University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Upon being put in possession of the property, I requested
the names of the tenants and the rate per annum,
in order to exact from them the rent, which was to go on
from that day. One of the houses was a very spacious
brick building, containing three stores or shops, several
lumber-rooms and four families. The other was comparatively
small;—only two stores were kept in it, and
three families above stairs. I determined to let them remain
in it until I should consult Mrs. Cary. If she was
willing to remove to New-York, this house would suit
her very well, but if she preferred a residence in Philadelphia,
she should certainly have the option.

One of the families in the latter had the appearance of
being in perfect indigence. They were lately from Ireland,
(indeed they were all Irish, but this family had not
long arrived from thence,) had been sick and made
a wretched appearance.

The family consisted of a man, his wife and six children.
Two of their children had died since they landed,
and two others were then lying in bed very ill. The
man looked like a ghost, and the woman very little better.
He reeled as he attempted to walk. I informed
him I had become his landlord, and that he would have
to give a new lease, as I walked to the bed on which
the children were lying, to examine their pulse. Their
fever was excessively high indeed.

“Ah, poor things,” said their mother, “they're very
ill, they haven't tasted mate these eight days.”

I asked her “if a physician attended them?”

“No indeed your honour, they're no the sort o' Doctors
that we have in the aul counthry—he's just been,
but the bare twiste, and gives them a sort o' stuff, a don't
know what it is.”

“Jinkins,” said I, “go for the best Physician you
can get, my friend.”

“The Lord bless you, for that's the kindest word I
heard spoken since I been in the counthry,” said the afflicted
mother.

I asked her “if she was able to walk out, to get a little
wine, and such things as might be necessary?”

“Aye, indeed am I—I'm not overly strong yet, but I
ha' been up and down tha stairs twenty times a day.”

“Here then madam, take this (handing her my purse)
and go get some wine and such things as you may want
for yourself and your children.”

“The Lard presarve us—but you are no a man at all,
you're just an angel, so ye are—save us, what will I do
with all this?”

“Go on, go on madam,” said I, “there is only a few
dollars in it.”

When she left the room, the man expressed, or began
to make great acknowledgments, but I silenced him by
asking “how long it was since he landed in the United
States?”

He replied “that it was three months, and that he had
not been able to do any work since.—And what would
your honor be after asking for the rent,” said he “you
were saying I'd be till give a new lease?”

“Nothing sir,” said I, “I just want your obligation
to deliver the property to me, or my agent.”

No thought I, sooner would I beg my bread from door
to door, than exact ought of this poor man.

He was about to overwhelm me with thanks, as Jinkins
and the physician entered the room.

The doctor bowed, and asked if those were the patients?

I told him they were, and getting up gave him the
only seat there was in the room.

After he examined them, I asked him “if he could do
any thing for them?”

“Certainly,” said he, “they are not beyond the reach
of medicine: with attention they will recover.”

“My dear sir,” said I, “do your best, I will amply
reward your pains.”

He made no reply, but called for a string to bleed
them. He then gave them an emetic, and said he would
stay and see it operate.

Just as I had agreed to meet him there again at six
o'clock that evening, the mother returned with a fowl, a
bottle of wine, and two or three small loaves of bread;
she bowed to the doctor, and setting her things out of
her hand on the floor, (no table being in the room) she
approached me with—

“God preserve me—but ye told me there was only a
few dollars, and it's all goold, half-joes and some sort o'
guineas—I never see'd the like. O, if I wasn't scared
out o' my wits when I went to pay the man for the wine,
I trembled like a leaf. `What's the matter, good woman?'
said the man—`Nothing,' says I, `but the gentleman
has surely been mistaken to rust me with so much
goold, Agles I think he called them, makin' his fun.'
Marcy, if I didn't fly, wi' all speed back, fearing somebody
would rob me; ye shouldn't trust a poor woman
body like me wi' all your money, it might have been all
robbed from me,” said she, handing me the purse with
its remaining contents.

I could not forbear laughing at her, as I took the purse
out of her hand, not with a view of taking back the
money, but to empty the contents into her hand, not
caring to part with the purse.

“Aye, sir, do look, alay my life she's let them chate
her, she is such a simpleton,” said her husband; but
when he discovered my object, he was thunderstruck.

Before I left her, however, I explained that the large
pieces, pointing them out to her, were ten dollars, and
the smaller ones five. I told her that I should return
again in the evening and in the meantime “I should
send her a girl to assist her: that the fatigue she must
undergo, attending upon her children was more than she
was able to bear in her present situation.”

I waited not for a reply, but telling Jinkins we would
walk, took leave and proceeded to our lodgings.

As we walked onward, I asked the first person I met,
where I should find a girl? that I wished to procure one
to attend a sick family.

He told me to step into any of the alleys, and I would
find one almost at every house.

I thanked him, and proceeding into one of those alleys,
found no difficulty whatever in obtaining a servant; I
might have got a dozen had I wanted them. I stepped
up to one and told her my business—she very readily
assented. I enquired her name.

“Sarah Murphy, sir,” said she.

Irish to Irish, I thought.

“Well, Sarah, my good girl, I wish you to proceed
to my house,” telling her the number, “without delay.
Make haste—the family is in great distress. I'll pay
you your wages: here, I'll give you earnest,” (pulling
out my empty purse.)

Jinkins laughed, and told the girl as he handed her a
dollar, “that I was the greatest cheat in the city: not
to believe a word I said—but put off Sarah, you shall be
paid,” said the mischievous Jinkins.

As we pursued our walk, I picked up a lawyer to do
the necessary writings respecting the leases, giving him
a memorandum of the business I wished him to perform,
I directed him to bring them when done to the City
Hotel.

