University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
Our Hero, for the first time in his life, comes to a determination.

The life of jealousy, mortification, and self-reproach
he had led almost ever since the return of
Catalina from the boarding school gradually undermined
the natural strength and vigour of Sybrandt's intellect,
and produced that alternation of pride, anger,
and self-reproach which is the parent of a thousand
inconsistencies. The resolution taken under the
dominion of pride or anger is abandoned under that
of self-reproach; and thus the life of such a being
is little else than a series of offences and atonements.
No permanent resolution can ever result
from such a state of mind. Tossed about in the
tempest of conflicting passions, the unhappy man
remains a vessel without rudder or pilot, until finally
some one acquires the mastery, and a settled determination
is indicated by a hidden air of quiet and
repose.

It was thus with Sybrandt. The little incident of
the violets put an end to the struggle which he had
sustained for some months past, and his resolution
was irrevocably taken. In the days of which we
are speaking, the young men bordering on the
frontiers were accustomed almost universally to
commence the business of this world with a trading
voyage among the savages of the borders. Previous
to assuming the port and character of manhood, it
was considered an almost indispensable obligation to

undertake and complete some enterprise of this
kind, replete with privations and dangers. The
youth went out a boy and returned a man, qualified
to take his place among men, and to aspire to the
possession of the object of his early love. It was in
this way that the character of the patriarchs of this
country was formed; and by these means that it
exhibited a union of homely simplicity, manly frankness,
and daring enterprise, which at length found
their reward in the achievement and possession of
liberty.

Without consulting any human being, the morning
after the supper we have just recorded, he
abruptly requested of Mr. Dennis Vancour the permission
and the means to make an adventure among
the Indians of the north-west. Mr. Dennis was not
astonished, for he was a genuine Dutchman; but he
was much surprised at this abrupt application.

“Why, hang it, boy,” said the good man, “what
is the use of it? You know you will have enough
when I am gone—and while I live you can want nothing.
You had better stay at home and study with
the Dominie.”

“But I cannot study now—I”—and here Sybrandt
faltered and was silent.

“What, you are tired boy, hey? well, I don't
much wonder at it. I always had a great respect
for learning, but somehow or other I could never get
over the awe with which it inspired me; I always
kept at a distance from it. But are you determined?
won't you flinch, boy, when it comes to the point?”

“Never fear me, uncle,”—and he clenched his
fingers involuntarily,—“never fear me!”

“Well, then, you shall have what you ask of me.
I like thy spirit, boy. It was so I began life, and so

shall you. Fifty years ago I took a canoe and fifty
dollars' worth of goods, and old Tjerck, then but a
lad; and away I went right into the woods, where at
that time, I believe, no white man had ever been before
me, and returned alive. The Indians were not
such good hands at making bargains as they are
now, and I returned with five hundred dollars' worth
of furs. I repeated the like every year, increasing
my capital each voyage, until I grew rich for the
times. I might have been happy, too, perhaps,” continued
the old man, “but I must needs go to New-York,
where I fell in company with the king's officers,
and what was worse, fell in love with your
mother—spent my fortune—ruined my hopes—was
first fool and then misanthrope—returned to my
father's house a disappointed prodigal—inherited a
portion of my father's estate, and finally found in the
son an object for that love which the mother had rejected.”

Mr. Dennis Vancour had never been equally communicative
with Sybrandt before. Perhaps the idea
of parting with the boy of his adoption had opened
his heart, and for a moment overcome his long habit
of silence.

“But who shall go with you?” resumed the good
man, after a pause, which each had employed in
calling up recollections of the same dear object.
“I have it—old Tjerck is the very man.”

“I am afraid he is too old, sir.”

“Not he—not he, boy—he is as tough as hickory
—he'll tire you out, and starve you out, any time, I
warrant you. Besides, he speaks the Mohawk language.”
So it was settled that old Tjerck should be
the squire of our new errant of the woods and wilds.

