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| 22. | CHAPTER XXII. |
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 | CHAPTER XXII. The Tennessean |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
Proceeding to Mrs. Cary's, we drove up close under
her parlour window—Mary was at the door in an instant.
While Jinkins and I were helping my uncle out
of the carriage. Wilson followed by Martha and Mrs.
Cary, likewise appeared. Wilson met him as he touched
the pavement, and after saluting Jinkins, Horton and
Sambo, helped him in the house. He was so benumbed
with cold, that he could scarcely walk—Mary had him
round the neck the moment he was at the threshold of
the door, and after `my dear uncle,' and `my dear niece,'
she led him, assisted by Martha, to the fire, where Mrs.
Cary was placing a chair to the best advantage, by
which to command its gladdening warmth.
The fire was ample and glowing, and by it sat a pitcher
of hot toddy, from which Mrs. Cary filled a glass and
presented to my uncle the moment he was seated.
“Indeed,” said the old man, “this is kind,” after
drinking himself—“thee must drink some too, madam,
and Mary here, and 'tother young woman 't helped me
in the house, tell 'um to come and drink for better acquaintance.”
Martha drew near and giving her hand, asked him
how he did? and said that “she was happy to be acquainted
with him.”
“Miss Cary, uncle.”
“How do'st thee do, child? I'm glad to see thee—
glad to see thee all.”
Mrs. Cary now approached, giving her hand.
“Mrs. Cary, uncle,” said Mary again.
Finding Miss Watson stood back, I led her up to him
(for he was not permitted to rise)—“and here,” said I,
“is another friend of yours—Miss Watson, sir.”
Miss Watson had become a little affected since I saw
her—no wonder that. I next introduced Jinkins separately
and severally to the ladies, taking care to give
Miss Watson, giving her a significant glance over his
shoulder, at the same time.
In this general and joyful meeting, I by no means
overlooked the faithful Sambo, who had very sociably
drawn up to the fire, amongst us.
“Sambo,” said I, “stand forth and pay your respects
to the ladies.”
He stepped out into the floor, and bowed profoundly
to each of them as I pronounced their names.
“Now Sambo,” said I, “we will help ourselves to
some toddy, as the ladies are so taken with your master,
that they have overlooked you and I.” (Wilson had
just helped Jinkins.)
A general pardon was asked for the omission on the
one part, and granted on the other. Indeed, they had
not had time, but this was no reason why I should not
have my jest. I helped him first.
“And now,” said I, “go to the kitchen and set by
the fire—when your master wants you we will let you
know.”
Horton had very prudently betaken himself to the
public portion of the house as soon as he got out of the
stage.
In the meantime the table was set for breakfast in the
parlour, and not very far from the place where my uncle
was seated. While Mrs. Cary, Miss Watson and the
new maid, (as I presumed) were issuing out and in,
bearing in dishes, coffee pots, tea urns, &c. Martha and
Mary had seated themselves by the old gentleman, holding
his hands between theirs, at once to expel the cold,
and communicate heat, from their own. Seating myself
for the first time, on the other side of Martha, I observed
to my uncle, that “he was quite extravagant. I
think you had better have two more ladies, one to pull
off one gambado, and another to pull off the other, and
a fifth one to pull off your great-coat, cloak, &c.”
“O go to the deuce. Thee art a vile rogue, thee's
only jealous 'cause this young lady's warmin' my hands.
I see how the land lies.”
Scarcely had the hint been given, when they untied his
After a few minutes delay, and another dram round
(Christmas times) we sat down to a hot savoury breakfast.
To account for the prompt and very seasonable accommodation
which met us upon our arrival, it is necessary
to explain, that I had forwarded a note to Wilson,
by the driver of the mail stage, that we would be with
him to breakfast, and to have us a good fire, and plenty
to eat and drink. The family upon receiving this intelligence,
declined breakfasting until we came, and we
all sat down together. This, if it was not the feast of
reason, was truly the feast of ineffable delight!