When we arrived at home we found dinner ready, and
my uncle chided me for staying so long. But when I explained
the cause to him he was pleased.

“Ah,” said he, “thee's my fellow; I wouldn't give a
rope's-end for money to hoard it up, and a comrade
dying o' want—od if 'don't go and see 'um myself. How
far does't live?”

I observed “that the evening was too cold for him to
turn out, but he could wrap himself up warm to-morrow
and go, and look at my property; that the poor family I
mentioned lived in one of the houses—meantime if he had
no objection, I would invite the doctor to sup with us,
provided he was unengaged.”

“Oh, to be sure, I am surprised—why can't ye have
whoever thee likes, child, without axin o' me. And Jinkins
did go the rounds wi' thee?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Jinkins went for the doctor, and
gave me some other very seasonable assistance.”

“Yes,” said Jinkins in his usual manner—“he looked
well after telling the girl he'd pay her earnest, pulling
out an empty purse.”

My uncle laughed at the jest, and we sat down to dinner.
Being fatigued from incessant walking in the
morning, I proposed some game of amusement to my
uncle.

“Well, choose your game, I'm your man.”

“You will beat me too easy at backgammon, let's
have a game at whist—I'll take Jinkins, and you take
the landlord.”

“Agreed,” said he.

“But, where is Horton?” I asked.

“Was he not here?”

“Oh! yes, he keeps a grieving about his wife and
children—he'll be back again he said. Sambo, go and
tell the landlord to come, and bring a pack o' cards.”

In a short time he appeared.

I requested Sambo to recruit the fire and we sat down
and played till six o'clock.

I requested the landlord to have a good supper, observing,
as I put on my great coat “that I would have a
stranger with me when I returned.”

He bowing and retired—I set out alone, leaving Jinkins
to keep my uncle company.

“Tell 'um,” said the old man, “I'll come and see 'um
myself to-morrow, God willing.”

The Doctor had been there but a few minutes before
me, and upon enquiring how the patients were, he informed
me that the fever had abated considerably; that the
pulse promised favourably, and there was little doubt but
they would be better by morning. He gave them some
pills, and said he would call again early in the morning.

The poor woman was in raptures, upon hearing the
report of the Doctor.

Both her and her husband eyed me, as if I had been a
Deity, whom they seemed to love, as well as fear.

She was making herself a coarse dress, which was
barely fit for a human being to wear. I suspect the poor
creature had purchssed it out of the money I gave her,
and grudged herself a better, lest she might encroach too

much upon her funds. I therefore, while the doctor was
engaged with the children, entered familiarly into conversation
with her upon the impropriety of working with
a needle, until she was perfectly well—that she would
injure her eyes.

The Doctor said “she could not do any thing worse;
it was too severe upon the eyes.”

I desired her to send Sarah out and get plenty of nourishing
food and drink for herself and her husband—they
ought to have plenty of wine, fresh broths, and such
things, and not to stint herself in any thing; that I perceived
she was quite too stingy.”

“I was telling her so myself,” said her husband,
“just a bit ago. She says we'll want wood to keep the
children warm; if such a gentleman as this comes across
us, says I, we'll want nothing.”

I saw nothing to eat or to drink in the chamber, with
the exception of the bread, &c. she bought in the morning,
but some raw potatoes. The children, those that
were not sick, looked as though they were famished.—
Ah, poverty! thou art an ugly thing.

I addressed the Doctor, when his visit was over, telling
him “I should be happy if he would favour me with
his company that evening, that I had bespoke an oyster
supper at the City Hotel, and every thing else that the
city afforded, that he would meet an old gentleman there,
who was rather uncouth in his manners, having been at
sea most of his life, but one of the best hearted men in
the world—he was another uncle Toby.”

He thanked me, and said he would go with pleasure.

When we arose to depart, I shook hands with the
family, telling Sarah “if she would be a good girl, and
attend well upon the children, I would buy her the finest
gown in New-York.”

“Indeed, I will do that, sir, if you were to give me
nothing at all.”

As I walked down stairs, I called to mind my uncle's
message, it would have been cruel to have neglected it.
Though couched in few and plain words, it shewed the
genuine qualities of his heart. I begged pardon a minute,
and turning back, delivered the message.

“God bless him, say't we're much obliged to his
honour.” exclaimed both.

As there was no other alternative, we, I mean the
Doctor and I, introduced ourselves to each other. His
name was Nevitt. As we walked to the hotel, he observed.

“You are a stranger in this city, I presume?”

I told him “I was.”

“I knew almost,” said he, “that you were, from the
sympathy you expressed for those poor people. We who
are accustomed to see such things daily, have become
quite callous to it. Perhaps no city in the universe evinces
a greater proof of charity than New-York; humane
societies both public and private, are established throughout
the city, of both sexes, who make it their business
and pride to attend and relieve the poor, and yet numbers
die for want of attention. So many foreigners pour in
upon us, particularly from Ireland, who generally arrive
sick, and have not the means of providing for themselves,
that I assure you it keeps us busy to attend to
them, and after doing all in our power many of them suffer
as you see. The poor creatures spend all they have
in getting here, and then they are mostly so sick, (particularly
their children) that they are unable to get any further,
and here we have them upon us. I am certain that
in the course of my practice two-thirds of it has been devoted
to those poor people. You have seen nothing of
our city; if you were to spend a day or two visiting
those alleys, you would be surprised to see the number of
poor people, and particularly when any epidemic rages.
If you were to relieve all that actually stood in need of
relief you would soon have nothing to relieve with; and
at this season of the year their situation is at the worst,
wood being so high that the poor cannot afford enough to
keep themselves warm. I have known instances of their
lying in bed all day for want of fuel.”

