here, smoking
our pipes, permit me to indulge in a melancholy reflection which at this
moment passes across my mind. How vain, how fleeting, how uncertain are
all those gaudy bubbles after which we are panting and toiling in this
world of fair delusions! The wealth which the miser has amassed with so
many weary days, so many sleepless nights, a spendthrift heir may squander
away in joyless prodigality; the noblest monuments which pride has ever
reared to perpetuate a name, the hand of time will shortly tumble into
ruins; and even the brightest laurels, gained by feats of arms, may
wither, and be for ever blighted by the chilling neglect of mankind. "How
many illustrious heroes," says the good Boetius, "who were once the pride
and glory of the age, hath the silence of historians buried in eternal
oblivion!" And this it was that induced the Spartans, when they went to
battle, solemnly to sacrifice to the Muses, supplicating that their
achievements might be worthily recorded. Had not Homer turned his lofty
lyre, observes the elegant Cicero, the valor of Achilles had remained
unsung. And such, too, after all the toils and perils he had braved, after
all the gallant actions he had achieved, such too had nearly been the fate
of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant, but that I fortunately stepped in and
engraved his name on the indellible tablet of history, just as the caitiff
Time was silently brushing it away for ever!

The more I reflect, the more I am astonished at the important character of
the historian. He is the sovereign censor, to decide upon the renown or
infamy of his fellow-men. He is the patron of kings and conquerors on whom
it depends whether they shall live in after ages, or be forgotten as were
their ancestors before them. The tyrant may oppress while the object of
his tyranny exists; but the historian possesses superior might, for his
power extends even beyond the grave. The shades of departed and
long-forgotten heroes anxiously bend down from above, while he writes,
watching each movement of his pen, whether it shall pass by their names
with neglect, or inscribe them on the deathless pages of renown. Even the
drop of ink which hangs trembling on his pen, which he may either dash
upon the floor, or waste in idle scrawlings--that very drop, which to him
is not worth the twentieth part of a farthing, may be of incalculable
value to some departed worthy--may elevate half a score, in one moment, to
immortality, who wou