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patroons. One hundred and four soldiers were sent over to protect the colony. Schoolmaster Roelandsen came to instruct the children, and good Dominie Bogardus to lead in holy ways both old and young. At last the sleepy director fell into merited contempt. Even the dominie was constrained to call him a child of the devil, and threatened him with a terrible shake from the pulpit.

To their great surprise one day an English vessel, the "William," entered the waters of Manhattan, and boldly held her way up the Hudson, or the Mauritius, as the old river of the mountains was called by the Dutch, in honor of Prince Maurice.

The wrath of Van Twiller was aroused. He raved and swore between great bumpers of wine, and pointing to the vessel, declared that for the honor of the fatherland she should be brought back, and the English be in no wise permitted to trespass upon the domains of the House of Orange. This was, indeed, accomplished, almost the only notorious achievement during the seven years' administration of Van Twiller, excepting the purchase. of Paggank, or Nut Island, which to this day bears the name of Governor's Island.

The sluggish Van Twiller was succeeded in office by William Kieft, a turbulent adventurer, whose portrait had been gibbeted in the city of Rochelle. He was a quick-witted man, delighting in magnificent schemes, and possessing great alacrity in mischief. The Dutch claimed everything from Delaware River to Cape Cod. A few harmless Swedes settled along the former, and Kieft fought them valiantly with proclamations, declaring that if they persisted in remaining there he would not be responsible for the consequences.

He attempted to introduce reforms above the capacity of the people, and even of himself. The zealous director built a harberg, or city tavern, at the head of Coenties Slip, which afterward became a noted edifice. Kieft also kindled an Indian war that brought innumerable evils upon the natives, and came near exterminating the colony of Manhattan. Hitherto the settlers had lived in almost uninterrupted peace with their dusky neighbors, although the latter suffered greatly from the avarice and "firewater" of the traders. A chief of the Weekquaesgeeks had been murdered in cold blood fifteen years before, and the Indians can never forget an injury. The River Indians became jealous of the Mohawks on account of the partiality shown them by the Hollanders. Mutual animosities were excited. Kieft was delighted with the prospect of an outbreak. When the dark warriors brought the tribute of corn and wampum demanded by the governor they threw it at his feet with bitter curses. Hostilities ensued. On a stormy night



of February, 1643, more than a hundred Indians were murdered in cold blood at Corlear's Hook and Hoboken. The flames of the burning villages were easily seen from Fort Amsterdam. The hatchet was now fairly raised, and the colony would have been exterminated had not the English furnished timely aid. The Indians were subdued after sixteen hundred of them had perished.

During these unfortunate events the "Council of Eight" sent home a dolorous account of the affairs of the province. They said:

Our fields lie fallen and waste; our dwellings and other buildings are burned; not a handful can be either planted or sown this fall on the deserted places. The crops which the good Lord permitted to come forth during the past summer remain on the field, standing and rotting in divers places, in the same way as the hay, for the preservation of which we poor people cannot obtain one man. We sit here amid thousands of Indians and barbarians, from whom we find neither peace nor mercy. We have left our beloved father-land, and unless the Lord our God, had been our comfort we must have perished in our misery. Several handsome buildings, erected by settlers upon their plantations, now lie in ashes through a foolish hankering after war; for all right-minded men here know that these Indians have lived as lambs among us until a few years ago, injuring no man, and affording every assistance to our nation. But now they rove in parties continually around, day and night, on the Island of Manhattan, slaying our folks not a thousand paces from the fort; and it is arrived at such a pass that no one dares move a foot to fetch a stick of fire-wood with out a strong escort.

But, however much occupied with the Indians, the busy Kieft found time to look

after the morals of New Amsterdam, which at this early period of her history do not appear to have been of the best character. Many and fierce were the proclamations sent forth against evil-doers. All persons were admonished to abstain



from fighting, from intercourse with heathens and negroes, from theft, calumThe court ny, and all other immoralities. sat on Thursday of each week, and absentees subjected themselves to a fine of one shilling for the first offense. Immoderate drinking also gave rise to much

mischief. All persons, "except those who sold wine at a decent price and in moderate quantities," were forbidden to sell any liquor under a penalty of twentyfive guilders and the loss of their stock. All sea-faring men found ashore after sunset were to forfeit two months' wages, and he who was guilty of selling guns or ammunition to the Indians was to be punished with death. The cultivation of tobacco was thus early regulated by law. All contracts, sales, or public acts, in order to be valid, had to be written by the secretary of the province, a measure that gave room to much complaint against the director, but was just, for the reason that the majority of the people were unable to read or write.