When our spirits became exhilerated by hot drams,
hot coffee, &c. (I speak only for myself) I turned my
head round to the servant girl, who was standing but a
very short distance from the back of my chair, and thus
addressed her:
“Sweetheart, have you heard anything of a wedding
that is to take place shortly, somewhere about here?”
She seemed a little isconcerted, looking first at Mary,
and then at Mrs. Cary, as if to adapt her answer to what
she might discover in their looks; whilst I was leaning
with my arm over the back of my chair, waiting for a
reply. At length she answered “she had not.”
“Thee have not?” said my uncle—“then Charles has
dragged me here for nothing. Its very odd that I should
hear it at New-York, and know nothing 'bout 'here.—
Well, markee Charles, thee don't fool old Tom so again.”
Mary's face turned as red as scarlet, Martha with her
wonted sweet pensiveness, sat perfectly unconcerned—
Mrs. Cary seemed to double her assiduity in plying my
uncle with the good things on the board, while Betsey
Watson primed up and cast a glance at Jinkins; Wilson
I thought seemed to be hurt, and evinced some anxiety
for the sensibility of his bride, which had mounted to her
eye, and seemed ready to violate every rule of politeness
by falling on her plate. I found this would not do.
“You shall not be disappointed, sir—I'll get married
myself first, that is if I can get any body to have me.”
Seeming not to notice the disturbance I had excited in
would have me?” This set them all to laughing, and
arrested the falling tear. The rest passed in mutual enquiries
after each other's health, and how we had severally
enjoyed ourselves, while Jinkins amused the company
at intervals, with sundry ludicrous stories, which
he invented on my uncle and me.
While we were thus agreeably engaged, Ling taking
the advantage of our absence from the fire, had stretched
himself at full length in front of it, and testified his total
exemption from worldly cares in a profound slumber.
Breakfast being ended, poor Ling is now interupted.
“He must have his breakfast too,” said Mrs. Cary,
I dare say he would much rather have slept.
Sambo is not forgot, his breakfast is selected from the
best of every thing and sent to him by the servant.—The
table is removed to make room for us to share alike in
the benefit of the fire, before which we seated ourselves
promiscuously.
Taking out my pocket-book, and opening it with great
deliberation, which drew the attention of every one present,
I produced from thence the jewels. There were three
sets, one a piece for the ladies, and a plain ring for Miss
Watson.
I waited on Mrs. Cary and laid them in her lap, telling
her to take her choice, and devide the ballance between
Martha and Mary, adding “that perhaps they
might need them ere long.”
“Oh how beautiful! how briliant! how rich! prodigious!
inimitable!” and all that.
After the astonishment subsided, I drew the gold necklace
out, and holding it up by one end, asked Mary “if
she knew it?”
“Do I know it, let me see? It's my necklace!—Oh
brother how did you get it? I am delighted you have
been to Boston.”
“I will tell you some other time Mary, it is sufficient
for the present that you have got it.”
“Oh brother you are too good!”
“Better than you deserve Mary, for acting so foolish
at breakfast,” said I, in a low voice.
“Dear Charles, forgive me,” said she, and leading
me to her chamber, she caught me round the neck and
kissing my cheek, fervently, the tears streaming down
her's.—Dearest brother forgive me, take the necklace,
take every thing, I shall never he happy till you forgive
me, said she, while she held me clasped in her arms,
with her head reclined on my bosom.
I pressed her to my heart, and kissing off the tears,
told her “to be a good girl. I forgave her.”
“Indeed brother I strove all I could against it, but
I was so glad to see my uncle, and to see you return safe,
that indeed I don't think I was rightly in my senses, and
besides Charles, I was ashamed before Jinkins, you don't
know how it hurts a girls feelings to be teazed at such a
time. I should not have car'ed a straw had it not been
for Jinkins.”
In the mean time we had sat down on the side of the
bed, all the chairs being occupied, I asked her “if she
was ready?”
She hung her head, and answered she was.
“Mary,” said I, kissing her again, “I am afraid you
will behave bad again to-night.”
“Indeed I expect as much myself brother.”
“You hurt Wilson's feelings to-day.”
“I don't care for him, he had no right to be hurt.”
