University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
A Young Lady who would have been one hundred years old had
she lived long enough.

Catalina Vancour was a very pretty and, in the
main, a very good girl, although she had been bred
at a boarding-school at New-York, and danced with
an aid-de-camp. She had lost much of the Doric,
but had acquired a corresponding portion of the Corinthian.
She often sighed for the more piquant
and gorgeous amusements of the capital, and more
especially the society of the gay gallants in scarlet
uniform. But still she had not quite lost the rural
feeling, nor entirely thrown off the witching influence
which nature and her various beauties exercise over
the hearts of those who, though they have sat at the
world's great banquet, still preserve a relish for more
wholesome aliment and plainer luxuries. She sometimes,
in the gayety of her heart, sported with the
feelings of poor Sybrandt, and rallied his shyness,
unconscious of the pangs she inflicted upon his apprehensive
self-love, and without noticing the dew of
agony that gathered upon his forehead, as she playfully
reproached him with being afraid of the young
ladies.

The intercourse of young people in those times
was very different from what it is at present. I pretend
not that one age is, upon the whole, wiser or
better than another; or to sit in judgment upon my
contemporaries. But I often catch myself contemplating,

with something like sober regret, those days
of unostentatious simplicity, easy, unaffected intercourse,
and manly independence. Who, indeed, that
hath gathered from history and tradition a picture
of the manners, modes, and morals of the ancient
patriarchs of Albany and its neighbourhood, but will
be inclined to contrast them dolefully with those of
the present times? Who but will sigh to behold
their places usurped by gilded butterflies, ostentatious
beggary, empty pretence, and paltry affectation?
In the room of men independent of the smiles and
frowns of bankers or bankrupts, he will find speculators
glittering in their borrowed plumage for an
hour or two, then passing away, leaving nothing behind
them but the wrecks of their unprincipled career.
Where once sat the simple magistrates, administering
the few simple laws necessary to regulate
the orderly community over which they presided,
is now collected a body of garrulous, ignorant, visionary,
or corrupt legislators, pampering their own private
interests at the expense of the public good, and
sacrificing the prosperity of one portion of the State
to the grasping avidity of another. In the room of
prosperous yeomanry and independent mechanics,
we behold crowds of hungry expectants, neglecting
the sure and only means of competency, and begging,
in the abjectness of a debased spirit, permission
to sacrifice their independence for a wretched pittance,
held under the wretched tenure of a man who
has no will of his own. The once quiet city, where
the name and the idea of political corruption was
unknown, is now a whirlpool of intrigue, where empty
bubbles are generated and kept alive by the agitation
of the waters, and boiling and conflicting eddies
gather into one focus all the straws, and chaff,
and feathers, and worthless nothings, that float upon
the surface of the stormy puddle.

Undoubtedly simplicity of manners is one of the
great pillars of morality. It circumscribes our wants,
and thus diminishes those besetting temptations to
extravagance and dishonesty which originate in and
receive their power from the love of dress, splendour,
display, and luxury. Those who set an inordinate
value upon the qualification of these vanities will
come in time to sacrifice to their attainment all that
solid stock of happiness which is derived from the
possession of integrity and independence. An age
of simplicity is therefore an age of morality; and
hence it is that the wisest writers of antiquity have
made simplicity of manners essential to the preservation
of that liberty which cannot be sustained by
a luxurious and corrupt people. That our own high
feelings of independence are rapidly fleeing away
before the quick steps of ostentation and luxury, and
that the love of wealth, as the means of attaining to
these gratifications, is becoming the ruling passion,
must be obvious to all observers.—But enough of
this; the subject belongs-to graver heads than ours.

One smiling morning in June, when nature, to use
the fashionable phrase, sent out her cards of invitation
to all the living imps of earth, from two legs to a
thousand, to come and revel at her banquet of flowers,
zephyrs, and woodland harmonies—not forgetting
the strawberries and cream—Catalina, aceording
to the doric fashion of the times, had made a
party with some of the lads and lasses of Albany
to visit a little island lying lengthwise along the
river; a mile or two below the mansion-house. Such
parties were common in those days, when rural fields,
and smiling landscapes, and woody recesses, where

vines and wild flowers, and tuneful birds, and whispering
zephyrs, came in the place of crowded rooms, conflicting
vanities, soul cloying confectionaries, sleepy
fiddlers, and midnight revels. Here, on the soft
bosom of tranquil nature, the young people rambled
about till they were tired, and then sat down on the
green sward under the protecting shade of some little
copse of half-grown trees canopied by grape vines,
forming a vast umbrella over their heads. Here,
at a proper time, they brought out their stores; and
a collation, to which health, exercise, and cheerful
innocent hearts gave zest, succeeded. Many a
sober youth and red-ripe damsel were first awakened
to a gentle preference in these rich smiling solitudes;
and many a long uncertain beauty was here brought,
at last, to know, and acknowledge her own mind to
the chosen swain.

