I was present at the conversation which decided the question, as regarded my future education, and which took place in the common parlour, around a blazing fire, about a week before Christmas, the year I was fourteen. There were present Capt. Hugh Roger, Major Evans, my mother, the Rev. Mr. Worden, and an old gentleman of Dutch designation and extraction, of the name of Abraham Van Valkenburgh, but who was familiarly called, by his friends, 'Brom Follock, or Col. Follock or Volleck, as the last happen to be more or less ceremonious, or more or less Dutch. Follock, I think, however was the favourite pronunciation. This Col. Van Valkenburgh was an old brother-soldier of my father's, and, indeed, a relation, a sort of a cousin through my greatgrandmother, besides being a man of much consideration and substance. He lived in Rockland, just across the Hudson, but never failed to pay a visit to Satanstoe at that season of the year. On the present occasion, he was accompanied by his son, Dirck, who was _my_ friend, and just a year my junior. “Vell, den,”--the colonel commenced the discourse by saying, as he tapped the ashes out of his pipe for the second time that evening, having first taken a draught of hot flip, a beverage much in vogue then, as well as now,--“vell, den, Evans, vat is your intention as to ter poy? Vill he pe college-l'arnt, like as his grant-fat'er, or only school-l'arnt, like as his own fat'er?” The allusion to the grandfather being a pleasantry of the colonel's, who insisted that all the old-country born were “college-l'arnt” by instinct. “To own the truth, 'Brom,” my father answered, “this is a point that is not yet entirely settled, for there are different opinions as to the place to which he shall be sent, even admitting that he is to be sent at all.” The colonel fastened his full, projecting, blue eyes on my father, in a way that pretty plainly expressed surprise. “Vat, den, is dere so many colleges, dat it is hart to choose?” he said. “There are but two that can be of any use to us, for Cambridge is much too distant to think of sending the boy so far. Cambridge was in our thoughts at one time, but that is given up.” “Vhere, den, ist Camprige?” demanded the Dutchman, removing his pipe to ask so important a question, a ceremony he usually thought unnecessary. “It is a New England college--near Boston; not half a day's journey distant, I fancy.” “Don't sent Cornelius dere,” ejaculated the colonel, contriving to get these words out alongside of the stem of the pipe. “You think not, Col. Follock,” put in the anxious mother; “may I ask the reason for that opinion?” “Too much Suntay, Matam Littlepage--the poy wilt be sp'ilt by ter ministers. He will go away an honest lat, and come pack a rogue. He will l'arn how to bray and to cheat.”