Stuyvesant, a man of honor and a wooden leg, became Kieft's successor. The colonists revered him "as if he had been the Czar of Muscovy." But while the new governor promised justice to every person, he emphatically declared it to be treason to petition against one's magistrates whether there be reason or not. "If any one shall appeal during my administration," he exclaimed, "I will make him a foot shorter, and send the pieces to Holland."

Under the vain, but energetic Stuyvesant, the Church became a state institution. The people, however, enjoyed religious toleration, and republican sentiments gained ground. The colonists had lived in the exercise of civil and religious liberty in the father-land, and they were not to be deprived of these sacred rights by the aristocratic and headstrong director of New Amsterdam.

A council of nine was organized, and the privilege of a burgher government granted, although Stuyvesant was greatly displeased with "this impudent intrusting of power with the people." A schout, two burgomasters, and five schepens formed a municipal court, as in the cities of Holland.


verted into a stadt-huys. There travelers to and from New England had been accustomed to rest. There being no money in the treasury, the magistrates received no pay, but enjoyed many week-day privileges, and on the Sabbath sat upon state cushions, while listening to long sermons upon the doctrine of predestination and the perseverance of the saints. For many years the burgomasters held their sessions in this quaint old stadt-huys, where the doughty Kieft had smoked long pipes, and entertained with long stories his oleaginous companions.

Early in the administration of Stuyvesant the old harberg, or tavern, was con

Stuyvesant conquered the Swedes, but New Amsterdam in turn came into the possession of others. In 1669 King Charles granted the whole territory of New Netherland to the Duke of York and Albany, and the same year Nicolls was sent out with four ships and four hundred and fifty men to take possession of the colony. The Dutch were obliged to surrender, although Stuyvesant, the last of the patroon governors, declared that "he would much rather be carried out dead" than submit to so great a humiliation. New Amsterdam then contained fifteen hundred inhabitants, furnishing a striking contrast to that magnificent city which will soon contain over a million souls. The majority of the Dutch settlers remained, passing their lives in happy domesticity, living in quaint houses on curious old streets, and trafficking in quaint groceries of which we have given an idea in our illustrations, and which would this day be veritable curiosities on the Island of Manhattan. In 1763 the city was retaken by the Dutch, to be ceded the following year to the English, in whose possession it remained until the close of the Revolutionary war.

A HUMMING-BIRD met a butterfly, and, being pleased with the beauty of its person and glory of its wings, made an offer of perpetual friendship. "I cannot think of it," was the reply, "as you once spurned me, and called me a drawling dolt." "Impossible," exclaimed the humming-bird;

When the long-continued animosities between the English and Dutch settlers in America had subsided, and the land of the Pilgrims had become the home of intoler-"I always entertained the highest respect ance, the New Englanders flocked to Manhattan. Lands were granted to the new comers, who intermarried with the Dutch, and soon acquired influence.

for such beautiful creatures as you." "Perhaps you do now," said the other, "but when you insulted me I was a caterpillar. So let me give you a piece of advice: Never insult the humble, as they may some day become your superiors."

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HE Welsh are a people among whom the pulpit is a power. The alienation of the working classes is a theme never discussed in Wales. In that country " the masses" are under the power of the Gospel : Bethel," 99 66 Capel Sion," ""Bethesda," and "Ebenezer," are always thronged. The most ignorant on the affairs of this life at least feel some interest in questions pertaining to another. In the busiest day of the week the smith leaves his anvil, the grocer his shop, the shoemaker his last, the farmer his field, to hear the stranger-preacher, whose name, though he heard it on the Sunday, he may have quite forgotten. Follow them to their respective employments, listen to their conversation, their shrewd remark, their warm discussion, and deduct, object, detract, philosophize as you may, the impression still clings, that the pulpit is there a power.

On the still Sabbath morning, station yourself by that "lonely house of God." The chapel-house is the only habitation near; you see no other human residence. Can a congregation ever be assembled there? Can the place ever be filled? It is about ten. The worshipers" come, and still they come;" through silent glen, over mountain-top, through pass and defile, along stony lane or scarce visible footpath, on horse or on foot, in small groups or one by one; all pointing their way to that small, gray, low-roofed house, surrounded by that (O how quiet!) restingplace for their dead. They all confess to some mysterious power of attraction there. It is past the time; the place now filled; the dirge-like but soothing sound of praise, in fine harmony with the scene around, now ascends. Wait a while; the text is read; the discourse begins; and you soon see that gray-coated shepherd, red-plaided matron, burly farmer, giddy youth, and sober age, alike confess, by look and attitude, that there is power in the word preached.

