University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Upon our arrival in Philadelphia, our first business
was, to enquire for Mrs. Cary; no one knew any thing
about her: we walked until we were weary, enquiring of
almost every one we met.—We searched the newspapers
and missed no place where we thought there was any
probability of gaining intelligence, but all to no purpose.
Fatigued and heartless we went to the office of
the Daily, and desired him to publish a short notice of
our arrival, in his paper.

Having done this we returned to the tavern, changed
our clothes, took some refreshment, and sallied forth
again, with a determination to search every street and
alley in the city; and should we prove unsuccessful, we
designed to visit the city of Boston, and enquire of Mrs.
Jones, as probably they had kept up a correspondence
with her.

We walked through the city until it began to grow
late, and were seized with despair; yet still we continued
to examine every place and enquire of every one we
met.

We turned into an alley, which we agreed should be
the last for that evening, and resolved to await the result
of the advertisement for the rest. We walked on,
very slow, sometimes enquiring, and often passing the
houses without speaking. When we were about half
way through the alley Wilson happened to say that “Mrs.
Cary must have left Philadelphia.”

At that moment we heard foot-steps behind us, and female
voices. As the pavement was narrow, we stepped
on one side, to give the ladies room to pass, just as Wilson
was speaking. The females (there were two,) appeared
to examine us closely as they passed, and finally
stopped.

“Did we understand you, sir?” said one of them, “I
thought you mentioned Mrs. Cary.”

Heavens, it was Mary!!

“Mr. Wilson,” said she.—He caught her in his arms
in an instant, where I must leave them. I addressed the
lady, in the meantime, and enquired for Mrs. Cary, telling
her at the same time, of our arduous search.

Finding that my sister paid no attention to me, I said
“Mary does not know her brother—then lovers eyes
are quick.”

“Are you Mary's brother, sir?” asked the lady.

“I am, madam.”

“Mary, don't you see your brother?”

Mary broke from Wilson and caught me round the
neck, as I bent forward to salute her, and almost stifled
me with kisses! She wept, she laughed, she acted ridiculous.

“Yes Martha, this is my dear long lost brother.”

“Miss Martha, shew us to your house, I long to see
your mother, and Mary seems to have lost her senses: I
am fatigued and wish to rest.”

“Ah, sir,” she replied, “our house is not fit for you
to go into.”

“I don't value the fitness—it's not the house I wish to
see, it is your mother.”

“Oh, brother,” said Mary, “you cannot go in, it is
an old dark room up stairs; and the steps leading to it
are rotten, they would not bear your weight.”

“I will go,” I replied, angrily, “show me the way
Mary, do not be foolish.”

When they found I was determined to go they set forward.—Wilson
supported Mary, and I led Martha, or
rather she led me. The house was close by, in Strawberry
Alley; I shall remember Strawberry Alley as long
I live.

After walking a few steps they turned an angle into a
short lane, alley, or something, being very narrow, giving
scarcely room enough for two persons to walk
abreast, and at about ten paces distant we came to the
house, in fact we came to it at the angle, it being the corner
house, a large and handsome one once no doubt, but
then it was tumbling down. I felt the cold chills run
over me at the sight, but was silent.

I found the girls had not exaggerated when I came to

ascend the decayed stair-case, which in many places was
broken into holes, and so dark that it was really dangerous.

It led up the back part of the house into a gloomy looking
parlour, or whatever it might be called; but I never
should have succeded, if Martha had not led me by the
hand and pointed out the places of danger. Mary acted
the same friendly part towards Wilson, and we at
length effected our landing, into a place little better than
the Spanish dungeon; all the difference was, one was
above and the other under ground.

Martha led me to her mother, a middle-aged pale faced
female, and told her who I was. She shrieked for joy,
while I took her by the hand, and kissed the cheek
which she presented—the scene that followed can be better
imagined than described; besides, to repeat what
each one said would take up too much time and lead me
too far from the main story.