“You don't care for him? that's a fine story, I shall
tell upon you.”
“Dont's care for that either, all that I regret is displeasing
you.”
“Dear Mary I am not displeased with you, I did
speak a little inconsiderate, but my object was to cheer
my uncle into spirits. The good old man is subject to
fits of melanchoy and distress, on account of his misfortunes:—He
still laments the loss of his wife and child,
and often weeps bitterly; we must therefore do every
thing in our power to drive away those sorrowful reflections,
duty and gratitude enjoin this upon us both; he is
remarkably fond of lively conversations mirth and jollity,
and is one of the best men in the world.”
Wilson now entered with permission. I told him, “I
had to pet the baby a little, and I suspected he was come
spoiled her.” What do you think she says? (Mary
clapped her hand on my mouth, she says she don't care
for you.” You did'nt speak truth then, did you my
—. I slapped her and bid her go to her uncle and
chat with him, I wished to have some conversation
with Wilson. When she left us, I asked him “if he
was ready?”
“Yes,” he said he had been ready these five years.
“Then I presume we may prepare as quick as possible;”
said I, “has the wine, &c. arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Well, and where is it, in the cellar hard by, the
china?”
“Mrs. Cary has taken care of that.”
“The sweet meats!” “What the girls have left of
them are in the closet.”—They must all be forthcoming
at supper, or the old hero will not be pleased.” I directed
Wilson to take somebody and have the wine and
spirits tapped, whilst I waited on the landlord to order
supper, and then we would go and get the license, so
that we might have time to dress, &c.
Wilson therefore walked with me to the landlord's
apartment; as we passed through the parlour, I was
much gratified to see Mary sitting on her uncle's knee,
with her arms round the dear old man's neck, “Ah said
I, uncle you had better whip her, and make her go to
work.”
“Oh, s'can work some other time child.”
I asked him “if he had any objection to my bringing
Horton in to see the ladies?—that it seemed like treating
him with rather too much contempt to exclude him entirely
from our company.”
“O yes, to besure bring him in, what dos't ask me
for, can't 'ee bring who thee's mind to?”
It had always been my opinion, that mildness and clemency
are better calculated to reform mankind, than cruelty
and harshness. In the present instance it, may be
thought by some, that I stretched my maxim rather too
far, but I do not think so; if I can by any means effect
a reformation in my fellow creatures, those means which
in the first place, and in labouring to this end, we ought
never to forget that the offender is our brother. Every
symptom of a thorough reformation was signally displayed
in Horton's appearance.—The keen remorse, and the
deep sorrow for his crimes, and his conduct to his wife
and children, were indubitably marks of true repentance.
Should I abandon him now, all would be lost! No, my
object was to attatch him to me by kind treatment, and
by every possible means cherish a work so happaly begun.
I therefore after giving the necessary directions
to the landlord, asked Horton to walk into our room
and see my sister, and accordingly he followed me to
the parlour.
Scarcely had I introduced him to the ladies, when a
tap was heard at the front door, it was opened by the
girl, and a female entered whom I recognized to be the
poor widow whom I had seen at Mrs. Cary's, on the
evening of my first arrival in Philadelphia.
She seemed somewhat disconcerted upon finding strangers
in the house, and obeyed the hospitable invitation
of Mrs. Cary, to approach with a slow timid step.
We arose from our seats until she was accomodated, but
before she reached her chair, Horton sprung to her, and
caught her in his arms, exclaiming “my dear Susan
have I found you!”
She shrieked “Oh heavens!” and appeared for some
time bereft of her senses.
Horton bore her to a chair, while he supported her in
his arms, almost every one in the room were contributing
to her restoration.
The first words she uttered were, “Never did I expect
to see you more Horton, I received a letter that you
were dead.”
“My dear Susan that was more of my wickedness,
do you forgive me? say you forgive me,” said he sobing
lamentably. “Where are my children Susan?”
“At home,” said she weeping likewise.
“Let us go to them Susan,” rising from his chair, “I
am not completely happy until I see my dear little babies.”
In the mean time, every one in the house was deeply
affected, amongst whom, and not the least so was my
uncle. His heart was so tender that the smallest thing
touched his feelings.