I was much pleased and improved by the Doctor's conversation.

“A sad picture, sir, you have given me of human distress,
but I have suffered so much myself that perhaps I
feel more sensibly for their situation than one that has

not; merely seeing and not feeling misery cannot have
the same effect on us.”

“Very true,” said the Doctor—“but what would be
the conclusion, because you felt more sensibly you would
relieve more bountifully and more extensively: you
would find no end to it, and by that means you would
soon put it out of your power to relieve any. For instance,
you would relieve all the distressed this year:
next year you might do the same, and so on; and by an
imprudent liberality to some, would deprive others who
might be equally entitled to charity.”

There was a great deal of justice and reason in the
Doctor's remarks, and I resolved to profit by them.

“Tell me what you would have done,” said I, “had
you happened upon those poor people we have just left?”

“Most certainly, sir,” replied he, “I would have given
them physic, or probably had them conveyed to the
hospital; I would have given them a moderate share of
food and clothes, or have seen that it was done.”

I must keep out of those alleys then, thought I, as we
entered the Hotel; it will not do for either me or my
uncle to visit them.

I introduced the Doctor to my uncle and Jinkins.

“Well, how do'st come on, Doctor, with the sick
people?” said the old man, “take some wine, sir—do'st
think can cure 'um?”

“I think I can, sir; the fever seems to yield considerably.”

“Ah, curse the fevers, I had 'um myself, they're not
good company: I had 'um best part o' three weeks see,
and I'm not quite over 'um yet—but mighty glad as
Charles happened on 'um to-day. How did come to find
'um out my son?”

“They were in one of the houses I purchased of Hunter,
sir; and in visiting the apartments to take down the
people's names, for the purpose of executing new leases,
I found this family in distress.”

“Didn't tell 'um should pay rent, did ye?”

“I did not, sir; on the contrary, I told them they
might live there gratis until they were all well.”

“Thee did'st right, me son, that was right—'calls.

him my son. Doctor, though he's only my nevy—But
he's just as like me as if 'was my son, and I don't see
how that can be: you landsmen be always as fraid o'
your purse, as if ye thought some serpent in it would
bite off your fingers.”

The servant entered and before any of us could reply,
told us supper was ready.

The landlord had fulfilled his promise with much honour
to himself—a fine dish of oysters was smoking at
each end of the table, which was set as usual exclusively
for us, and every other dainty the market afforded at
that season. Wine and cheerful conversation seasoned
the whole —After supper the Doctor sat a couple of
hours, conversing principally with the old gentleman;
on taking leave he said “he would visit his patients
early in the morning, and probably they would need no
more attention.”

“Od, Doctor, thee must visit 'um till 'gets well—I'm
going to see 'um myself, in the morning, I wants to see
how 'looks when 'is just saved from starvation, with
sickness, and want, and such things.”

“Oh, sir, they are quite ravished with your nephew,
after he made his escape from them in the morning—`the
Lord save us, and what sort of a man is yon, see the
goold he's given me,' said the woman. `And wouldn't
wait till he thanked an' our last fire of wood was just
laid on—I tould you, William, till trust in the Lord when
ye were loth till purt on, but ye never believe what I
say. Ye see now what he has done, when I mind ye of
that again now ye'll believe. Oh, blessed be his Name,
for He is the God that helps in throuble. It would be
long ere ye'd get this in Ireland, ye might get a few
saxpences or there-away, maybe, at a fair, and he's
gone till send me a nurse for my children, bless the man.
I don't know who he is, and sent the gentleman that was
wi' him, almost the moment he come in for a Doctor;
ye'll mind now, William, when I bid ye trust in the
Lord—see here how much there is, one, two, three, four,
five, six o' these big ones, Agles I think he called them,
and how many o' the little ones, let me see—seven, and
ever so many silver pieces, I don't know what they are:

but maybe I didn't give them the goold a day, weary on
them—the Lord forgive me, but I thought the gentleman
would have me hanged if I touched his goold, and see
he's give it all to me.”'

“Ye can pay your rent now, Matty, it's due in a few
days,” said her husband.

“Yes indeed they may come as soon as they like, I'll
warrant they come time enough, they're not like his honour
that's got the house now long life till him,” said the
man, “he tould me when ye wer' gone to buy things, that
I might stay in it rent free.”

“Did he?” rejoined the woman.

“I left them both praying for his long life and prosperity.
Good evening gentlemen.”

“You must call again Doctor, wont'ee?” said my uncle,
as the Doctor withdrew.

The next day when the cool of the morning was over,
and I thought my uncle could go out with safety, I had a
carriage brought to the door for him to ride to the Irishman's,
while he was wrapping himself up in a double portion
of flannel, cursing the cold country all the while,
the lawyer came with the papers.

After every thing was ready, I stepped into his chamber
for the old gentleman. I saw him as I entered, sliping
something in his pocket, telling Sambo to stay in his
room until he returned.

On our way, we drove by the other house, wishing to
show it to my uncle likewise, he expressed great satisfaction
upon seeing it, saying “it'll bring thee some rent
child, better saved than lost.”

I asked him “if he did not want an apartment or two
in it to stow his freight,” as I perceived it still aboard
the ship, that it would suit him very well, and I wished
to know, as I was about to rent them.

“O I han't much there, I ha' sold the most o' it.—I
got but a few things, one small store-room will hold it,
thee may save one since it 'ill please thee to do thy uncle
a kindness.”

When we arrived at the other house, the old man's patience
was almost overthrown again at the high houses.
He made out however, with Jinkin's assistance, and a

great deal of grunting puffing and blowing, to effect his
landing at the head of the stairs, swearing all the way
“that none but a lubberly landsman would build such a
house, and that if it was his, he would throw it down
right away, fore some body would break their necks.”