Catalina was resolved that Sybrandt should accompany
the party; not that she admired her shy and
awkward cousin, or valued his society: but, I know
not how it is, there is a wayward wilfulness in woman
which, being common to all past times, is probably
a gift of nature. We allude to the propensity to carrying
a point, whether a favourite one or not; to
overcome opposition—in short, to have their own
way in every thing. Had Sybrandt sought her society,
or discovered a disposition to be attentive,
Catalina would have probably been tired to death of
him in a little while, and affronted the youth downright.
But he kept at a distance; he avoided her whenever
he could; he sometimes excited her curiosity and
sometimes her anger, by his lonely habits, and total
neglect—in short, he was not to be had at all times, or
at any time, and was, therefore, in spite of himself,
an object of consequence to his cousin. But the difficulty

was to catch this wayward monster, and Ariel
was deputed for that purpose. There was nothing
he loved like being employed upon the affairs of
other people; and Catalina had gained his whole
heart by sending him to Albany every day, to purchase
a paper of pins, a skein of thread, or a pemryworth
of some kind or other.

Ariel, who knew some of the haunts of Sybrandt,
took his gun, and went, as he said, to hunt this
strange animal. Among the rugged hills that bounded
these rich flats inland; was a deep romantic glen,
through which a fine stream tumbled in foaming volumes
from rock to rock. It was overshadowed by
vast pines and cedars, which threw their gloomy
arms and locked their fingers half way across the
abyss. Here was a perpetual twilight, throughout
all times of the day and every season of the year.
In the hottest days of summer there was a refreshing
coolness diffused around, that came with exquisite
zest to the lazy and relaxed frame, and made the
spirit wax fit for vigorous thoughts. Every rock,
and stump, and half-decayed branch of a mouldering
tree was coated with velvet moss; and all along the
margin of the brook, the green fringe kissed the foamy
waters as they glanced away. It was here that
Sybrandt was often found, deep in the reveries of a
wandering mind, seeking some steady rational object
of pursuit, and floating clumsily about without purpose,
like a bark away from its anchor. His mind
was a perfect chaos, wanting the powerful stimulus
of some master-passion, some great pursuit to arrange
its intellectual forces, and marshal them to
usefulness if not to deeds of noble daring.

Ariel was an astonishing man for killing two birds
with one stone. He always had two irons in the

fire at once; and nothing was more common with
him than to forget them both in pursuit of a third.
It is related of him, that being one day waiting with
his horse to cross the ferry at Albany, he was so
taken up with the “d—d stupid blundering” of the
ferryman in bringing his boat to the stairs, that he
let go his own bridle, whereat his horse trotted gallantly
away. His master pursued, and finally came
up with him. But just as he seized the bridle and
turned round, he saw the ferry-boat leaving the
stairs. Whereupon he let go the bridle, and ran as
fast as his little short drumsticks would permit towards
the boat, hallooing to the “d----d stupid
blockhead” to stop. The man, being now in the current
of the stream, could not or would not return.
Whereupon Ariel turned round in a great passion to
his horse; but the horse was gone too, past all recovery,
having this time mended his pace to a gallop,
and made straightway for home. So Ariel missed
both ferry-boat and horse by not attending to one at
a time.

As he was proceeding in the execution of his commission
for Catalina, lucklessly for the wishes of that
young lady, Ariel espied at some distance a noble
flock of pigeons perched on a dead tree. The last
thing and the last object was always sure to carry
all before it with Ariel. He forgot every thing else,
and trudged away with all his speed towards this
new and powerful attraction. He got a copse between
him and the birds; he advanced cautiously
under cover; he gained a station within gunshot,
while the unconscious victims sat perfectly quiet; he
cocked his piece, raised it to his shoulder, and was
just taking aim, when his irresistible propensity to
clearing his throat came across him, and he essayed

such a stout magnificent “ahem!” that the birds
took the alarm and flew away. “D—n it,” quoth
Ariel, and scampered after, following them with his
eye, till he unfortunately plumped into a ditch, where
he got most gloriously garnished with a coat-of-mail,
and was fain to make the best of his way home,
leaving the pigeons to their fate and Sybrandt to his
solitude.

“Well, uncle,” said Catalina, when she saw him,
“did you see the white savage?”

