close of the war, the American army bore its war-stained banners over it on their way to retake possession of their long-lost capital. That was a proud day for the weary veterans, and a pleasant memory it has left for us who may now look upon the scene and muse upon its adventurous story. How few are there of the many who at this day visit the spot in their daily drives out of the crowded city below, who bethink themselves of the great history of this little bridge! In its present aspect a simple, rudely-arched stone structure, with the slightest of wooden railings it certainly makes no more pretension than does the quiet stream which flows beneath it. Slight is the trace which it now preserves of the brave blood with which in other days it was so often and so freely stained.

Nothing could be prettier than is the varied little valley in which the old bridge lies, at the confluence of the Harlem and the Hudson Rivers, through the connecting link, of a mile in extent, of the mischievous currents of Spyt den Duivel. Bold and beautifully wooded hills surround it at all points, once crowned with grim, war-like defences, and now with smiling villa-homes. Eastward, on the one hand, is the eminence where once stood the old Fort George, and opposite stretch out the verdant heights of Fordham. Between them, in the distance, is descried a portion of the famous bridge which bears the waters of the far-off Croton high over the Harlem River to the great city. This spot, it is said, was first selected as the site of the humble

Dutch settlement now grown into the mighty city. If the worthy burghers chanced to think, while debating the question of locality, that it would be all the same 'a hundred years hence,' they exactly hit the mark; since, so the event has turned, the city which they founded fourteen miles away has fairly grown out to the site which it was at first meant to occupy. Directly west of King's Bridge is Tippett's Brook, the Mosholus of the Indians, a stream romantic in natural attractions, and in legendary and historic tales. In this neighborhood is the family mansion of the Macombs, of which was Major-general Alexander Macomb of the United States army.

Spyt den Duivel Creek-more usually written Spuyten Duyvel, and sometimes Spiting Devil-is a picturesque stream flowing for a mile or less between bold hills from the Harlem at King's Bridge to the Hudson. Upon the brow of the eminence on the south or city side there once stood the defences known as Cockhill Fort, and upon the corresponding heights across on the north side, was Fort Independence.

It was at the mouth of the Spyt den Duivel that Hudson's barque, the 'Half Moon,' was beset by Indians as it was descending the river in its immortal voyage of discovery in 1609. Two Indian captives had, it seems, escaped from the vessel, and had managed to gather a force with which they hoped to secure the rich booty that the stranger of fered them. Scarcely had the voyagers dropped anchor- as a strong adverse tide compelled them to do-near Spyt den Duivel, when the lurking red men made at them with their murderous bows and arrows; but they were speedily dispersed with the more murderous muskets of the strangers.

The odd name of this little stream is said to have grown out of the daring adventure of a famous Manhattaner, who lost his life in an attempt to cross the waters during a terrible Deaf to

storm.

the remonstrances of friends, and attentive only to the rash promptings of a vainglorious spirit, he leaped into

the fatal floods, swearing that he would swim across en spyt den duivel!' (in spite of the devil!) Mr. Irving thus legendizes the story, in 'The Doleful Disaster of Antony the Trumpeter,' a chapter in the immortal history of Diedrich Knickerbocker:

Peter Stuyvesant, the valiant Governor of Manhattan, 'being,' the narrative says, 'resolutely bent 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 borders of the Bronx startling the wild solitudes of Croton ing the rugged yeomanry of Weehawk and Hoboeken, the mighty men of battle of Tappan Bay, and the brave boys of Tarry Town and Sleepy Hollow-together with all the other warriors of the country round about charging them one and all to sling their powder-horns, shoulder their fowling-pieces, and march merrily down to the Manhattoes.

arous

'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, that looked out upon what is at present called Broadway, sounding as usual 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 famous creek (sagely denominated Harlem River) which separates the island of Manna-hata from the main land. 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 the brink, and then bethinking himself of the urgency of his errand, took a hearty embrace of his stone bottle, swore most valorously that he would swim across en spyt den duivel! (in spite of the devil!) and daringly plunged into the stream. Luckless Antony! scarce had he buffeted half-way over, when he was observed to struggle violently, as if battling with the spirit of the waters: instinctively he put his trumpet to his mouth, and giving a vehement blast sunk forever to the bottom!

'The potent clangor of his trumpet-like the ivory horn of the renowned Paladin Orlando, when expiring in the glorious field of Roncesvalles-rung far and wide through the country, alarming the neighbors round, who hurried in amazement to the spot. Here an old Dutch burgher, famed for his veracity, and who had been a witness of the fact, related to them the melancholy affair; with the fearful ad

FONTHILL-FORMERLY THE SEAT OF EDWIN FORREST, ESQ.

dition (to which I am slow of giving belief) that he saw the duivel, in the shape of a huge moss-bonker, seize the sturdy Antony by the leg and drag him beneath the waves. Certain it is, the place, with the adjoining promontory, which projects into the Hudson, has been called Spyt den Duivel, or Spiking Devil, ever since; the restless ghost of the unfortunate Antony still haunts the surrounding solitudes, and his trumpet has often been heard by the neighbors, of a stormy night, mingling with the howling of the blast. Nobody ever dares to swim over the creek after dark; on the contrary, a bridge has been built to guard against such melancholy accidents in future; and as to moss-bonkers, they are held in such abhorrence that no true Dutchman will admit them to his table, who loves good fish and hates the devil.' The domain stretching south of Spyt den Duivel, and thence to Fort Washington, is that of Tubby Hook, henceforth to be known as Fort Tryon, in accordance with the wishes of the gentlemen residing there, and as was mentioned in the previous chapter. It is surely time to make the amendment, when even Tubby has degenerated into 'Tub,' as is seen in the present rail-way passes. It may be, however, that the nomenclature of the rail-way is not without authority, if the supposition which prevails, and which the erudite Diedrich Knickerbocker is said to favor, be well founded, that the place, instead of being called after the worthy ferry-man Tibers, as per old idea, was really named in honor of an illustrious washer-woman who once dwelt thereat.