When he entered the chamber, he greeted the lady and
shook her husband by the hand, and enquired “how
doest all do, how is thy sick ones?”

“Oh God be praised your honour, but their getting
bravely, said their father.”

“I'me glad to hear it, glad to hear it, but friend thee
must tell us thy name.”

“William McCallester, please your honour.”

“Well Mr. McCallester—”

“The Lord love you sir, don't Mr. me, William's my
name.”

“Well William then, to tell the truth, o'the matter,
I was raised a bit that way myself, but went to sea and
forgot all thae things, and learned to swear, and say bad
words to boot, but my nevy was sayin' see' that 'had
been sick and puny, and thought would ride over a
bit, and see how come on, and I ha' been sick myself
too.”

“May the blessing attend you for that, but your nevy
and yourself both thegether, has saved all our lives,”
said Matty, her husband (as she appeared to think,) being
too cold in his plaudits, “God knows for I don't know
where's the like o'ye.”

I saw by the wrinkle on my uncle's brow, that it was
pouring upon him too fast.

“Where be the children,” said he, paying not the least
attention to Matty.

“There they are,” said William, pointing to them as
they lay in the bed.

He got up and went to them, felt of their pulse, spoke
kindly to them and told them “when they got well they
must come to his lodgings and get some sugar-plumbs—
must be good children and take what the Doctor tells
thee, be well in a trice, I ha' got the most sugar-plums,
apples, oranges, and ginger-cakes ever thee seed, soon
be well, must'nt eat um till gets well.”

Jinkins who had stepped down stairs almost as soon as
we entered, re-appeared with calico to make the little
girls dresses, cloth to make the little boys' pantaloons
and roundabouts. There were three boys and three
girls; he handed it to Matty who was in raptures again,
but Jinkins was as unconcerned at this ebullition as
his patron.—For myself, I was displeased that she
had not appropriated part of the money I gave her to
this use, as the poor things were all in rags, nor could I
perceive any addition to their general comforts, with the
exception of a bottle of wine, and one or two old chairs,
that I presumed they had borrowed from their next
neighbour. After my uncle had gratified his curiosity
and his feelings, I proposed that he should return with
Jinkins, that I had some business to attend to and would
return on foot, getting them first to attest the obligation
between me and McCallester. We took leave of the
family, Matty accompanying us to the head of the stairs,
blessing and re-blessing us while we were in hearing.
Being advanced rather before my uncle and Jinkins, I
turned round to get hold of the old gentleman's hand,
when I saw him hand Matty something with the quickness
of lightning almost; she was going to speak, but
he silenced her with a “prithee not a word,” and gave
his hand to descend the stairs. I seemed not to see what
I thought he wished to conceal. He and Jinkins entered
the carriage and drove home, whilst I repaired to the
respective tenants to receive their acknowledgments, and
joined the party at dinner.

“Well, my son, just wondering what had become of
thee, take some wine, 'dare say thee needs it—made
Sambo keep up a good fire gin' would come,” said he,
taking a glass of wine himself—“but thee don't mind
these cold winds at all like Jinkins and I—I thought
would afroze coming home, don't think thy uncle can
stand it in this cold country, and Jinkins and Sambo
complains almost as much as I do.”

“Charles,” said he, as we were seating ourselves at
table—“what sort o' a woman does that be? didn't
know what to make o' 'um, thought she had taken a fit
when the boy brought 'um the garments—'think it's a

tantalizing sort o' thing,” said he, as he supped his
broth—“didn't know what to make o' her sort o' language.”

“Oh, sir, she followed the dictates of her heart no
doubt, she knew no other way to express her gratitude,
and her rescue from pinching want. Hunger, sickness,
and cold, are dreadful calamities, and she was actually
relieved from them all; no wonder at all to me, that her
joy was so extravagant.”

I wished to set his mind at rest, on a subject so near
his heart, though I disliked the fulsome stuff as much as
he did.

“And what do'st think o' Jinkins, see how gallant he
behaved too?”

“I did, sir, but he is too much like yourself in that
respect, he is too modest to listen to applause. Any
man who does a generous act, never wishes to hear of
it more. You ask me what I think of him? but this
question you did not expect me to answer in his presence.”

“Enough,” said Jinkins, “you make me sick.”

“Well tell'ee what, my sons, Jinkins is my son too—
but what 'was going to say, is that thee and I, Charles,
just think alike a out thae things, but thee's got a glibber
tongue in thy head than I, and can fetch it out
better.”

Having finished our dinner, the Commodore thus addressed
me and Jinkins—

“Tell'ee what thee do boys, if 'baint too tired, 'wants
to go to the Eliza, (name of the vessel) and tell'ee what
'wants thee to go for.

“First thing thee does deliver the balance of the
freight that be marked S. T. to him, or his agent, and
all that be marked T. B. put into the ware-house that
thee's kept for me, Charles.

“And the things that the governor of Havanna put
aboard—Jinkins knows um, ship um to Mary forth with
—the pipe o' wine, and box o' china, d'ye hear, 'don't
know what could 'think I'd want wi' china, did think
'was going—a house keeping again?

“But since old Frank showed a kindness, they'll
serve for Mary's wedding, and d'ye hear, write to

Mary that her uncle will be there and help to drink the
wine.

“Send um off directly, that 'may have um in time—
wouldn't miss their being sent for ten times the worth of
um, and should a sent them before now, but thou bast
been engaged with thy own business.

“And harkee boy, don't stay long, I be lonesome and
like o' that—thank God I'm no coward, but atween ourselves,
I don't like these out-landish folks much—an impudent
scamp o' a fellow bolted into my room this morning—if
'hadn't a been off 'soon as he did I'd a shivered
his upper works for him.

