University of Virginia Library

1. CHAP. 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 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 exceeding 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
the elegant Pliny, “that individuals appear, or
make their exit? the world is a theatre 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 triumphant 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 chances to one if an individual
tear has been shed on the melancholy 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—unhappy varlets!—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 dreamed 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 lamentations
made in their name, as are those men of straw,
John, Doe, and Richard Roe, of the plaintiffs for
whom they are generously pleased on divers occasions
to become sureties.

The most glorious and praise-worthy hero that
ever desolated nations, might have mouldered into
oblivion among the rubbish of his own monument,
did not some kind historian take him into favour,
and benevolently transmit his name to posterity—
and much as the valiant William Kieft worried,
and bustled, and turmoiled, while he had the destinies
of a whole colony in his hand, I question seriously,
whether he will not be obliged to this authentic
history, for all his future celebrity.

His exit occasioned no convulsion in the city of
New Amsterdam, or its vicinity: the earth trembled
not, neither did any stars shoot from their
spheres—the heavens were not shrowded in black,
as poets would fain persuade us they have been, on
the unfortunate death of a hero—the rocks (hard

hearted vagabonds) melted not into tears; nor did
the trees hang their heads in silent sorrow; and as
to the sun, he laid abed the next night, just as long,
and shewed as jolly a face when he arose, as he
ever did on the same day of the month in any year,
either before or since. The good people of New
Amsterdam, one and all, declared that he had been
a very busy, active, bustling little governor; that
he was “the father of his country”—that he was
“the noblest work of God”—that “he was a man,
take him for all in all, they never should look upon
his like again”—together with sundry other civil
and affectionate speeches that are regularly said on
the death of all great men; after which they smoked
their pipes, thought no more about him, and
Peter Stuyvesant succeeded to his station.

Peter Stuyvesant was the last, and like the renowned
Wouter Van Twiller, he was also the best,
of our ancient dutch governors. Wouter having
surpassed all who preceded him; and Pieter, or
Piet, as he was sociably called by the old dutch
burghers, who were ever prone to familiarize
names, having never been equalled by any successor.
He was in fact the very man fitted by nature
to retrieve the desperate fortunes of her beloved
province, had not the fates or parcæ, Clotho, Lachesis
and Atropos, those most potent, immaculate
and unrelenting of all ancient and immortal spinsters,
destined them to inextricable confusion.

To say merely that he was a hero would be
doing him unparalleled injustice—he was in truth
a combination of heroes—for he was of a sturdy,
raw boned make like Ajax Telamon, so famous for
his prowess in belabouring the little Trojans—with
a pair of round shoulders, that Hercules would
have given his hide for, (meaning his lion's hide)
when he undertook to ease old Atlas of his load.
He was moreover as Plutarch describes Coriolanus,
not only terrible for the force of his arm, but
likewise of his voice, which sounded as though it
came out of a barrel; and like the self same warrior,
he possessed a sovereign contempt for the
sovereign people, and an iron aspect, which was
enough of itself to make the very bowels of his
adversaries quake with terror and dismay. All
this martial excellency of appearance was inexpressibly
heightened by an accidental advantage,
with which I am surprised that neither Homer
nor Virgil have graced any of their heroes, for it
is worth all the paltry scars and wounds in the
Iliad and Eneid, or Lucan's Pharsalia into the bargain.
This was nothing less than a redoubtable
wooden leg, which was the only prize he had gained,
in bravely fighting the battles of his country;
but of which he was so proud, that he was often
heard to declare he valued it more than all his
other limbs put together; indeed so highly did he
esteem it, that he caused it to be gallantly enchased

and relieved with silver devices, which caused it to
be related in divers histories and legends that he
wore a silver leg.[1]

Like that choleric warrior Achilles, he was
somewhat subject to extempore bursts of passion,
which were oft-times rather unpleasant to his
favourites and attendants, whose perceptions he
was apt to quicken, after the manner of his illustrious
imitator, Peter the Great, by anointing their
shoulders with his walking staff.

