IT was market-day ; the most worthy and worshipful burgomaster and schepens of Nieuw Amsterdam turned over in bed, stretched their fat legs, and recognized that it was time to get up, while all the host of the groote en kleine Burgerrecht, at much the same time and in much the same way, did the like.
“ Burgomaster and schepens,” — the sounding old titles still haunted their dreams, although done away with more than a score of years before, when that choking monosyllable “York” displaced dear old Amsterdam in the city style ; but notwithstanding the treaty of Westminster and despite its English name, the little town was still Dutch to its heart’s core, yielding with sorry grace to the rule of the Papist Stuart, and viewing with sullen dislike the outlandish beasts blazoned upon his flag yonder above their little fort.
After all, it was their High-Mightinesses of the Staats-General who were at fault. They had bungled the business at Westminster, and, finding themselves at a loss, coolly threw over their infant colony.
