments upon the sovereign people, whom he railed at for a herd of poltroons, who had no relish for the glorious hardships and illustrious misadventures of battle-but would rather stay at home, and eat and sleep in ignoble ease, than gain immortality and a broken head, by valiantly fighting in a ditch.

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

490

MISSION OF VAN CORLEAR.

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 Weehawk and Hoboeken-the mighty men of battle of Tappen Bay *-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 Antony 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 heartinspiring Hollands, he issued jollily from the citygate, 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 Antony arrived at the famous creek (sagely denominated Haerlem river) which separates the island of Manna-hata from the main land. The wind was high, the elements were in an uproar,

* A corruption of Top-paun; so called from a tribe of Indians which boasted 150 fighting men.-See Ogilby's History.

HIS LUCKLESS FATE.

491

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 Antony ! scarce had he buffeted halfway 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 Antony 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 devil, ever since-the restless ghost of the unfortunate Antony still haunts the surrounding solitudes, and his trumpet

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GRIEF OF THE GOVERNOR

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 Antony 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!

The tidings of this lamentable catastrophe imparted a severer pang to the bosom of Peter Stuyvesant than did even the invasion of his beloved Amsterdam. It came ruthlessly home to those sweet affections that grow close around the heart, and are nourished by its warmest current. As some lorn pilgrim, while the tempest whistles