Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
Peter Stuyvesants New Years CallEdmund Clarence Stedman
W
New York had just begun,
A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,
In Sixteen Sixty-One.
They christen’d it Nieuw Amsterdam,
Those burghers grave and stately,
And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,
Lived out their lives sedately.
On Stadthuys gazing down,
On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all
The quaintly-gabled town;
These flapp’d their wings and shifted backs,
As ancient scrolls determine,
To scare the savage Hackensacks,
Paumanks, and other vermin.
Betwixt their feather-beds;
In hose and breeches walk’d by day,
And smoked, and wagg’d their heads;
No changeful fashions came from France,
The vrouwleins to bewilder;
No broad-brimm’d burgher spent for pants
His every other guilder.
And jackets neatly kept,
The vrouws their knitting-needles sped
And deftly spun and swept;
Few modern-school flirtations there
Set wheels of scandal trundling,
But youths and maidens did their share
Of staid, old-fashion’d bundling.
The snow, a Flemish ell
In depth, lay over Beeckman’s Wold
And Wolfert’s frozen well;
Each burgher shook his kitchen doors,
Drew on his Holland leather,
Then stamp’d thro’ drifts to do the chores,
Beshrewing all such weather.
To all the gather’d town
The Dominie preach’d the morning out,
In Calvinistic gown;
While tough old Peter Stuyvesant
Sat pew’d in foremost station;
The potent, sage, and valiant
Third Governor of the nation.
With cake and courtly smile,
He met the people, one and all,
In gubernatorial style;
Yet miss’d, though now the day was old,
An ancient fellow-feaster:
Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold
Brewer and burgomeester;
The picket’s eastern end,
Sat growling at the twinge of gout
That kept him from his friend.
But Peter strapp’d his wooden peg,
When tea and cake were ended,
(Meanwhile the sound remaining leg
Its high jack-boot defended),
And swore, by wind and limb,
Since Govert kept from Peter’s view,
Peter would visit him;
Then sallied forth, thro’ snow and blast,
While many a humble greeter
Stood wondering whereaway so fast
Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.
Of vats and mounded tans,
He puff’d along, with might and main,
To Govert Loockermans;
Once there, his right of entry took,
And hail’d his ancient crony:
“Myn Gott! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,
Ve gets more snow as money!”
The other answer’d not;
At last there came responsive sound:
“Yah, Peter: yah, Myn Gott!”
Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest
Beneath the chimney-gable,
And courtesied, bustling at her best
To spread the New Year’s table.
That years before had come—
In the Nieuw Nederlandts, perhaps—
To cheer the settlers’ home;
The long-stemm’d pipes; the fragrant roll
Of press’d and crispy Spanish;
Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,
Nor long delay’d to vanish.
And honours of the day,
The trader mix’d the Governor’s drink
As evening sped away.
That ancient room! I see it now:
The carven nutwood dresser;
The drawers, that many a burgher’s vrouw
Begrudged their rich possessor;
Brass-nail’d at every seam;
Six others, ranged in equal pairs;
The bacon hung a-beam;
The chimney-front, with porcelain shelf;
The hearty wooden fire;
The picture, on the steaming delft,
Of David and Goliah.
Like Magog and his mate,
And hear them, when their pipes are lit,
Discuss affairs of state;
The clique that would their sway demean;
The pestilent importation
Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean
And losel Yankee nation.
Assumed its sure command,
They drank the buxom loves that were—
They drank the Motherland;
They drank the famous Swedish wars,
Stout Peter’s special glory,
While Govert proudly show’d the scars
Of Indian contests gory.
Some music in their brains,
And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,
Rang long-forgotten strains;
Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,
Of Phantom ships and battle;
And Peter, with his leg of wood,
Made floor and casement rattle.
The chairs began to wheel,
And on the board the punch-bowl danced
A Netherlandish reel;
Till midnight o’er the farmhouse spread
Her New-Year’s skirts of sable,
And, inch by inch, each puzzled head
Dropt down upon the table.
That table spread and turn’d;
The chimney-log blazed high, and seem’d
To circle as it burn’d;
The town into the vision grew
From ending to beginning;
Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,
All widening and spinning.
Grew broader, whirling past,
And checker’d into shining blocks
A city fair and vast;
Stores, churches, mansions, overspread
The metamorphosed island,
While not a beaver show’d his head
From Swamp to Kalchhook highland.
Hours after, Peter woke
To see a spectral streak of day
Gleam in thro’ fading smoke;
Still slept old Govert, snoring on
In most melodious numbers;
No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One
Commingled with his slumbers.
Gazed doubtfully around,
Rejoiced to find himself once more
On sure and solid ground.
The sky was somewhat dark ahead:
Wind East, and morning lowery:
But on he push’d, a two-miles’ tread,
To breakfast at his Bouwery.