“No, zounds! they all flew away,” replied Ariel,
thinking of the pigeons.

“Flew away! what are you talking about, uncle?”

“Why, zounds! I tell you, just as I was going to
let fly at them, they flew away, and I fell into a ditch
trying to follow.”

“Follow whom,” said the young woman, who began
to suspect honest Ariel had lost his wits.

“Why, the pigeons.”

“Pigeons! I thought you went in search of Sybrandt?”

“Bless my soul! a-hem! bless my soul, so I did.
But the truth is, Catty, I took my gun with me, by
way of company, and met a flock of pigeons that led
me plump into a ditch, and I forgot all about it.”

The young lady was half-vexed, half-diverted,
though well acquainted with her uncle's inveterate
habit of running after the last object which presented
itself. He once lost an excellent opportunity of
getting married, by stopping on the way to show
some boys how to catch minnows.

“I'll go this minute and look for him,” added Ariel,
after a moment's hesitation.

“Do, uncle; but don't take your gun with you.”

“No, no.”

“And don't run after the pigeons.”

“O no.”

“And take care you don't fall into the ditch.”

“O never fear,” and away went the good-natured
Ariel, clearing his throat with a sonorous “a-hem!”

On his way to the house of his brother Dennis, he
saw a number of little peach-trees, just fit for inoculating,
which tempted him sorely. But luckily for
the consummation of his errand, he had left his jackknife
at home, and there was an end of the matter.
He proceeded on, therefore, and found Sybrandt at
home. He had been considering all the morning
whether he should go over and see his pretty cousin,
and had just wrought himself up to the feat,
when Ariel arrived with his message, which threw
him into great perplexity. In going to see her of
his own accord, and alone, he had privately come
to an understanding with himself, that if his heart
failed him by the way he could turn back again, and
nobody would be the wiser. But here was a different
predicament, a message and a companion, and he
felt greatly inclined to demur.

“Come, come! zounds, man, why don't you stir
yourself? When I was of your age, if a pretty girl
sent for me, I was off like a shot.”

“Yes, but you never hit the mark, uncle,” said
Sybrandt, smiling.

“A-hem,” quoth Ariel, “but, zounds! come along,
will you? I've got fifty things to do this morning.
Let me see—I promised to show the dominie how to
ring his pigs' noses—after that, I must go and tell
the widow Van Amburgh how her geese ought to be
yoked—then to squire Vervalen's to show them how
to stew mushrooms—then to Brom Van Riper's, to
see if his sugar-pears are ripe—and—but come along;

d—n it, I shall never get through half my business
this morning.” Accordingly he seized the youth by
the arm and dragged him along, half-willing, half-reluctant.
A man is sometimes pleased with a little
violence, which saves him the trouble of making up
his mind when he don't know exactly what he would
be at; and so is a woman if she is not very much
belied.

“Well, here he is—I've caught him at last,”
shouted Ariel, as he entered the hall where Catalina
sat enjoying the sweet south breeze that gathered
coolness as it sailed up the river.

“What, uncle—the pigeons?” and the young lady
smiled at the recollection of yesterday's disaster.

“No; the goose,” replied Ariel, bursting into a
great laugh at his own happy rejoinder.

Reader, art thou a modest, bashful, or what is still
more, a sheepish young person, as proud as Lucifer,
and with feelings more wakeful and skittish than a
wild partridge? and hast thou ever been made the
object of laughter? If so, thou wilt be able to
enter into the agonies of Sybrandt, as he stood perspiring
under the consciousness that he cut rather a
ridiculous figure. No one can ever know what a man
suffers in such a situation, except persons of the temperament
I have described. If they did—if they
could enter into the recesses of their hearts, and see
the strings quivering with keen and bitter mortifications,
the most ill-natured, malignant being that was
ever created would be careful not to play rudely upon
an instrument so easily disposed to tormenting discords.
There are thousands of young persons, and
all of the higher order of intellect, who in the days of
their probation, before their hearts are seared in the
fires of indulgence, or deadened by disappointments,

suffer more from the careless disregard to their feelings,
and the thoughtless ridicule indulged in by the
domestic circle in which they move, than from all
other causes combined.