The tears which had wet his cheek, being hastily
wiped, “never seed the like on't if 'bee'nt as glad, thee'll
behave thyself now, I warrant 'would'nt left such a woman
for all the wenches in christendom, how dost do
madam?” (shaking hands with her as I introduced her)
“thou'rt a thousand times too good for 'um.”
“You are right sir, she is indeed, ten thousand times
too good for me.”
“Great mind thee shant have her at all.”
When Horton proposed to his wife to accompany him
to her dwelling, the old man made out to rise from his
chair, advanced up to them and said, “Go Horton and
see thy children, and when's done hugin' and bussin', and
like o' that thee must bring 'um here, 'want to see 'um;
must all come, thee wife must come, 'is goin to be the
greatest merry makin' here to night—dos't hear bring
'um all.”
“Oh sir,” said Susan we an't fit to come, excuse us
if you please sir, I am greatly obliged to you, but we
would only disgrace you.”
“Never stir if thee shan't come, and thee shall be
spliced over again—thee's fit enough.”
I told Horton that since it was my uncle's desire, I
would be glad if he would bring his family. While we
were speaking, Mrs. Horton and the ladies retired to
one of the chambers, it seemed that she had brought home
some work which she had been employed to do for them,
and which she had let fall on the floor at sight of her
husband.
Whether the object of this cabinet counsel was to
settle the affair of the work, or to make arrangements
for equipping Mrs. Horton to make her appearance on
the approaching evening, my sagacity did not enable me
to discover.
When the ladies returned to their seats, and Horton
and his wife had departed to their dwelling, I snatched
an opportunity of shewing Martha the letter I had received
whom Jinkins was entertaining in his usual style,
I took the letters from my pocket without being observed,
and sitting down by her, addressed her in terms preparatory
for the disclosure I was to make. When I
opened the letter which concerned Dupon, I threw my
arm over her chair, holding it before her.
My uncle exclaimed, “I told thee how the wind lay—
should'nt be surprised to see two weddins instead of one.
No objections child, if thee and the girl can agree see',
may have it all over at once, have it to night if thee's
mind to.”
This blunt and unequivocal address, came very seasonably
to Martha's relief, whose bosom began to beat
high at the sight of Dupon's name, and set us both to
laughing.
“I was just making the proposition to her sir.”
“And what do'st say?”
“She says we had better postpone it to another time.”
“Oh nonsense! just have it over at once, and be done
we'it, and we'll crown it in a flowing bowl,” quoth my
uncle. “I'll try sir and remove her scruples.” He speaking
at the same time with myself apprized Martha that
sh' better take 'um while's in the humour, don't meet
such offers every day,” giving a significant nod of the
head as he closed the sentence.
Jinkins being a man of discernment and feeling, poured
in upon him a double portion of raillery.
“Can't you let the young folks take their time?—by
the wars I think you had better be courting yourself,
or seeing to get your pumps, you know you are to
dance the first reel to night.”
“D'ye hear to him!”
“We'll send 'um all to old Davy, you know what I
mean, Captain.”
“Ho Jinkins—I thought 'twas to clear the deck for
action.”
“Well let the world say what they will Dick, none
o'um can't beat thee for lying, and for story tellin' when
they's mind to. If the woman-folks mind thee, meaning
the ladies present) thee'll have better to mind.”
I observed to Martha, that as soon as matters were
settled a little, I would go to Liverpool myself, that I
wished to see England, and begged of her to shake off
that melancholy look, and grace the evening with her
smiles, that I could not be happy while I beheld her a prey
to grief—“Be happy dear girl, you will know the worst
in six months, till then cease to afflict yourself.”
Our attention was now attracted by my uncle and his
niece.
He told her “not to be tellin' stories like Dick, there.”
“What's happened between you and Mary, uncle?”
“Why I told her she ought to be a puttin' on her garments,
d'ye see, and like o' that, and 'says there's no
weddin' to be here, and if there was she'd get married in
thae she's got on.”