A few days sufficed for preparations for this toilsome

and perilous voyage and journey. As many Indian
goods as could be conveniently stowed in a light
bark canoe, a small quantity of provisions, two
rifles, or perhaps muskets, with the necessary ammunition,
and two stout hearts constituted the outfit
for this wayfaring in the wilderness. My readers,
if they belong to the “better sort,” will think this but
a paddling affair for the hero of a story; but let them
recollect that it was a dangerous enterprise, and that
courage and daring ennoble every honest undertaking.

From the moment Sybrandt formed the resolution,
and commenced the preparations aforesaid, he seemed
to be a new man. He had something to do, and
something to suffer worthy of a man. He had action,
enterprise, excitement, to call his attention from
his own selfish and petty vexations, and now he
walked erect with spirit in his step, determination in
his eye. In short, he presented an example of the
indissoluble union between the man and his purposes.
The one is fashioned by the other; and nothing
is more certain than the contamination of eternal
trifling. All this time he went not near Catalina;
and it was only when thinking of her—which he did
pretty often—that he relapsed into his old habitual
inconsistencies, and felt himself, as it were, becalmed
between too conflicting objects. He certainly had a
great curiosity to know what she said or thought of
his going away; wondered whether she would not
regret his absence; and secretly tried to persuade
himself that she would understand—what he had
taken all possible pains to keep from her—his motives
for acting as he did. He thought to himself,
that if she would only pine away a little in his absence,
he would forgive her on his return. At one

time he determined to depart without seeing her; at
another he determined to take leave of her with the
most sovereign indifference; and finally, he came to
no determination at all. In this state he was found by
Ariel, who was highly out of humour at having had
nothing to do in the equipment of Sybrandt. It was
the first pie that had been made in the neighbourhood
for many a year, in which he had not had a
finger.

“D—l take it,” quoth he, “why didn't you ask
my advice; why, I would have shown you how to
paddle your canoe—to cook venison without salt—
sleep with your mouth shut, to keep out the gnats
and mosquitoes—and shoot an Indian. But it's too
late now; I've a great mind to go with you on purpose,
only I've promised the officers to show them
how to ring pigs' noses.” So saying, he dragged
him away half-willing, half-reluctant, to the mansion-house.

When Catalina heard of the contemplated adventure
of our hero, she mused in silence on the subject
for hours, without being able to decide whether
to be angry or sorry. She never dreamed that her
own conduct had influenced his determination, and
therefore ascribed his omission to apprize her of what
was going forward to neglect and indifference.
Under this impression she determined to treat him
accordingly; to meet him if he came at all without
any appearance of surprise or regret at his sudden
resolution. She received him without expressing
either, or betraying a single spark of curiosity or solicitude
about the length of his stay or the course of
his voyage. She even jested on the subject, and
begged him to exercise his scholarship on teaching
the Indians Greek and Latin; and stung him to the

very soul, by observing, with as pretty a sneer as
ever enthroned itself on the lip of beauty, “that his
sojourning among the savages could not fail of
having the most favourable influence on their manners.”

The interview became exceedingly painful to Sybrandt.
He would have given the world to be out
of the room, yet was riveted to the spot by that mysterious
fascination which awkwardness and pride
and sensibility exercise over the power of motion.
He sat chained to his chair, by the withering spell
of mortified pride and despised affection. At last,
however, with a desperate effort, he arose and muttered
his farewell. At that moment Catalina remembered
that she owed her life to him, and that
he was going whence he might never return.

“Sybrandt,” said she, in a voice which these recollections
had softened into kindness, “what shall
I give you to remember me by in the woods?” After
a moment's pause, she drew from her pocket,—we
beg our fashionable readers to bear in mind, that this
was almost a hundred years ago,—she drew from
her pocket a golden coin—we believe it was a Dutch
ducat—and continued, with a tone and look of saddened
vivacity, “Take this: you can make a hole
in it, and tie it round your neck as a talisman against
Indian witchcraft. Farewell, cousin Sybrandt, and
remember—that—that Dominie Stettinius will regret
your absence.” Sybrandt took the piece of gold,
but he could not say “farewell” for the soul of him.
He thanked her, however, with a look so full of
meaning and sensibility, that she remembered and
wondered at it a long time afterward. Sybrandt
made a hole in the ducat, and tying it with a riband,
wore it from that moment next his heart.