But let him, whose tears as yet fall not for any dear one beneath its sod, ascend again with me the Mount, and with retrospective gaze behold the living drama, which has passed before it. The great world around—the stage—lies still the same; but the actors, all—all have passed onwards to their final rest. Into the still gleaming past bend your attentive gaze. Lo, the features of the scenery are still the same—the bay’s unruffled bosom, and the islands; but no sail now floats upon its surface, no gilded spires in the distance loom, nor does the busy hum of man reach us, as listening we stand—nought we see but the far forest covering the main and islands, even to the waters. The coward wolf howls in yon distant glen—the partridge drums upon the tree tops—and the graceful deer e’en at our sides browses in conscious safety. Yon light dot moving upon the water?—’tis the painted Indian paddling his canoe. Yon smoke curling on the shore beneath us?—it is the Indian’s wigwam—The joyous laugh arising among the trees? It is his squaw and black-eyed children—the Indian reigns the lord—reigns free and uncontrolled. But look again upon the waters floats a huge and clumsy galliot—its gay and gaudy streamers flaunting in the breeze; how the poor savages congregated on yonder point, gaze in wonder as it passes—’tis the Great Spirit, and the quaint figure with the plumed hat, and scarlet hose glistening with countless buttons, on its poop—some demi-god!—and as she onward moves, behold the weather-worn seamen’s faces in her rigging, how anxiously they return the gaze.—The forest children muster courage—they follow in their light canoes.—The galliot nears the Manahattoes—they ascend her sides—hawks, bells and rings, and beads, and the hot strong drink are theirs;—their land—it is the white man’s.—See with what confidence he ensconces himself upon the island’s borders—in his grasp, he has the fish—the furs—the game—the poor confiding Indian gives him all—and—behold the embryo city’s fixed! But see!—Is that the Dutch boor’s cabin at our feet?—Is that the Indian seated on the threshold, while the Dutchman lolls lazily within!—Where—where then is the Indian’s wigwam?—gone! Look up again—a stately fleet moves o’er the bay, in line of battle drawn; the military music loudly sounds—dark cannon frown from within the gaping ports, and crews with lighted matches stand prepared—they near the Manahattoes, and—and—the Orange flag descends—the Dragon and St. George floats from the flag-staff o’er the little town. Who is the fair-haired man that drinks with the Dutchman at his cottage door, while the poor Indian stands submissively aside?—“It is the Briton.”—I hear the laugh of youth—sure ’tis the Indian’s black eyed brood?—“’Tis the Englishman’s yellow haired, blue eyed children.”—Alas! alas! poor forest wanderer—nor squaw—nor child—nor wigwam, shall here be more for thee. Farewell—farewell.