Martha had given me to understand, briefly, as we
walked along, that they had occupied their present dwelling
only a few days, that in consequence of not being
able (from sickness and other misfortunes) to pay the
rent of their former dwelling, they were turned out of it,
and every thing they had that was worth taking, was taken
to pay the rent!

The sight of the wretched apartment, almost destitute
of furniture, pierced me to the heart; besides Mrs. Cary
and the two girls, it contained another female, who
showed great confusion at being taken by surprise—it
was evident she expected no such visitors.

“I told you,” said Martha, “what a house you would
see.”

“You shall not be in it long, madam.—And your sufferings
madam, (addressing Mrs. Cary) are over, I hope;
compose yourself and be happy.”

“Here Peggy,” said I, handing the girl some money.

“Betsey, sir, is my name.”

“Then go, Betsey, and bring me a couple of bottles
champaign,” and turning to Mary, I told her in a low
voice “that she must, with the other ladies, get ready to
leave the place that evening.—I was going out to prepare

lodgings for them, by which time they must be
ready.”

In the meantime the girl returned with the wine, only
two wine glasses could be found, one of these was cracked
and the other had a piece broken out of the top.

“You have seen hard times here Betsey,” said I, as I
poured out the wine. “Yes indeed sir, that we have.”

I waited on Mrs. Cary with the first glass, in which
I joined her; I then waited on Martha, pledging her
also—”

“Let you alone Burlington, and I believe in my heart
you will drink all the wine yourself.—We, I suppose,
must wait until our betters are served,” said Wilson,
handing Mary up to the table.

I was in the right humour for mischief, and asked him
“if he we would not rather lead her up to the parson?”

This was answered no other way than by a look of
gentle reproof from both. Mrs. Cary smiled, Martha
sighed, and Betsey simpered. When he and Mary had
finished their glass—“Come Betsey, said I, “it is long
since you and I joined in the pleasure of taking a glass
of wine together.” She declined until Mrs. Cary spoke
to her.

“Why, confound the fellow,” said Wilson, is he going
to take the advantage of us so, ladies.”

I cut him short, telling him we would walk. He however
resolved to be within one of me, and helped himself
to another glass, “the better” he said, “to keep his balance
in descending the stairs.”

“I hoped you would spend the evening with us,” said
Mrs. Cary, sorrowfully.

“Yes, madam, I will spend the evening with you: it
would be something very extraordinary indeed that could
tempt me not to do so; but I am going to provide a
more suitable place than this, to spend it with you.

I then called Mary aside and told her to leave or give
away their furniture, if they had any, that such as I saw
was not worth moving.—And taking my hat, called Wilson
to walk saying to the ladies, we would not take leave
as we should soon return, and charging them “not to
get tipsy,” we sought our way down the old stairs.

We enquired for the nearest and best house of entertainment.
This being pointed out to us, we desired the
landlord “to prepare supper for six persons, and lodgings
for the same number, three chambers, a parlour,
and dining-room.”

I directed him “to get the best supper Philadelphia
could afford, and have all ready as quick as possible.”
I could not forbear smiling to see the bustle and tumult
produced by this notice—the servants running against
each other, overturning chairs, tables, cats, dogs, and
every thing that came in their way.

“Get out of the way,” says one.

“Take care,” says another.

“Have coffe, tea, and chocolate,” says the landlord to
the cook.—“Sweep them rooms quick, and dust the furniture.”

I dare say they expected at least two foreign Ambassadors
and their suites.

My next step was to order three carriages to Strawberry
Alley, which had probably never been so highly honoured
before. The sight of three splendid carriages, in a
huddle, excited even more curiosity than the orders of
the Mansion-house, where I engaged supper. The exclamations
of the passengers were amusing—

“What's to pay here?”

“Who's dead? who's dead?”

Upon my return I asked the ladies if they were ready.—“Soon
would be, they had only to dress.”

