Rolf in the Woods

With the backwoods only thirty miles away, and the unbroken wilderness one hundred, it was hard to believe how little Henry van Cortlandt knew of the woods and its life. He belonged to the ultra-fashionable set, and it was rather their pose to affect ignorance of the savage world and its ways. But he had plenty of common-sense to fan back on, and the inspiring example of Washington, equally at home in the nation’s Parliament, the army intrenchment, the glittering ball room, or the hunting lodge of the Indian, was a constant reminder that the perfect man is a harmonious development of mind, morals, and physique.

His training had been somewhat warped by the ultraclassic fashion of the times, so he persisted in seeing in Quonab a sort of discoloured, barbaric clansman of Alaric or a camp follower of Xenophon’s host, rather than an actual living, interesting, native American, exemplifying in the highest degree the sinewy, alert woodman, and the saturated mystic and pantheist of an age bygone and out of date, combined with a middle-measure intelligence. And Rolf, tall, blue-eyed with brown, curling hair, was made to pose as the youthful Achilles, rather than as a type of America’s best young manhood, cleaner, saner, and of far higher ideals and traditions than ever were ascribed to Achilles by his most blinded worshippers. It recalled the case of Wordsworth and Southey living side by side in England; Southey, the famous, must needs seek in ancient India for material to write his twelve-volume romance that no one ever looks at; Wordsworth, the unknown, wrote of the things of his own time, about his own door? and produced immortal verse.

What should we think of Homer, had he sung his impressions of the ancient Egyptians? or of Thackeray, had he novelized the life of the Babylonians? It is an ancient blindness, with an ancient wall to bruise one’s head. It is only those who seek ointment of the consecrated clay that gives back sight, who see the shining way at their feet, who beat their face against no wall, who safely climb the heights. Henry van Cortlandt was a man of rare parts, of every advantage, but still he had been taught steadfastly to live in the past. His eyes were yet to be opened. The living present was not his — but yet to be.

The young lawyer had been assembling his outfit at Vandam’s warehouse, for, in spite of scoffing friends, he knew that Rolf was coming back to him.

When Rolf saw the pile of stuff that was gathered for that outfit, he stared at it aghast, then looked at Vandam, and together they roared. There was everything for light housekeeping and heavy doctoring, even chairs, a wash stand, a mirror, a mortar, and a pestle. Six canoes could scarcely have carried the lot.

“’Tain’t so much the young man as his mother,” explained Big Pete; “at first I tried to make ’em understand, but it was no use; so I says, ’All right, go ahead, as long as there’s room in the warehouse.’ I reckon I’ll set on the fence and have some fun seein’ Rolf ontangle the affair.”

“Phew, pheeeww — ph-e-e-e-e-w,” was all Rolf could say in answer. But at last, “Wall, there’s always a way. I sized him up as pretty level headed. We’ll see.”

There was a way and it was easy, for, in a secret session, Rolf, Pete, and Van Cortlandt together sorted out the things needed. A small tent, blankets, extra clothes, guns, ammunition, delicate food for three months, a few medicines and toilet articles — a pretty good load for one canoe, but a trifle compared with the mountain of stuff piled up on the floor.

“Now, Mr. van Cortlandt,” said Rolf, “will you explain to your mother that we are going on with this so as to travel quickly, and will send back for the rest as we need it?”

A quiet chuckle was now heard from Big Pete. “Good! I wondered how he’d settle it.”

The governor and his lady saw them off; therefore, there was a crowd. The mother never before had noted what a frail and dangerous thing a canoe is. She cautioned her son never to venture out alone, and to be sure that he rubbed his chest with the pectoral balm she had made from such and such a famous receipt, the one that saved the life but not the limb of old Governor Stuyvesant, and come right home if you catch a cold; and wait at the first camp till the other things come, and (in a whisper) keep away from that horrid red Indian with the knife, and never fail to let every one know who you are, and write regularly, and don’t forget to take your calomel Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, alternating with Peruvian bark Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and squills on Sunday, except every other week, when he should devote Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays to rhubarb and catnip tea, except in the full moon, when the catnip was to be replaced with graveyard bergamot and the squills with opodeldoc in which an iron nail had been left for a week.