The tidings of this lamentable catastrophe imparted a
severer pang to the bosom of Peter Stuyvesant than did
even the invasion of his beloved Amsterdam. It came
ruthlessly home to those sweet affections that grow close
around the heart, and are nourished by its warmest current.
As some lone pilgrim wandering in trackless
wastes while the tempest whistles through his locks, and
dreary night is gathering around, sees stretched, cold and
lifeless, his faithful dog—the sole companion of his journeying—
who had shared his solitary meal, and so often
licked his hand in humble gratitude;—so did the generous-hearted
hero of the Manhattoes contemplate the untimely
end of his faithful Anthony. He had been the
humble attendant of his footsteps—he had cheered him
in many a heavy hour, by his honest gaiety; and had
followed him in loyalty and affection, through many a
scene of direful peril and mishap. He was gone for ever—
and that too at a moment when every mongrel cur
seemed skulking from his side.