“I am just going to take a nap, and Sambo will stay,
and you'll soon be back.”

We assured him we would use all possible despatch,
and putting on our great coats we set out.

As we pursued our walk, I observed to Jinkins “that my
uncle spoke as if he had not that confidence in his situation
consistant with his happiness—had he much money about
him? or what did he (as he seemed to do) distrust in the
citizens of New-York?”

He replied, “that he never kept much about his person,
the small trunk in his chamber was all, that his
funds were principally in England, with the exception
of a few thousand dollars, which he deposited in the bank
in New-York, upon his arrival, for safe keeping.

“That the dislike I heard him express, merely extended
to the manners and ways of the people, being so
different from his own.”

This explanation relieved me considerably by removing
that anxiety I should otherwise have felt, while absent
—I nevertheless lost not a moment and proceeded
to procure cart-men to convey my uncle's reserve, while
Jinkins waited on S. T. requesting him to come and receive
his goods.

In the course of the conversation with Jinkins, on the
subject of my uncle's wealth, he stated the amount at upwards
of a million pounds sterling!

I obtained from Mr. S T. the address of Wharton
& Co. of Philadelphia, to whom I consigned the present
for Mary. In the meantime I paid Hunter a visit, and

informed him that I had received the property at its valuation,
and asked him—

“If he had made an estimate of the amount himself,
that I wished him to be satisfied, and not to say hereafter
that I had taken advantage of his situation.”

He replied, “that the interest of the bonds was easily
counted, that in twenty years they would double themselves,
and that I could if I chose, exact interest for
the property, as he felt perfectly unconcerned about any
thing whatever.”

I told him I should not, and addressing him in a more
friendly manner than I had hitherto done, entreated him
not to be discouraged, that he would be restored to his
liberty once more, and I hoped his misfortunes would be
attended with a salutary effect; it would be the best incident
of his life, if it should be productive of reformation.

He began to weep, I pitied him sincerely; he asked
me “if I had heard of his son?”

I replied I had not heard a word of him since I left
Philadelphia, but I would enquire and let him know the
result. I recommended to him “to bethink himself of
some asylum, to which he could retire: that perhaps it
would not be safe for him to remain in the States, although
neither my uncle or myself had any intention to
injure him, yet I could not be certain that Horton would
not, though my uncle had strictly charged him not utter
a word on the subject; but we were going to Philadelphia,
and no one knew what he might do in that event—
he might however act as he pleased, I merely suggested
the propriety of the thing.”

I enquired how much money he had, or whether he had
any about his person? He pulled out a small purse of
gold, which I did not wait for him to count, there might
have been forty or fifty guineas in it.

I shook hands with him, told him not to despond, that
he should not be stripped of every thing, that I would divide
with him as long as he lived, provided he behaved
himself, and would let me know where to find him. He
shed a flood of tears, but made no answer. As I left
him I desired the guard to let him want for nothing.

Upon enquiry I found that S. T. would by no means
succeed in receiving the goods that day, nor for two days
to come, at the rate they proceeded. It was now nearly
sun-set, and excessively cold, I therefore proposed to
Jinkins that we should return home, and let them attend
in the morning with a more effective force.

In fact I shivered with cold, as also did Jinkins, and
was very near being provoked besides, at those hardy
sons of the north, who, with shirt sleeves rolled up, perfectly
unconcerned, burst into a loud fit of laughter at
Jinkins and myself.

When we returned home we found Horton and the old
man there—as much rejoiced to see us as if we had been
absent a week.

Horton had been twice to see me in the course of the
present and preceding day; I apologzied to him, saying
that the pressure of business had put it out of my power
to attend to him.

“I told him,” said my uncle, “that thee was run off
thy legs.”

He had made no discovery relative to his wife—the
last that was known of her, was, “that she despaired
of paying her rent, and absconded in the night, taking
her children with her, and what little movables she had;
and that her youngest child was six months old.” These
particulars he learned from her next neighbour.

I observed it was pretty evident she had left the city,
and that she must have taken water, as she could not
have conveyed her children by any other means: he ought
to put an advertisement in the papers, I knew of no other
way.

“It may be that she has gone to Boston, or perhaps
Philadelphia: I should enquire when I arrived there, but
the surest course would be to advertise.”

Calling for pen, ink, and paper, I wrote to Wilson, for
the first time since I left him, instructing him to attend
to receiving the groceries, which would be delivered to
Wharton & Co. that it was a present to Mary from her
uncle, and that he would shortly be there himself, and
help to drink the wine: briefly, that the whole of the articles
were to decorate the wedding supper, which she

might expect in the course of eight or ten days, at farthest.

I gave him a summary of all the news I deemed of interest
to him, and enclosed one hundred dollars for each of
the girls, to make any further addition they might chuse,
against the long looked for day.

Being at leisure I repeated to my uncle the particulars
of my interview with Hunter. The old gentleman seemed
much perplexed in mind on account of this wretched
man, he seemed to be at a loss what course to pursue in
the final disposal of him.

“Charles,” said he, “I wish'ee would give thy opinion
about him, I hates to see the fellow hanged after taking
from him all he's got, and yet it seems to be kind o'
taking the laws in one's own hand. Hang it all, 'wish
'ad been to the d—I before 'come across him—Doesn't
seem sorry?”

“He does sir.”

“Curse him, 'don't want to hurt a hair of his head.”

I hastened to set his mind at ease, by telling him that
“were I in his place, as soon as we heard from Boston
I would just give him the balance of his property, if
there should be any left, and if there were not I would
give him enough to support him—give him his liberty
and let him go where he pleased. I saw no impropriety
in it at all, that if this course was not consistent with
justice it was with mercy.

