The Water-Witch | Page 3

traced by fallen temples and buried columns, the youthful
vigor of America is fast covering the wilds of the West with the
happiest fruits of human industry.
By the Manhattanese, who is familiar with the forest of masts, the miles
of wharves, the countless villas, the hundred churches, the castles, the
smoking and busy vessels that crowd his bay, the daily increase and the
general movement of his native town, the picture we are about to sketch
will scarcely be recognized. He who shall come a generation later will
probably smile, that subject of admiration should have been found in
the existing condition of the city: and yet we shall attempt to carry the
recollections of the reader but a century back, in the brief history of his
country.
As the sun rose on the morning of the 3d of June 171-, the report of a

cannon was heard rolling along the waters of the Hudson. Smoke
issued from an embrasure of a small fortress, that stood on the point of
land where the river and the bay mingle their waters. The explosion
was followed by the appearance of a flag, which, as it rose to the
summit of its staff and unfolded itself heavily in the light current of air,
showed the blue field and red cross of the English ensign. At the
distance of several miles, the dark masts of a ship were to be seen,
faintly relieved by the verlant back-ground of the heights of Staten
Island. A little cloud floated over this object, and then an answering
signal came dull and rumbling to the town. The flag that the cruiser set
was not visible in the distance.
At the precise moment that the noise of the first gun was heard, the
door of one of the principal dwellings of the town opened, and a man,
who might have been its master, appeared on its stoop, as the
ill-arranged entrances of the buildings of the place are still termed. He
was seemingly prepared for some expedition that was likely to
consume the day. A black of middle age followed the burgher to the
threshold; and another negro, who had not yet reached the stature of
manhood, bore under his arm a small bundle, that probably contained
articles of the first necessity to the comfort of his master.
"Thrift, Mr. Euclid, thrift is your true philosopher's stone;" commenced,
or rather continued in a rich full-mouthed Dutch, the proprietor of the
dwelling, who had evidently been giving a leave-taking charge to his
principal slave, before quitting the house--"Thrift hath made many a
man rich, but it never yet brought any one to want. It is thrift which has
built up the credit of my house, and, though it is said by myself, a
broader back and firmer base belongs to no merchant in the colonies
You are but the reflection of your master's prosperity, you rogue, and
so much the greater need that you took to his interests. If the substance
is wasted, what will become of the shadow? When I get delicate, you
will sicken: when I am a-hungered, you will be famished; when I die,
you may be--ahem--Euclid. I leave thee in charge with goods and
chattels, house and stable, with my character in the neighborhood. I am
going to the Lust in Rust, for a mouthful of better air. Plague and fevers!
I believe the people will continue to come into this crowded town, until

it gets to be as pestilent as Rotterdam in the dog-days. You have now
come to years when a man obtains his reflection, boy, and I expect
suitable care and discretion about the premises, while my back is turned.
Now, harkee, sirrah: I am not entirely pleased with the character of thy
company. It is not altogether as respectable as becomes the confidential
servant of a man of a certain station in the world. There are thy two
cousins, Brom and Kobus, who are no better than a couple of
blackguards; and as for the English negro, Diomede--he is a devil's imp!
Thou hast the other locks at disposal, and," drawing with visible
reluctance the instrument from his pocket, "here is the key of the stable.
Not a hoof is to quit it, but to go to the pump--and see that each animal
has its food to a minute. The devil's roysterers! a Manhattan negro
takes a Flemish gelding for a gaunt hound that is never out of breath,
and away he goes, at night, scampering along the highways like a
Yankee witch switching through the air on a broomstick--but mark me,
master Euclid, I have eyes in my head, as thou knowest by bitter
experience! D'ye remember, ragamuffin, the time when I saw thee,
from the Hague, riding the beasts, as if