“She has time enough to dress, this four hours—it's
just twelve—six o'clock is the hour: they certainly can
dress in an hour—can't you Martha?” said I, “for I
suspect you are to be brides-maid, are you not?”
She smiled and answered in the affirmative. I repeated
to her what Wilson told me after breakfast, about
his being ready this five years.
“I suspect you have been ready to wait on Mary, or
she on you, since you have been acquainted.”
Wilson now made his appearance. I asked him “if
he had engaged any other liquors?”
He replied, “he had engaged Claret and Champaigne,
a couple dozen of each, and if that was not enough, we
ought never to drink any more.”
I called him aside and enquired if he had formed any
acquaintance in the city, it would be well enough to invite
a few, it would help to keep up his spirits, and some
ladies also, and let us have a little dance to pass off the
time. He was acquainted with no lady in the place, except
the landlord's wife and daughters.
“As good luck as any,” said I, “I will invite them,
and you can write a note of invitation to one or two gentlemen,
if you know any, and we will send it by the
landlord'
This being assented to, he desired the maid to furnish
him with pen, ink, and paper; and setting down by the
handed them to me.
Once more I must leave the fire and good company.—
My business was soon done—the landlord set off with
the invitations, directed to C— G— and M—
Esqrs.
The ladies promised to attend, and leaving a verbal
invitation for the landlord, I returned. Wilson smiled,
telling me I “had once more to face the cold,” whispering
in my ear, “the license,”—and accompanied by
Jinkins, we took hats and set out.
As we walked to the Clerk's office, it was mutually
agreed upon that Jinkins should act as brides-man.—
Thus having made the final arrangement, we determined
to sit by the fire and enjoy ourselves until it was time
to dress.
Sambo came in to see his master, and replenished the
fire. I gave him a dram, and invented a story about him
and the old West India lady, for the amusement of the
company.
“Humph,” said Sambo, “you always funnin': which
ob de young ladies goin' 'get married to-night? which,
massa kinfolks?—so many—(looking over them all)—
lady—'can't tell one from turra!”
This was a solecism to the matter in hand, which was
to keep clear of the wedding by all means.
“That is her,” said Jinkins, pointing to Martha.
“Well, I 'comin' to play da bride—I larn him in Lonnon.”
“Well, Sambo, we'll let you know,” said I. Having
got rid of Sambo we renewed the conversation, which
turned upon subjects most likely to promote good humour,
every countenance was animated, and pleasure
beamed in every eye—nor did we forget to acquaint
Wilson with the happy meeting of Horton and his wife.
Thus we as one happy family passed away the time
until four o'clock! when something was said about shaving.
“I have been shaved once or twice to-day,” (meaning
the cold) said Jinkins, “I think that's often enough.”
A fire was ordered in the dining-room for us young
joining us, by the ladies—“He must not leave the warm
room—Sambo must come in and perform his toilet,”
when the ladies retired for the same purpose.
All matters being adjusted, while preparations were
going forward for our accommodation, I took out my
pocket book for the purpose of looking out a piece of
waste paper for my razor, when a bold knocking was
heard at the door. It was opened by the maid, and a
gentleman of genteel appearance entered the parlour.—
He bowed, and was proceeding towards us, when a violent
scream issued from all the ladies at once, while
they flew to meet him.
It was Dupon! Dupon, who rescued assaulted virtue!
the man who bore my expiring sister to a place of safety!
the man who had in the most delicate manner contributed
to her pecuniary aid! Dupon, the orphan's shield,
the widow's friend!
Such was the man who now entered the room—his
genteel manner, his dignified appearance, but above all,
his magnanimous soul captivated every power of my
mind. His conduct to my sister commanded at once my
gratitude, admiration and esteem—new feelings and new
duties seized upon my heart, as I fondly embraced him.
To pass over the particulars of this scene in silence
would be unpardonable: but to do it justice, will not be
expected from me. The total absence of ornament, and
still less of talent, throughout the narrative, is conclusive
evidence that the task is far above my abilities. If
the candour of this declaration be questioned by some,
it will stand acquitted by others, particularly when they
come to learn, what they will very shortly, that this same
Dupon, was no other than the long-lost, long-lamented
son of my uncle! Leaving it therefore for the reader to
imagine what cannot be expressed, I take up the narrative.