“As for taking all he has, I have not—I have only
retaken my own, at infinite loss, and with his own consent,
(I gave him the option) and this I should have done
in any event.”

“But my son thee knowest he's a vile wretch, 'may
turn about when's got his liberty, and swear that thee
tak'd it unfair, or somehow like that, and would make it
out as force work, being confined—I ha' been thinking
a good deal about it.”

“Let him try that, no danger—he could take no step
on that ground that would not tend to his own destruction.
Don't you believe, sir, that Hunter, knave as he
is, would be such a fool as to attempt any thing of that
sort?

“Make yourself perfectly easy, sir, on Hunter's account;
I will take the entire responsibility on myself in
every thing which relates to him.

“As to the suppression of the prosecution against
Hunter, so far from considering it culpable, it would be
thought malicious and revengeful. What did I know of
Hunter? my testimony would not criminate him, I saw
no overt acts—true, he was, in company with the pirates
by whom I was taken, but I knew him not as Hunter
until we were in the cavern—he plotted my death,
but I am still alive.

“Horton's testimony would condemn him; but who is
Horton? equally as notorious as Hunter by his own confession.
In the event of a prosecution I, as well as yourself,
would be compelled to declare the whole truth,
which would go very near invalidating, if not altogether
defeating Horton's testimony.

“I see nothing therefore incompatible with the nicest
sense of justice in the contemplated lenity to Hunter.”

“Well my son, thee may take the disposal of him thyself,”
said my uncle, “I know nothing about thae law
matters, I likes to hear thee speak kind hearted about it,
and if thee had been a lawyer pleading for 'um, couldn't
ha' said more.”

The next morning Jinkins went to deliver the balance
of the freight, and as this was the first opportunity I had
had, I related to my uncle the distressed situation in
which I found my sister and her companions.

Taking the letters I had received from her in Tennessee
out of my pocket book, I read them to the old gentleman.

It was with great difficulty I got through the performance,
and it was indeed the first time I had dared to read
them with any kind of attention. As I proceeded, the
perturbation of my uncle's feelings increased, until in
the end he wept like a child, and I was very little behind
him. The first sentence he uttered after wiping his
eyes, was—

“Well, thae Hunters must be limbs o' the d—l;
'couldn't let a poor woman alone. That Dupon, or whatever
be his name, is a prince of a man; Oh, how 'do

love him—and what be the names of thae women that
showed a kindness to your sister?”

“Mrs. Cary and her daughter sir.”

“And shall 'see 'um?”

“Yes sir, they are all together.”

“Oh! if 'don't hug 'um—'wish 'was there now,” getting
up and walking the floor with hasty steps, “and as
for thae Simmons or Simkins, the d—l if there be's
any d—l ought to get 'um—'cant see how. Well, a
bad woman's a bad thing.

“Give me some wine, Sambo—God Almighty will ha
ye happy at last in spite o' 'um—all but me; ah, my
son, this is a short life, but long trouble; but I shall see
my Eliza and my babe, and would cheerfully leave this
world to-morrow.

“The Lord has truly laid heavy afflictions on our
house, my child; but 'twas his will to do so and I submit
—whom he loveth he chasteneth, my father used to say;
I ha' often thought o' that. He chastened him sore, and
has chastened his sons.

“He was a good Christian man—'was meek as a
lamb. And thee tak'd the women out o' the old house
first thing, that was right—'ought to ha' been hanged if
thee hadn't.—Alligators, alligators all! why they're as
bad as pirates.”

At the end of seven days from the time I wrote to
Boston, I received an answer to both letters, one from
Mr. S— and one from Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones' letter
was as follows:

Mr. S—'s letter ran thus:

I waited on Hunter the moment I received the letters,
taking witnesses along with me to attest the conveyance
of the property. I left it to him, however, to execute
an order for the money, as I wished to have done with
him, or a title to the property, alledging that perhaps he

might sustain loss in selling it just now, as the apprehension
of war would undoubtedly influence the value of
such property in Boston, and I wished him to make no
sacrifice on my account.

True, the money did not quite amount to the balance
due me, but this I told him made no difference—I would
execute a receipt in full.

He preferred the latter alternative and executed an order
for the money, which I received that evening, through
Mr. L. of New-York, who very politely paid the money
and took in the order—and once more I waited on
Hunter. I gave him a receipt in full, told him he was
now at liberty to go where he pleased, that I should preserve
inviolable secrecy on the subject of his late conduct,
so long as he continued to behave well, and would
undertake for the rest of our party.

“But the moment I hear of the smallest deviation in
your conduct, Hunter, you are done for this world—the
property owned in Boston, and the bonds he possessed,
would support him handsomely, and maintain his son,
should he ever find him.”

I asked him “if he had any other children?”

“—He had not, he had never had but that one, and
wished he had never been born.”

“Where is your wife?”

“She is dead.”

“Well, you have enough left yet, and perhaps more
than in strict justice you are entitled to: but I spare your
feelings Hunter, since I find you are possessed of some—
God grant you may reform and become a good man, and
should you ever happen to fall into want or distress,
Hunter, call on me, I will divide my last dollar with
you.”

He wept during the whole conversation. I told him
I must leave him, being in haste to prepare for leaving
New-York, and that if he wished to leave the country, I
wonld aid him in any way he wished, or render him any
other service in my power.”

He asked me “where Horton was?”

I replied, “I believed he was still in the city; that
he was almost in a state of distraction on account of his

wife and children—they had left New-York, and no
one could tell where they had gone.