“That is the last thing I should have thought of, but
I believe it is the first thing with women—perhaps in the
present instance it was well enough, as they were to figure
away as lady embassadresses.

We intimated to them not to hurry their toilet, as it
would be sometime before supper would be ready, and
they retired into a small chamber to dress.

In the meantime a little ragged girl came in, where
Wilson and I were sitting, and hoisted off old pots, pans,
and such things, which I suspected Mrs. Cary had given
her.

“Will you drink some wine, my pretty little girl?”

“Yes sir,” said she.

“Where is your mama?”

“At home sir.”

“Take your things home and tell your mama to come
here.”

“Here,” said Wilson, “buy yourself a coat with
this,” handing her a dollar.

“Thank you, sir.”

Poor thing, she had great need of one; she received
the money with a smile, and ran home with great speed,
holding her pans on her head with the same hand in
which she held the money, and grasped the rent in her
petticoat as well as she could, with the other.

In a short time she and her mother both came—she
was a young and handsome looking woman. I asked
her to be seated, and gave her some wine, telling her
“we were going away, and should not want it.”

She was a widow, it appeared, with four children, and
being distinguished by our friends, Wilson and I both,
gave her a trifle.

The ladies now appeared; I gave Mrs. Cary my arm,
and led the way down the “dangerous steep,” leaving
my friend to take charge of the young ladies and follow
after. When they were all landed at the bottom, I helped
Betsey (who took charge of the baggage) into her carriage
first, being determined to cut a dash—our females
looked respectable, and might pass better than us.

I laughed at Wilson, telling him “he looked very
shabby to play off the ambassador,” and asked him why
he “didn't put on his new dun-coloured coat? You will
not do for the principal,” said I: “you will have to act
the secretary.”

Presenting my hand to Martha, after helping Mrs.
Cary into her carriage, I told her she must ride with
me, “that probably Mary had some tender things to
say to Wilson.”

Poor Mary, she loved me too well, to scold me for
this, and it is quite likely that she loved the idea it conveyed
much better—I should think so.

“Begging your Excellency's pardon, I am of opinion
your conduct presents stronger evidence of a desire to
say tender things, than mine.”

Whether or not he availed himself of this opportunity
to breathe a tender sigh in the ear of his mistress, I have
never understood.

We soon arrived at our lodgings, the landlord leading
way to our destined parlour—he informed us supper
would be ready in twenty-five minutes, and the interval
was spent in that sort of conversation which was most
likely to dispel all recollection of the past, and create a
lively anticipation of the future. When supper was announced
I led Mrs. Cary to the head of the table. I entreated
her to take that seat, and consider herself at
home, until one more agreeable to her could be provided,
and “that in every respect she was to consider herself
mistress of this temporary establishment.”

Taking Mary's hand, I led her to the next seat on
Mrs. Cary's right—Wilson of course took the opposite
one. I led Martha to the seat opposite Wilson, taking
my place opposite to her, and next to my sister, telling
the servant who waited, to withdraw, that Betsey (who
had just appeared) was all the attendant we desired.

Let the miser take pleasure in contemplating his secreted
treasure, let the monarch take pleasure in beholding
his willing subjects at his feet, let the hero take pleasure
in that just applause which is due to his valour, and
greater still, let let the patriot take pleasure in those immortal
honours heaped upon him by his country—but I
would not have exchanged the pleasure I felt on taking
my seat this night at supper, for all of them.

If there be real happiness on earth, it consists in that
pleasure which results from a sense of gratitude due to
a benefactor.

Wilson was happy—we will suppose that he was—yet
—his happiness was terrestrial—mine was celestial—To
relieve the indigent, to console the distressed, to cherish
the widow, the orphan, and to protect the friendless, has
something in it very far removed from earth. Our Saviour
says, “in as much as ye have done it unto one of
these, ye have done it unto me.”