And the associations, those great annual gatherings, the "May meetings" of Wales, who can describe them? Everything about them proclaims the presence of a power. A truce is given to denominational differences: the Methodist is less a conference man; the Baptist less baptistical; the Churchman less lofty. Hospitality, boundless and indiscriminate, is

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the "order of the day." Everybody rises early that morning. Cottages and farmhouses, newly whitewashed, glisten in the sun. The dust of a year is disturbed; a general purification has been going on for weeks. "Godliness and cleanliness" are seen strikingly associated. Even the very few who never go to any place of worship have put on their best apparel. The association is the theme of every tongue; it has inspired dreams of pleasure and of pride; it has brought up to the surface, along with the good, some evil. whole country is moved; the people for miles around keep" holy-day." The roads are thronged with pedestrians, horses, and vehicles. The whole population seems on pilgrimage. A vast assemblage of peo-growing elevation of his theme. Glowing with holier afflatus than the scenery of time, however grand, can inspire, the line which divides the perishing from the immortal is fast fading from his rapt pro

the down-going sun not to occupy much of your time; thank God, the Sun of righteousness never sets!" and then reads for his text, "The Sun of righteousness shall arise, with healing in his wings." The allusion brings around us the glory of both worlds. The inspiration of nature and of religion is evidently upon the preacher; he has a genius in sympathetic contact with the scene around him; he seizes every passing incident, and makes it contribute to the great end which has brought him there. As he proceeds his voice awakens the distant echoes. He raises no vulgar shout; his voice is but the wing of the soaring soul. His ideas and his tones expand and swell with the


ple, in a not populous country, meet on a sloping field, one of nature's own galleries, before a tented platform, from which they are addressed. You are girt around, it may be, with lofty hills, some richly wood-phetic vision. Sources which bubble ever ed, some bare and bleak, with here and there an opening, through which you catch an entrancing glimpse of deep blue sky, or of boundless sea; openings which, in your present mood of mind, seem like avenues into eternity. Nature wears her richest garb, for it is in June. The public services begin in the evening. The bustle does not yet subside. You wonder when the people will cease to come; the mass before the platform is still increasing. The first sermon is already over; but the circumstances are yet unfavorable, for still they come. The multitude, worn out with fatigue and excitement, rest themselves on the grass, on vehicles, or on rude extemporized seats. Another preaches, grows warm, and brings us still more into sympathy with the occasion. When he finishes, we are prepared for more. The solemn stillness of evening has stolen on. There is a pause as solemn in the worship. O look at that gorgeous sunset! Was ever magnificence like that? Surely this is the richest grandeur of time, intended to tone us into sympathy with a grandeur imperishable. The hills, the trees, the fields of growing corn, the meadows, the thousands of upturned faces, seem bathed in an atmosphere of softest light. How the ray flutters and trembles on the distant wave! The preacher, too, feels the beauty of the hour. Pale, and with befitting emotion, he rises, and says, simply, (but with what effect!) "I am warned by

fresh in the depths of eternity, supply the rapid current of his thought. Away on loftier heights than Alexander, Cæsar, or Napoleon ever reached, he surveys interests more varied, and destinies more stupendous, than ever floated in the vision of statesman, or inspired the ambition of king. He sees nothing before him but deathless spirits; he is now a prince in the world of thought; he bears sway in the kingdom of souls; his scepter waves over a territory in the unseen. Presumption quails beneath that imperial glance; rebuke, winged with sarcasm, tranfixes the cowering hypocrite; towering pride is scathed with the lightning of holy indignation; consolations fall like the dew of heaven upon the troubled conscience; hope for the guilty and oppressed is lifted high; wonder, amazement, gratitude, remorse, and thanksgiving, these are the various emotions kindled; emotions the consequences of which reach on forever. The vast throng disperses, to meet on the morrow, when something similar will again be witnessed.

In a country where this is a specimen of what not seldom occurs, the pulpit must be a power.

Here, then, we have a fact worth volumes of recent discussion on preaching. What are the elements of this power? Doubtless there are some peculiarities in the social condition of the people. Less political agitation prevails. A large com

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