But the resemblance for which I most value
him was that which he bore in many particulars to
the renowned Charlemagne. Though I cannot
find that he had read Plato, or Aristotle, or Hobbes,
or Bacon, or Algernon Sydney, or Tom Paine,
yet did he sometimes manifest a shrewdness and
sagacity in his measures, that one would hardly
expect from a man, who did not know Greek, and
had never studied the ancients. True it is, and I
confess it with sorrow, that he had an unreasonable
aversion to experiments, and was fond of
governing his province after the simplest manner—
but then he contrived to keep it in better order
than did the erudite Kieft, though he had all the
philosophers ancient and modern, to assist and
perplex him. I must likewise own that he made
but very few laws, but then again he took care that

those few were rigidly and impartially enforced---
and I do not know but justice on the whole, was as
well administered, as if there had been volumes of
sage acts and statutes yearly made, and daily neglected
and forgotten.

He was in fact the very reverse of his predecessors,
being neither tranquil and inert like Walter
the Doubter, nor restless and fidgetting, like
William the Testy, but a man, or rather a governor, of
such uncommon activity and decision of mind that
he never sought or accepted the advice of others;
depending confidently upon his single head, as did
the heroes of yore upon their single arms, to work
his way through all difficulties and dangers. To
tell the simple truth he wanted no other requisite
for a perfect statesman, than to think always right,
for no one can deny that he always acted as he
thought, and if he wanted in correctness he made
up for it in perseverance—An excellent quality!
since it is surely more dignified for a ruler to be
persevering and consistent in error, than wavering
and contradictory, in endeavouring to do what is
right; this much is certain, and I generously make
the maxim public, for the benefit of all legislators,
both great and small, who stand shaking in the wind,
without knowing which way to steer—a ruler
who acts according to his own will is sure of
pleasing himself, while he who seeks to consult the
wishes and whims of others, runs a great risk of

pleasing nobody. The clock that stands still, and
points resolutely in one direction, is certain of being
right twice in the four and twenty hours—while
others may keep going continually, and continually
be going wrong.

Nor did this magnanimous virtue escape the
discernment of the good people of Nieuw Nederlants;
on the contrary so high an opinion had they
of the independent mind and vigorous intellects of
their new governor, that they universally called
him Hard-koppig Piet, or Peter the Headstrong—a
great compliment to his understanding!

If from all that I have said thou dost not gather,
worthy reader, that Peter Stuyvesant was a tough,
sturdy, valiant, weatherbeaten, mettlesome, leathernsided,
lion hearted, generous spirited, obstinate,
old “seventy six” of a governor, thou art a very
numscull at drawing conclusions.

This most excellent governor, whose character I
have thus attempted feebly to delineate, commenced
his administration on the 29th of May 1647: a remarkably
stormy day, distinguished in all the
almanacks of the time, which have come down to
us, by the name of Windy Friday. As he was
very jealous of his personal and official dignity, he
was inaugurated into office with great ceremony;
the goodly oaken chair of the renowned Wouter
Van Twiller, being carefully preserved for such
occasions; in like manner as the chair and stone

were reverentially preserved at Schone in Scotland,
for the coronation of the caledonian monarchs.

I must not omit to mention that the tempestuous
state of the elements, together with its being that
unlucky day of the week, termed “hanging day,”
did not fail to excite much grave speculation, and
divers very reasonable apprehensions, among the
more ancient and enlightened inhabitants; and
several of the sager sex, who were reputed to be
not a little skilled in the science and mystery of
astrology and fortune telling, did declare outright,
that they were fearful omens of a disastrous
administration—an event that came to be lamentably
verified, and which proves, beyond dispute, the
wisdom of attending to those preternatural intimations,
furnished by dreams and visions, the flying
of birds, falling of stones and cackling of geese, on
which the sages and rulers of ancient times placed
such judicious reliance—or to those shootings of
stars, eclipses of the moon, howlings of dogs and
flarings of candles, carefully noted and interpreted
by the oracular old sybils of our day; who,
in my humble opinion, are the legitimate possessors
and preservers of the ancient science of divination.
This much is certain, that governor Stuyvesant
succeeded to the chair of state, at a turbulent
period; when foes thronged and threatened from
without; when anarchy and stiff necked opposition
reigned rampant within; and when the authority

of their high mightinesses the lords states general,
though founded on the broad dutch bottom
of unoffending imbecility; though supported by
economy, and defended by speeches, protests,
proclamations, flagstaffs, trumpeters and windmills
—vacillated, oscillated, tottered, tumbled and was
finally prostrated in the dirt, by british invaders, in
much the same manner that our majestic, stupendous,
but ricketty shingle steeples, will some
day or other be toppled about our ears by a brisk
north wester.