So far as I had been the instrument of contributing to
the happiness of this family, so far I certainly did feel
all the pleasure of which it was susceptible. But I was

not happy! this may seem strange, and yet it is most
true. What then, blessed as I was, with so many amicable
friends, my fortune about to be restored to me, my
sister soon to be united to the most worthy of his sex,
my uncle fulfilling the place of a father.—I felt all the
affection for him of a son, and still not happy! Why is
this? it proves, if I am not mistaken, that complete happiness
is not to be found in this world. The reader has
set me down, to fall in love with Miss Martha.—No, all
lovely as she is, I love her indeed, but it is the love of a
brother for a sister—then it must be Leanora!—not—
that—either—though it was something very much like it
—I esteemed Leanora, I adored her, and would have loved
her, if it were not vain. But had it even been the
case it would have yielded to reason, it would have yielded
to necessity, it would have been guided by that
strength of mind which had sustained such a variety of
vicissitudes; but the thought, the impossibility, of my
having it in my power to requite the generosity of Leanora
poisoned all my joys. Thousands of miles separated
us—not even the shadow of hope that we should
ever meet again, affected me so deeply as to betray my
feelings to this happy company.

Mrs. Cary first observed it, and Wilson threw out
some sprightly sallies, which, though very delicate, insinuated
as much as though Martha had entangled me in
her chains; but he never was more mistaken in his lfe.
True I esteemed Martha, and hope I ever shall; but to
forget Leanora was to have ceased to live. Had I done
so, I must have been the blackest of villains! no, never,
never, Leanora will I forget thee.

Observing that the party imbibed my depression of
spirits, I shook it off, and assuming a gayer countenance
I told my sister, “I had good news to tell her.”

“What is it?”

“You have an uncle in New-York, I suspect, by this
time.”

“An uncle, brother: what uncle?”

“Thomas, your father's brother.”

“No, I do not recollect him.”

“Don't you remember to hear your father talk of a
brother who went to sea when a youth.”

“Yes, he died, did we not hear—”

“That report was erroneous; he is alive and well.”

I then informed her that we parted in Havanna; I was
engaged by promise to meet him at New-York, where I
must set out very shortly.”

She hinted, though in a very distant manner, that she
would be glad to know “what accident had detained me
so much longer than I intended, from coming to see her.”
I gave her to understand that it was too long a story for
me to begin that night, and that I should leave Wilson
with them, and he could relate it at his leisure.

“And are you going to leave us so soon, brother?”

“I must go Mary, but I shall soon return, and bring
my uncle with me; he says he will dance the first reel at
a certain young lady's wedding.”

Mary and Wilson both blushed; after swallowing with
much difficulty, what tea was in her saucer, which she
had raised to her face to hide her confusion. Mary
wondered “what young lady it could be.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” said Wilson, “you are too
bad Burlington, let's talk about something else.”

I told him “not to be taking hints that perhaps were
not intended for him—he would induce people to believe
he was a party concerned.”

After enjoying their embarrassment awhile, I changed
the subject by enquiring “whether they had heard from
Dupon since he left the United States?”

“—They had not.”

At the name of Dupon, Martha who as I before observed,
sat opposite to me, threw her eyes downward and
changed colour.

“I am unfortunate,” thought I, and changed the subject
again, by enquiring “what had become of Hunter?”
He had broke jail and was not heard of since.

By this time supper was concluded, and after chatting
an hour or so with the ladies, not overlooking the faithful
Betty, Wilson and I retired to sleep (or intending to
do so) in the same room as usual.

It had been agreed upon that Wilson and my sister

should be united as soon as they met, but the circumstance
of our meeting with my uncle was a sufficient reason
for postponing the nuptials until he could be present,
which I had gently intimated to her at supper.

Whether this delay gave Mary any unpleasant feelings
or otherwise I could not ascertain, but certain it is
that Wilson submitted with great reluctance.