When I saw him enter the room, I concluded he was
one of the young men whom Wilson had invited, and
that he had either mistaken the hour, or that something
had turned up, to prevent his attendance, and that he
was come to make his excuse. While all this was passing
the women. We were sitting (as may be supposed from
our number,) as close to each other, as one chair could
be wedged by the side of another, the ladies springing to
their feet as they shrieked, just as though they were going
to take a fit, attempted to make good their purpose
in vain, until Jinkins and Wilson arose to make room.
I intended to do the same, but Mary waited not—she put
her hand upon my shoulder, as I was in the act of rising
and sprung by me, pulling me down again, and dashed
my pocket-book with its contents in the middle of the
floor. Mrs. Cary came in contact with me next, after
treading on my uncle's gouty toc, which made the old
man roar, and bolting upright to his feet, he again trampled
on the foot of poor Ling, and set him a yelling. In
the meantime the name of Dupon was repeated, I don't
know how often, which explained the whole matter. I
thought the ladies would have torn him to pieces, and I
believe he thought so too. Martha, however, (I think)
obtained the first kiss—Mrs. Cary was transported out
of herself—Mary (I was ashamed of her) acted like one
who had lost her reason, while the sedate Martha acted
as she always did—in her I saw very little difference,
in her actions I saw none, but her countenance was more
animated. After the tumult had a little subsided, Dupon
was presented to us by Mary, who introduced my uncle
first.
“Ah,” said the old man, who had continued standing
(and whose eye began to run over at the name of Dupon,)
“Tip us thy hand, comrade—glad to see thee, glad to
see thee—no wonder the wenches made such a squalling.”
I don't know how much more he would have said, but
he was interrupted by the approach of Wilson, whom
Mary introduced with much awkwardness—next Jinkins,
and last of all myself. Her gratification on this
happy event, may easily be imagined.
After mutual expressions of joy and congratulation
were exchanged, Dupon was permitted to be seated. He
then briefly stated, “that he hoped to have met with me
at New-York—that he arrived at Boston about an hour
after Mr. S— dispatched the answer to my letters,
before I left there. When he came to New-York, we
had left it about an hour only; he therefore obtained my
address at the Hotel, and set out without delay, expecting
to overtake us.”
“Why don't give him something to drink? thee lubbers
don't think wants it comin' out o' the cold?” said
my uncle.
This command was instantly obeyed by Sambo, who
had just appeared for the purpose of dressing his master.
“Well tell thee what, comrade, thee's come in good
time, main glad on't, d'ye see, the girl (speaking low)
that thee defended so gallantly is goin' to be spliced to-night,
and oh, I warrant she's glad on it too, but sort o'
bashful, d'ye mind. Well, well, (resuming his common
tone) never thought to see thee lad. Charles was readin'
o' telling and like o' that: but any how, thee's just
the lad after my own heart—Yes, that was my own
brother's daughter. Poor Charles! he's dead and gone,
but she'll never want a father.”
Dupon interrupted by saying—
“If I am not greatly mistaken, sir, I have a much
higher claim upon your affection, than that of which you
speak. Your name is Burlington you say, sir?”
“Yes—Thomas Burlington is my name.”
“Had you not a son that with his mother narrowly
escaped from St. Domingo?”
“Yes.”
Dupon while this short address passed, took out his
pocket-book, opened it, and drew from thence a miniature
of my uncle, a pearl necklace, a set of diamond earrings
and sundry other trinkets.
“Yes,” said he, in great perturbation, looking now at
the picture, and now at his father—“it must be,” handing
them to the old man—“You know these?”
“My—Eliza's!—where is she?—”
“Dear father—I am all that remains of your Eliza!”
embracing him. It was some time before he could add,
“She is no more!”
