seeing that he was equally worthy of blazon with him
perpetuated in Scottish song and story by the surname of Bell-the-cat. All
we know of the fate of this memorial is, that it was used by the grim
Peter to light his pipe, which, from the vehemence with which he smoked
it, was evidently anything but a pipe of peace.

CHAPTER X.

Now did the high-minded Peter de Groodt shower down a pannier load of
maledictions upon his burgomaster for a set of self-willed, obstinate,
factious varlets, who would neither be convinced nor persuaded. Nor did he
omit to bestow some left-handed compliments upon the sovereign people, as
a heard 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 fight in a ditch for immortality and a
broken head.

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 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 border of the
Bronx--startling the wild solitudes of Croton--arousing the rugged
yeomanry of Weehawk and Hoboken--the mighty men of battle of Tappan
Bay--and the brave boys of Tarry-Town, Petticoat-Lane, and
Sleepy-Hollow--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 heart-inspiring Hollands, he issued jollily from the
city gate, which looked out upon what is at present called Broadway;
sounding 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 favorite trumpeter.

It was a dark and stormy night when the good Antony arrived at the creek
(sagely denominated Haerlem river) which separates the island of
Manna-hata from the mainland. The wind was high, the elements were in an
uproar, and no Charon could be found to ferry the adventurous sounder of
brass across the water. For a short time he vapored like an impatient
ghost upon t