f the valorous Stuyvesant, under the mild moonshine of
peace, or rather the grim tranquillity of awful expectation; but now the
war-drum rumbles from afar, the brazen trumpet brays its thrilling note,
and the rude clash of hostile arms speaks fearful prophecies of coming
troubles. The gallant warrior starts from soft repose--from golden visions
and voluptuous ease; where, in the dulcet "piping time of peace," he
sought sweet solace after all his toils. No more in Beauty's siren lap
reclined he weaves fair garlands for his lady's brows; no more entwines
with flowers his shining sword nor through the livelong lazy summer's day
chants forth his love-sick soul in madrigals. To manhood roused, he spurns
the amorous flute, doffs from his brawny back the robe of peace, and
clothes his pampered limbs in panoply of steel. O'er his dark brow, where
late the myrtle waved, where wanton roses breathed enervate love, he rears
the beaming casque and nodding plume; grasps the bright shield, and shakes
the ponderous lance; or mounts with eager pride his fiery steed, and burns
for deeds of glorious chivalry.

But soft, worthy reader! I would not have you imagine that any _preux
chevalier_, thus hideously begirt with iron, existed in the city of New
Amsterdam. This is but a lofty and gigantic mode, in which we heroic
writers always talk of war, thereby to give it a noble and imposing
aspect; equipping our warriors with bucklers, helms, and lances, and
such-like outlandish and obsolete weapons, the like of which perchance
they had never seen or heard of; in the same manner that a cunning
statuary arrays a modern general or an admiral in the accoutrements of a
Caesar or an Alexander. The simple truth, then, of all this oratorical
flourish is this: that the valiant Peter Stuyvesant all of a sudden found
it necessary to scour his rusty blade, which too long had rusted in its
scabbard, and prepare himself to undergo those hardy toils of war, in
which his mighty soul so much delighted.

Methinks I at this moment behold him in my imagination; or rather, I
behold his goodly portrait, which still hangs in the family mansion of the
Stuyvesants, arrayed in all the terrors of a true Dutch general. His
regimental coat of German blue, gorgeously decorated with a goodly show of
large brass buttons, reaching from his waistband to his chin; the
voluminous skirts turned up at the corners, and separating gallantly
behind, so as to display the seat of a sump