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. I was
alarmed—I flew to my uncle—he had fainted! we tore
Sambo ran to and fro in distraction. I was forced to
get angry before I could get a smelling-bottle, or other
restorative. Jinkins always cool and collected, soon
produced hartshorn, and assisted in chafing the old
man's hands and temples—Dupon (or Burlington as he
is henceforth to be called,) broke from Wilson and hung
over his father, whilst the tears ran down his manly
cheeks. I intreated him to retire and compose himself:
that his father's nerves were weak, and his feelings so
easily excited, it would be dangerous to permit him to
indulge them just now.
When the old man recovered, the first word he uttered
was, “Where did my Eliza—?”
“Oh uncle, say no more about it to night, you have
found your son whom you never expected to see, and
that's enough. You act childish—how do I, that lost father,
mother, and every thing else?—how does hundreds,
thousands others, that lose wives, and husbands? Come
let us all be merry to-night—I'm sure you ought to be
so upon the recovery of your son, and such a son.”
“Leave him to me,” said Jinkins: “if I hear any
more snivelling and piping, I'll out with the Algerine.”
This set my uncle to laughing, and the party resumed
their cheerfulness.
In the meantime Thomas Burlington had seated himself
by Martha. Sitting down by my uncle, I in a low
voice, let him into the secret of his son's attachment to
her, telling him he might see how the land lay now, with
a view to divert his mind from recurring to the old subject.
I informed him that his son had been long engaged
to Martha, and if he had no objection and they were
willing, it would be well enough to let them get married
to-night, and let one frolic suffice for both.
“Ah!” said the old man aloud, “sets the wind that
way? od zucks, and so we will—shall be all spliced together
to-night. What do'st say to that, my son? do'st
hear? I understand as that's thy sweet-heart, shall marry
her to-night.”
Getting up from his seat and going to where they
do's say she'll be spliced to-night?”
“She has not said yet, sir.”
“O, silence gives consent—she's willing enough, 'can
see by the lee o' her eye—shiver my limbs, if 'knows
how to woo; lay thy arms round her neck and give her
a bass, an't had one so long too,” laying his son's willing
arm round Martha's neck—“that's the way, now
squeeze her up close.”
For Martha's sake I proposed that we should all go
and dress, “otherwise the parson would be here before
we were ready.”
Addressing my new cousin, I invited him to accompany
us, and participate in the requisite preparation,
particularly as he was one of the brides-grooms; he smiled
and arose rather reluctantly I thought, and took the
precedence in walking to the dining-room, where, as already
mentioned it was agreed we should dress. I dropped
behind a moment to request Mary to let Martha
know I was seriously disposed to urge the union of her
and my cousin that evening, and should name it to young
Burlington, whom I had no doubt would readily acquiesce—that
I had already obtained my uncle's consent,
and finally I should expect Martha to comply, and without
waiting for Mary's answer, I proceeded to join my
friends.
Whilst we were employed in dressing, &c. I ordered
a cold check for Thomas, as dinner was out of the question;
and begged of him to avoid by every means, any
further conversation with his father on the subject of his
mother's fate, until the old gentleman should gain sufficient
strength of mind to hear it, and recommended the
propriety of imparting the subject to him by degrees.
He thanked me in the warmest terms, and began to
express his obligations.
“Say nothing about obligations, dear Thomas,” said
I, “it more properly belongs to me to make acknowledgments
of that nature; but we must waive every thing
of the sort for the present, and as time presses, you will
excuse me dear Tom, for the liberty I have taken; if I
have acted right, you will place it to the credit of the
to forgive me.”
“No ceremony,” said he—“let me know what you
wish.”
“There are none here but our friends. Jinkins I
may say is your brother, and Wilson is soon to be mine;
briefly, I have learned that you and a certain young lady
whom I need not name, have been long attached to each
other; your father knows it and approves of the match:
in short, he wishes you to consummate the nuptials this
evening.”
“Heavens! are you serious?”
“I am.”
“My generous friend! my noble father!” was all the
reply he was able to make.
“If you therefore consent, you have no more to do
but get ready as quick as possible, your father being
anxious it should take place, when Mary and Wilson
have the knot tied, you will have but three-quarters of an
hour to prepare; six o'clock is the hour, so you had better
change your clothes and walk with me to obtain
your license. Wilson had got his as you arrived,
and in the meantime, if you resolve to do so, you had
perhaps (though you will act as you please) better consult
Martha.”
