ticular in holding up these wild men as excellent domestic examples-and for reasons that may be gathered from the history of master Ogilby, who tells us, that "for the least offence the bridegroom soundly beats his wife and turns her out of doors, and marries another, insomuch that some of them have every year a new wife." Whether this awful example had any influence or not, history does not mention; but it is certain that our grandmothers were miracles of fidelity and obedience.

True it is, that the good understanding between our ancestors and their savage neighbours, was liable to occasional interruptions, and I have heard my grandmother, who was a very wise old woman, and well versed in the history of these parts, tell a long story, of a winter's evening, about a battle between the New-Amsterdammers and the Indians, which was known by the name of the Peach war, and which took place near a peach orchard, in a dark glen, which for a long while went by the name of Murderer's valley.

The legend of this sylvan war was long current among the nurses, old wives and other ancient chroniclers of the place; but time and improvement have almost obliterated both the tradition and the scene of battle; for what was once the blood stained valley is now in the centre of this populous city, and known by the name of Dey-street.

The accumulating wealth and consequence of New-Amsterdam and its dependencies, at length

awakened the tender solicitude of the mother country; who finding it a thriving and opulent colony, and that it promised to yield great profit, and no trouble, all at once became wonderfully anxious about its safety, and began to load it with tokens of regard, in the same manner that your knowing people are sure to overwhelm rich relations with their affection and loving kindness.

The usual marks of protection shown by mother countries, to wealthy colonies, were forthwith manifested the first care always being to send rulers to the new settlement, with orders to squeeze as much revenue from it as it will yield. Accordingly in the year of our Lord, 1629, Mynher WOUTER VAN TWILLER, was appointed governor of the province of Nieuw-Nederlandts, under the commission and control of their High Mightinesses, the Lords States General of the United Netherlands, and the privileged West-India Company.

This renowned old gentleman arrived at NewAmsterdam in the merry month of June, the sweetest month in all the year; when dan Apollo seems to dance up the transparent firmament-when the robin, the thrush, and a thousand other wanton songsters make the woods to resound with amorous ditties, and the luxurious little boblincon revels among the clover blossoms of the meadowsall which happy coincidence persuaded the old dames of New-Amsterdam, who were skilled in

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the art of foretelling events, that this was to be a happy and prosperous administration.

But as it would be derogatory to the consequence of the first Dutch governor of the great province of Nieuw-Nederlandts to be thus scurvily introduced at the end of a chapter, I will put an end to this second book of my history, that I may usher him in with more dignity in the beginning of my next.

END OF BOOK II.

BOOK III.

IN WHICH IS RECORDED THE GOLDEN REIGN OF WOUTER VAN TWILLER.

CHAPTER I.

Of the renowned Wouter Van Twiller, his unparalleled virtues-as likewise his unutterable wisdom in the law case of Wandle Schoonhoven and Barent Bleecker-and the great admiration of the public thereat.

GRIEVOUS and very much to be commiserated is the task of the feeling historian, who writes the history of his native land. If it fall to his lot to be the sad recorder of calamity or crime, the mournful page is watered with his tears-nor can he recall the most prosperous and blissful era, without a melancholy sigh at the reflection, that it has passed away for ever! I know not whether it be owing to an immoderate love for the simplicity of former times, or to that certain tenderness of heart incident to all sentimental historians; but I candidly confess that I cannot look back on the

happier days of our city, which I now describe, without a sad dejection of the spirits. With a faultering hand do I withdraw the curtain of oblivion, that veils the modest merit of our venerable ancestors, and as their figures rise to my mental vision, humble myself before the mighty shades.

Such are my feelings when I revisit the family mansion of the Knickerbockers, and spend a lonely hour in the chamber where hang the portraits of my forefathers, shrouded in dust, like the forms they represent. With pious reverence do I gaze on the countenances of those renowned burghers, who have preceded me in the steady march of existence-whose sober and temperate blood now meanders through my veins, flowing slower and slower in its feeble conduits, until its current shall soon be stopped for ever!

These, say I to myself, are but frail memorials of the mighty men who flourished in the days of the patriarchs; but who, alas, have long since mouldered in that tomb, towards which my steps are insensibly and irresistibly hastening! As I pace the darkened chamber and lose myself in melancholy musings, the shadowy images around me almost seem to steal once more into existence-their countenances to assume the animation of lifetheir eyes to pursue me in every movement! carried away by the delusions of fancy, I almost imagine myself surrounded by the shades of the departed, and holding sweet converse with the wor