The grand council of the east held a solemn meeting on the return of their envoys.  As no advocate appeared in behalf of Peter Stuyvesant, everything went against him.  His haughty refusal to submit to the questioning of the commissioners was construed into a consciousness of guilt.  The contents of the satchels and saddle-bags were poured forth before the council, and appeared a mountain of evidence.  A pale bilious orator took the floor, and declaimed for hours and in belligerent terms.  He was one of those furious zealots who blow the bellows of faction until the whole furnace of politics is red-hot with sparks and cinders.  What was it to him if he should set the house on fire, so that he might boil his pot by the blaze?  He was from the borders of Connecticut; his constituents lived by marauding their Dutch neighbors, and were the greatest poachers in Christendom, excepting the Scotch border nobles.  His eloquence had its effect, and it was determined to set on foot an expedition against the Nieuw Nederlandts.

It was necessary, however, to prepare the public mind for this measure.  Accordingly the arguments of the orator were echoed from the pulpit for several succeeding Sundays, and a crusade was preached up against Peter Stuyvesant and his devoted city.

This is the first we hear of the “drum ecclesiastic” beating up for recruits in worldly warfare in our country.  It has since been called into frequent use.  A cunning politician often lurks under the clerical robe; things spiritual and things temporal are strangely jumbled together, like drugs on an apothecary’s shelf; and instead of a peaceful sermon, the simple seeker after righteousness has often a political pamphlet thrust down his throat, labeled with a pious text from Scripture.

And now nothing was talked of but an expedition against the Manhattoes.  It pleased the populace, who had a vehement prejudice against the Dutch, considering them a vastly inferior race, who had sought the new world for the lucre of gain, not the liberty of conscience:  who were mere heretics and infidels, inasmuch as the refused to believe in witches and sea-serpents, and had, faith in the virtues of horse-shoes nailed to the door; ate pork without molasses; held pumpkins in contempt, and were in perpetual breach of the eleventh commandment of all true Yankees, “Thou shalt have codfish dinners on Saturdays.”

No sooner did Peter Stuyvesant get wind of the storm that was brewing in the east, than he set to work to prepare for it.  He was not one of those economical rulers who postpone the expense of fortifying until the enemy is at the door.  There is nothing, he would say, that keeps off enemies and crows more than the smell of gunpowder.  He proceeded, therefore, with all diligence, to put the province and its metropolis in a posture of defence.