Jinkins observed laughing, “it would be a good joke
enough to carry the thing so far, and the bride not be
willing.”
Burlington smiled at the remark, which seemed (at
least I took it so) to indicate little doubt.
When we were dressed, Burlington and I took our
hats and proceeded.
On gaining the parlour we found not a single lady:
they had retired to dress. I told my cousin I could settle
it for him, and going to their chamber door, told them
I wished to speak with Mary.
She replied “I am dressing.”
“Can't you come to the door?” said I, “I want to
have a peep at that trimming.”
“The plague take you, for you torment me to the last
moment,” said Mary. She drew near the door, which
and asked what I wanted.
I replied, loud enough for Martha to hear, “that I
wished to know, or at least my cousin did, whether Martha
would consent to consummate their marriage that
evening; and was now waiting for an answer, that he
might get ready.”
“Yes brother, tell him she is willing—She pretends
she is not willing to be married so soon, but it is all pretence
with her, I know—she would not miss it for the
world.”
“Shame on you Mary,” said Martha.
“Shame on you to be so silly, when you have been
dying for him these two years:—So tell him to get ready,
I'll be security for Martha.”
In the meantime Thomas had taken the opportunity
of obtaining his father's consent, as he had stated to me
on our way to get the license.
During our walk, I intimated that I promised myself
infinite pleasure in his society, and much gratification
in learning the particulars of his ilfe, which seemed to
involve a great deal of mystery, particularly that of his
name; but the present opportunity was quite too short,
besides, “my spirits as well as your own, are not sufficiently
composed.”
He briefly observed that his mother died in a few days
after the massacre of St. Domingo of the fright, that she
never recovered her senses sufficiently to tell her name,
or to converse rationally upon any subject—the second
day after the ship left St. Domingo a Mr. Dupon, (who
had likewise escaped from the Island, after having his
wife and children massacred before his eyes by the negroes)
went down, perhaps, for the purpose of seeing
who my mother was, and found her in a swoon, lying on
the floor, while I (then about a year old) was sitting by
her crying.
“He, thinking she was entirely dead, picked me up to
convey me out of the way until she was shrouded, but
sending one for that purpose, she had come to: but
cotinued to rave until the next day, when she died; that
Dupon had reared him, gave him his own name, and
now dead; but during his illness, which preceded his
death, he disclosed to him for the first time, that he was
not his father, and gave him the jewels that I had seen,
which was the clue to the discovery of my real father,
but which would not of themselves, perhaps, ever have
led to the discovery, had it not been for other co-incidents.”
We now arrived at Mrs. Cary's, where we found
Horton and his two oldest little girls; one of them (our
old acquaintance) was sitting on Wilson's knee, dressed
in style. The other one was sitting on the knee of her
father. Upon enquiry I found Mrs. Horton was in the
chamber with the ladies. It was now within half an hour
of the trying time: taking out my watch, I showed it to
Wilson and my cousin, telling them their time was short,
and asked them “if their hearts did not go pitty patty?”
“No,” was the answer.
“Faith! I would not like to be so near mooring for
life,” said Jinkins.
Wishing to fill up the time with some amusement, I
asked Jinkins to favour us with the “Down Hill of
Life.” He had got through but one verse when our
guests arrived, and soon after them, the Parson.
At length the long-looked for and much-desired six
o'clock came. It had been intended. I suspect, that
Martha should attend my sister, as Walter Scott would
say, “on this memorable occasion;” but what is to be
done now? Martha is a bride herself, forsooth! then
Betsey Watson or the landlord's daughter must officiate.
I did not care how they managed it.
Making a sign to Jinkins we hunted up the brides.—
I led Martha and Jinkins led up my sister. They were
soon united by the Parson, he being very agreeably suprised
at receiving two fees instead of one. It is a question
with me whether he ever made as much in so short a
time.—And so endeth the twenty-second Chapter.
| CHAPTER XXII. The Tennessean | |