It was thus with Sybrandt. At once a hundred
daggers buried their points in the bosom of his self-love.
His apprehensive pride conjured up spectre
after spectre, grinning and pointing their fingers at
him in bitter or playful scorn; or whispering in his
ringing ear, that his cousin had sent for him to make
sport with his infirmity. His mind lost its poise, and
his faculties became suspended, as he stood, in awkward
embarrassment, the image of stupid insensibility
at the moment his heart and brain were pregnant
with feelings which, could he have rallied the confidence
to utter, would have astounded his uncle,
and waked in the kind bosom of Catalina respect
and commiseration. As it was, she considered him
a proud, stupid, conceited bookworm, whose neglect
of her society and marked avoidance arose from indifference
to her person and contempt for her understanding.
From the moment she entertained this
conviction, he became an object of consequence in
her eyes, and she resolved either to overcome this
dislike or indifference, or revenge the injured dignity
of womanhood, by worrying his pride and laughing
at his airs of superiority.

Sybrandt stood twirling his hat, immersed in a chaos
of conflicting feelings that took away all presence of
mind, when Ariel slapped him on the shoulder, in his
good-humoured boisterous way, and roared out, in a
voice that caused the young man to drop his hat on
the floor,—

“Zounds! man, can't you speak? Why don't
you ask your cousin what she wants.—Hey—a-hem!

If I was a young fellow like you, I'd have got it all
out of her in less than no time. But I suppose I'd
better leave the young couple together—a-hem!”
And with a most significant look, he departed to teach
the dominie how to ring his pigs' noses.

This allusion to the “young couple” affronted
Catalina, and made poor Sybrandt feel more sheepish
than ever. At length the young lady, assuming an
air of taunting distance, masked under affected humility,
said—

“Mr. Westbrook, I am afraid, is offended at the
liberty I have taken in sending for him.”

“Indeed—I—I could not imagine—I was surprised
—I—” and here his tongue cleaved to the roof of his
mouth.

“I beg pardon for the liberty; but I thought it
might be agreeable to Mr. Westbrook to go with a
little party to-morrow to the island, if the day is fair.
But I suppose—I see you can't leave your books.
These little rural pastimes are beneath a philosopher:”
and she concocted her rosy lips and ivory teeth into
a pretty sneer, as she uttered this truly female oration.

“I would—I will—I should like much to go with
you—but—” and here the demon of sheepishness
conjured up a hundred reasons for not going.

“O, very well—I suppose Mr. Westbrook thinks
the company of common folks, especially young women
who don't understand Greek, beneath his notice.”

Sybrandt was a little nettled at this, and anger soon
overcomes timidity.

“Miss Vancour is inclined to be satirical, I will
not say ill-natured, to-day.”

“Wonderful! why he has found his voice. Mr.
Westbrook condescends to speak to a poor damsel.

Surely he mistakes her for one of the seven wise men
of Greece? How could you let down your dignity
so!” and the lady made him a low obeisance.

Sybrandt's face and heart glowed with a feeling of
insult.

“Miss Vancour does not do me justice if she
thinks me proud. She cannot know my feelings, nor
enter into the mortifications I suffer daily, from the
consciousness that I—that I—” and here his proud
shy spirit shrunk from disclosing the wayward mysteries
of his feelings and deportment. He remained
silent and embarrassed; yet his face glowed with an
expression, and his eye kindled with a fire, Catalina
had never seen lighted there before. She was delighted
to discover that he had feelings which it was
in her power to awaken. It was a proof that he did
not think her altogether beneath his notice.

“What is it, then,” said she, “that keeps you from
my father's house, where you are always welcome;
from the society of the young men who would be
proud of your company; and from all share in the
amusements of our female friends? If it is not pride,
what is it?”

At one moment Sybrandt determined to give his
cousin an analysis of his feelings; the next he
shrunk from the disclosure; and the conflict of opposing
impulses threw his mind into such a confusion,
that for the soul of him he could not utter a
connected sentence.

“Well, well, Mr. Westbrook,” said Catalina, after
waiting the event of this struggle, “I do'nt wish to
intrude upon your secrets, nor to persuade you to go
any where against your will. You had better ask
the dominie's permission. I won't intrude any further
on your studies.” And the young lady left the room,

saying within herself, “He is not such a senseless
block after all, as I thought him. A man that can
blush must have a heart, certainly.”

Sybrandt could have knocked his head against a
stone wall. He buried himself in the woody solitudes,
where his mortified pride and keen apprehensive sensibility
dwelt with exaggerated agony, on the ridiculous
figure he had made in this interview, the laugh of
Ariel, and the cutting ridicule of his cousin. He
called himself fool, oaf, idiot, in his very heart, and
it may be fairly questioned whether any pang he
afterward experienced, arising from actual suffering
or misfortune, ever came up to the keen malignity of
this his present feeling of mortified pride and insulted
sensibility, combined with the consciousness that he
had made himself ridiculous.