“I saw her in Philadelphia,” said Hunter, “the last
time I was there, about two years since, and have seen
Horton often since; but as he never mentioned her name
to me, I never thought of it since. I understood he had
another wife.”

“Yes, he acknowledges that to his sorrow; but she
has left him and he is very anxious to find his real wife
—he will be glad to hear of her.”

“Mr. Burlington,” said Hunter, “do you think Horton
would betray me? I have some business I wish to
arrange in the city, and then I would gladly seek my son
and endeavour to reclaim him.”

To this I replied “he had promised the contrary both
to me and my uncle; but what confidence his word is
entitled to, I cannot say. You know the man better
than I do, you must judge for yourself.—I shall, however,
name the subject to him again, and make it the condition
of exemption from prosecution to which he has
subjected himself by his own confession. You wish,
then, to remain in the city?”

“I believe I will remain here a week or two,” said
he, as he discovered I was about to leave him.

“Horton, you said, ought to have something—here's
a bond for seven hundred dollars, please to—”

I interrupted him, telling him to keep it, “I would give
Horton a trifle to begin the world with—that he had little
enough for himself.”

He began to make acknowledgments of eternal gratitude;
but I interrupted him, saying he must excuse me:
that indispensable business pressed me to leave him, telling
him that I should leave New-York early in the morning
for Philadelphia, where I should be glad to hear from
him when convenient—that nothing would give me more
pleasure than to hear of his well doing: that I should
enquire for his son, and not fail to let him know, should
I discover any thing of him.

I for this purpose took a memorandum of his address,
and shook him cordially by the hand. “I forgive you
sincerely,” said I.

“God bless you, Mr. Burlington,” said Hunter, the
tears streaming down his cheeks—“God bless you
wherever you go.”

The sailors, mate, and captain, who had accompanied
my uncle from Havanna, and who had been previously
paid, although they acted as guard upon Hunter, were
ignorant of the cause of his confinement. Nothing therefore
was to be apprehended from them injurious to him,
had they remained in the country, but they were on their
way to Havanna—having discharged them in the morning.

On my way to the Hotel I was met by Horton, who
was actually going to see Hunter to enquire about his
wife. He had called to see me, and being told that Hunter
would soon leave the place, he hastened thither to demand
something for his services, and enqure (as his last
resort) respecting his wife, as Hunter had been twice in
the States since he had.

I told him what Hunter had said about her, and had
he wished to have known what had become of her he
might have done so long since.

He now resolved to go on with us, to Philadelphia, if
we wold permit him.

“Certainly,” said I, “Horton you may go—and as
for taking any thing away from Hunter it is out of the
question: he has barely enough to support himself, he is
old and you are not, therefore you can do better without.”

He said he should not have pretended to ask any thing
from Hunter, but for me and my uncle—he had understood
us as enjoining it upon him to do so; he was not
in want—the Governor of Havanna had given him sufficient
to keep him from want, though he had strictly
charged him to conceal it from the Commodore, lest he
might be offended.

“Curse the money: I didn't want it at all.”

“Well, come along,” said I, “I have several things
to do this evening; I hope you will find your wife yet,
and be happy.

“I told Hunter I would give you a trifle, he was going
to give you a bond of seven hundred dollars, but I

would by no means take it from him. I would rather
have paid it out of my own pocket.

“But let me tell you now Horton, as perhaps I will
not be at leisure shortly, never do you mouth about Hunter,
I have forgiven him for all his cruelty and oppression
to me and my family, and I think you may extend
your lenity to him for crimes of which you have been
equally guilty.

“Besides, you engaged with him with your eyes open
—you were a free man, and can have no motive under
heaven for informing against him, other than revenge—
you would gain nothing by it, you have tried that; and
you may rest assured, that the very moment you disclose
one syllable respecting his conduct, I will invalidate
your testimony.

“I will enter a prosecution against you as his accumplice,
and you will find it go much harder with you than
with him. By invalidating your testimony he would be
acquitted. He has taken nothing from you that you or
he either have a right to. I believe in justice you ought
both to be hung; but I shall never injure you. In fact
I know nothing of him that would convict him, but I
know enough to convict you.”

Horton declared solemnly that he never would attempt
to injure him; and so far he has kept his word, for they
are alive yet.

So soon as we entered our lodgings I desired Jinkins
and Sambo to get every thing ready for our journey to
Philadelphia—that we would set out by day-light next
morning.

“That's good news,” replied the old man, “I hope it
aint so nation cold there as 'tis here. How did thee
make it wi' Hunter, my son?”

“Very well sir—settled every thing to my satisfaction;
but I'll relate the particulars to you when I return
—it's growing late, and I have a little business to do in
the city, and then I shall devote the balance of the evening
to you;” and stepping into the street I left Horton
to disclose his good news at leisure.

I wished to purchase some jewels, to adorn the bride
and brides-maid likewise—settle with the Doctor and
Sarah, and bid my Irish friends adieu.

“In going to the Doctor's shop I passed a Jeweller's.
While I was looking over and selecting such articles as
I thought suitable, a little girl came into the shop, and
handed the man a paper with something rolled up in it,
and desired him to give her the worth of it in money.—
He opened the paper and took out a gold necklace. It
came into my head to purchase it as a present for Mrs.
Cary. I took the necklace out of his hand, and asked
him how much he thought it was worth. Looking at it
attentively I beheld my mother's name!

“Who gave you this?” said I to the child.

“A sick lady, sir, that lives close by my mama's.”

“Come and show her to me, litle girl, I will purchase
it.”

She ran before me to the house of the sick woman. Upon
entering the same, I discovered a woman stretched on
a wretched bed, pale and shivering with cold, and not a
spark of fire in the room.

