he
mysteries of the Kaatskill mountains, and under the protection of
the goblins which haunt them.

[A] See Van der Donck's description of the New Netherlands,
Collect. New York Hist. Society, vol. i., p. 161.

_BOOK V._

CONTAINING THE FIRST PART OF THE REIGN OF PETER STUYVESANT, AND HIS
TROUBLES WITH THE AMPHICTYONIC COUNCIL.

CHAPTER I.

To a profound philosopher like myself, who am apt to see clear through a
subject, where the penetration of ordinary people extends but half way,
there is no fact more simple and manifest than that the death of a great
man is a matter of very little importance. Much as we may think of
ourselves, and much as we may excite the empty plaudits of the million, it
is certain that the greatest among us do actually fill but an exceedingly
small space in the world; and it is equally certain, that even that small
space is quickly supplied when we leave it vacant. "Of what consequence is
it," said Pliny, "that individuals appear, or make their exit? the world
is a theater whose scenes and actors are continually changing." Never did
philosopher speak more correctly, and I only wonder that so wise a remark
could have existed so many ages, and mankind not have laid it more to
heart. Sage follows on in the footsteps of sage; one hero just steps out
of his triumphal car, to make way for the hero who comes after him; and of
the proudest monarch it is merely said that, "he slept with his fathers,
and his successor reigned in his stead."

The world, to tell the private truth, cares but little for their loss,
and, if left to itself, would soon forget to grieve; and though a nation
has often been figuratively drowned in tears on the death of a great man,
yet it is ten to one if an individual tear has been shed on the occasion,
excepting from the forlorn pen of some hungry author. It is the historian,
the biographer, and the poet, who have the whole burden of grief to
sustain; who, kind souls! like undertakers in England, act the part of
chief mourners; who inflate a nation with sighs it never heaved, and
deluge it with tears it never dreamt of shedding. Thus, while the
patriotic author is weeping and howling in prose, in blank verse, and in
rhyme, and collecting the drops of public sorrow into his volume, as into
a lachrymal vase, it is more than probable his fellow-citizens are eating
and drinking, fiddling and dancing, as utterly ignorant of the bitter