I asked her if she had any wood. She said no. I pulled
off my cloak which was lined with flannel, and spread
it over her, stepped to the next door, and giving the man
of the house some change, begged him for God's sake to
get the sick woman some wood, as quick as possible,
while I went for a Doctor.

“Take some of your own wood, and make her a fire,
quick my dear sir, for she appears to be dying.” I then
ran for Doctor N—, desired him to go with all speed,
telling him where, and that I would meet him there in a
few minutes.

I next ran to the Irishman's, gave Sarah some change
and begged her “to get some wine with all haste, a woman
is dying at No. 3, Dutch-street—be quick my dear
girl, and follow after me.”

She overtook me long before I got there, and was at
the place first.

When I returned I found a good fire —She had drank
some of the wine, but the Doctor said she must have no
more, that it was not good for her complaint.

“Get her some coffee, Sarah, or tea, something my
girl quick as possible.”

“I will,” said Sarah.

“And some toast too.”

The Doctor said he would go and bring her some medicine
in the meantime.

I told him I would walk with him, that as this was the
last evening I should spend in the city, I could not do
without his company. Asking the sick woman if “she
felt any better?” she said something, but I could not understand
her. I put on my cloak and we set out. It
was now dark, and all the business I had started upon
to do yet.

As we proceeded, I asked the Doctor “if the patient
was in danger?”

He replied “No, if she was well nursed.”

“What is the matter?”

“She has the —, and she tells me she has had an
abortion lately, and with all, she is very low-spirited;
she seems as though she would rather die than live.”

Wishing to have the business over as quick as possible,
I asked the Doctor “to step into the first shop and
get the medicine, as my uncle would be looking for us to
come to supper.”

He went in, got what he wanted, and we returned.—
On our way back, I informed him how I happened to
to find her, and that “I suspected it was a young woman
of good family in Boston, and that if it was the same,
she had been seduced by a man whose name was Hunter,
under promise of marriage, and left perhaps in this
situation;”—observing I would show him a letter to that
amount. We entered her abode once more—she was
drinking her tea, and seemed greatly revived.

While the Doctor was preparing his medicine, writing
directions, &c I paid Sarah her wages for attending the
sick children (whom she said were well) and gave her
something to buy a her a dress, agreeably to promise. I
also paid her a month's wages in advance to attend on
the sick woman, telling her the Doctor would write to
me, and I should know if she failed in her duty; “but I
don't think you will, Sarah.”

“No sir, indeed I will not, you have been too good to
me ever to do any thing to displease you; and I know
that if I was to be a brute and neglect the sick woman,
you would be very angry, and good right you would
have.”

I then gave the sick woman what I thought was the
value of the necklace, and the Doctor having completed
his visit, we took leave. I shook hands with the invalid
and with Sarah, giving her another injunction to take
care of her charge.

As we returned, I called at the jeweller's, took those I
had selected, paid him, and proceeded to my uncle's. On
our way, I requested the Doctor when the patient got
well, if ever she did, to tell her that I was Mary Burlington's
brother, and that I knew the necklace to be one that
once belonged to my mother, and I did not wish it to go
out of my family; and if she chose to return to Boston
and would let me know, I would aid her in the undertaking.

I requested him “to excuse me to the McCallesters,
that I fully intended to call on and take leave of them,
but it so happened that I could not.” In short, I begged
of him to write to me in the course of a week, and inform
me how he succeeded in his efforts to restore the
young woman's health; and if he could at any time beguile
her of her story, I should be happy to hear it.

When we arrived at the Hotel, my uncle said: “What
happened too thee, my son, that thee 'staid so long?
why supper 's been waiting.”

“I beg pardon, uncle, I—”

“O, now none o' thy pardons, thee knows 'was thy
safety; but I see as thee's got the Doctor, suppose ye'd
helped one another if had been any combat. Take some
wine and let's go to supper, thae ha' been for us 'dont
know how often.”

The Doctor and I took a double glass apiece.

I asked my uncle if “he thought he could stand the
cold to-morrow?”

“I don't know—can't be worsted, Jinkins ha' got me
a stove to put my feet upon.”

I told him “if I could once get him to Philadelphia,
he would do well—that there were so many ladies there,
that would take pleasure in waiting upon him, and amusing
him; and there is your old acquaintance, Slyboots,
and here's myself, and Jinkins, and Sambo and

Ling[1] —why there will be a large family of us. Uncle
you'll have to be the chief or headman, as you are the
oldest; they made me the man of the house during the
short time I was there. You have been used to command,
and I think it will look more in character.”

He laughed heartily, and said “Ling would make
a much better commander o' a house than he would,
wouldn't know stem from stern o' it. Well Doctor, wish
'could go too.”

“I wish I could sir, I should be happy to do so, but
your son has found another patient that will require all
my attention for some time.”

“Another patient—who may he be?” said my uncle.

“It is a woman, sir. If she recovers, he may truly
say he has saved her life—'been one hour later 'twould
been all over with her in this world.”

I informed him whom I thought it was, and that I had
recovered the necklace mentioned in Mary's letter. It
may be presumed this part of my conduct met with the
warmest approbation from the old gentleman, though he
did not express himself after the modern fashion.

The Doctor spent the night with us, as we wished to
enjoy each other's company as long as possible; he and
I slept in the same chamber, and conversed till after one
o'clock. I was much pleased with the Doctor—he displayed
an intimate knowledge of the world, a highly
improved mind, and refinement of manners.

In the morning we bid him and New-York adieu—going
part of the way by water (which is the usual way)
and part by land, taking Horton with us to his exceeding
joy. We arrived safe in Philadelphia on the second
day, which was the twentieth December, at ten o'clock in
the morning.