University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Here again I expect to be blamed for omiting “the
timid step, the down-cast look, the scarlet blush, the
snowy dress, &c. &c., how Mrs. Cary was dressed and
what Miss Watson had on; and how they behaved and
how they looked; also the superb supper, the merry
dance, the comic tale, the cheerful song, and a great many
&c's.”

But these particulars I have thought proper to leave
to the imagination. It would require very little thought
or reflection to swell them into a mighty long story; but
for this I have not time—suffice it to say, that every
thing was conducted with great decorum, and to the infinite
satisfaction of all parties; at least I have never
heard any thing to the contrary.

Jinkins and I, having slept together, were up before
any of the family. By the family I mean all appertaining
to our own party. It was the first opportunity I had
had to enquire “how he liked his sweet heart?”

“He didn't know—he was not in such a haste about
things, he was not so eager to leap under the hatches.”

I told him I thought he was perfectly in the right to
take his time in a matter of that importance, that it was
nothing more than a jest of mine—Though Miss Watson
was really a fine girl, well informed, chaste, industrious,
and possessed of much generosity and good nature; she
had been reared by Mrs. Cary, from a child; and such
was her gratitude to her that she had never forsaken
her when she became reduced to indigence and every
species of distress.

With such conversation as this, I essayed to make an
impression on the open hearted Jinkins—leaving the matter
to rest there for the present, I asked him what he
thought of a match between my uncle and Mrs. Cary?
He laughed heartily at this, saying, “I was all-determined

to go on with the match-making business—why
don't you hunt a match for yourself?”

I replied, “I had been crossed in love, and therefore
intended to live a bachelor the remainder of my days.”
My cousin making his appearance, the conversation between
me and Jinkins concerning match-making, was
dropped.

I was pleased to have an opportunity of settling the
mode of communicating his adventures to his father, and
told him, “it would never do to relate that part of it
which related to his wife's catastrophe, in its fullest extent—it
would serve no purpose except that of exciting
his feelings.”

Upon submitting the matter to Jinkins, who was “a
much better judge than I,” he declared decidedly against
it; “it would go near to taking his life.”

Thomas said “he had intended to soften the thing as
much as possible.” Finally it was concluded between
us three that the subject of his adventures should form
that day's amusement. He was to commence after breakfast,
and no other subject was to interfere until he was
through.

This point being settled, some desultory conversation
filled up the time until breakfast, in which, however, I
was much pleased to find that my new relation possessed
much general knowledge. His conversation, so far as
I was able to judge, proved him to be a man of business
and reflection—easy in his address, and seemed rather
to lack culture than genius; he possessed enough, however,
for the common concerns of life.

In his stature, complexion, and features, he resembled
his father. He wanted little, if any, of being six feet in
height, stout, and well made, his hair a shining brown,
his eyes deep blue, and very expressive, complexion fair,
his face round and full, his cheeks blushing like the rose
—he was in mourning.

When the party assembled for breakfast I gave them
to understand the pleasure that awaited them, and in the
meantime directed a good fire to be furnished in the parlour.

When breakfast was over we adjourned thither, it being

the best adapted to the size of the company. Here was
sometime lost before we could be regulated according to
our mutual wishes. Mrs. Burlington, as we are henceforth
to call Martha, and Mrs. Wilson, expressed as
much as though they would rather sit by my uncle, than
elsewhere.

I gave up to them, and after they were disposed of,
the rest were soon seated. I contrived however to get
Jinkins and Miss Watson together, and it had so much
the appearance of accident that nobody in the world
would have suspected it was design.

Mrs. Cary sat in the corner, as we term it; I took my
seat next to her, and pointed the next seat out to Thomas,
Wilson sat next to him, and Jinkins on the next to
Wilson's left, and next to Mary, between whom and
Martha sat the Commodore.

Whatever of confidence, whatever of approbation,
and those concomitants which give to life its true relish,
might be said to reign in complete fruition throughout
this happy assembly. Myself, perhaps, could form the
only exception, but had I not given in to the general joy,
I had deserved to be miserable forever. After a few minutes
hesitation my cousin began as follows:

“You will not expect me, on this occasion, to relate
those incidents which make so great a part of every one's
childhood and youth: and it may be as well to remark,
in the first place, that until within the last two years, my
life has been wholly exempt from the marvelous.

“The first thing I recollect, was, that I loved no one
but my papa. (as I always called Mr. Dupon,) Betty,
(the house-keeper,) and a lap-dog, called Pug, and that
my papa bought me a little green hat, with which I was
infinitely pleased.

“I remember likewise of making my escape very often
from Betty and running after Mr. Dupon into the
street, when he went out. He would often pick me up
in his arms and take me with him, buying every thing
for me that he thought would please me.

“At length I became old enough to go to school; here
was a bitter task indeed! I rarely submitted without a
cry—nothing could hire me, no reward could reconcile
me to this drudgery.

“I made but little progress in learning, until I became
old enough to see the necessity of improvement. Mr.
Dupon however spared no pains to impress me with the
need of instruction, all his leisure hours were devoted to
this all important end.

“As I was designed for the mercantile business, my education
was limited to the English language and a perfect
knowledge of book keeping; I did however make
some progress in the mathematics.

“As my education advanced, Mr. Dupon laboured to
instil into my mind the principles of virtue, honour and
justice.

“When I was fifteen years of age, he sent me supercargo
to Kingston, Jamaica, merely to make me acquainted
with business. When I returned home he expressed
much satisfaction at my conduct.

“His approbation was the most pleasing recompence he
could have bestowed upon this first essay of my boy hood,
no words could express the pleasure I felt on the occasion.

“He sent me again, and again, my conduct still met
his warmest approbation.

“He then ventured to trust me with an extensive and
valuable cargo, consigned to Boston, in which city he
was concerned with one of the most respectable houses
in the place. In this undertaking I was equally fortunate.

“I had now become pretty well acquainted with trade,
and relieved Mr. Dupon considerably from that toil and
application to business to which he had necessarily been
subject, and under the pressure of which his health
evidently began to sink.

“In my second voyage to Boston, it was that I had
the pleasure to render those services to her whom I
now have the happiness to call my relation.

“This act of mine will be ever dear to me, (here he
was much agitated easting a look at Martha) he resumed
as it is associated with a circumstance, the first
and last object of my existence.

“The happy hours I spent at Mrs. Cary's, I pass
over, it will be enough to remark that I protracted

the time of my departure for England, far beyond the
dictates of prudence.

“At length I received a letter from my father, requesting
me to repair forthwith to Jamaica, dispose of my
cargo, re-load as quick as possible and return home, that
he was in bad health and needed my presence. This occasioned
my sudden departure from Boston.

“Mrs. Cary I fondly hope will forgive me, who was
but a stranger, for my presumption at my departure; in
the action to which I allude, I was influenced by the
purest motives, and the interest I took in her happiness.
I thought it would enable her to gratify that benevolent
diposition I had witnessed in her, particularly to Miss
Burlington. I now have come to an interesting part of
my story.

“After my acquaintance with Mrs. Cary's family, I
continued to visit her regularly, which at length subjected
me to the impertinent raillery of my acquaintances.
At first I paid no attention to what I considered
beneath the notice of a gentleman, but it very soon
assumed a character of another and more exceptionable
nature. I heard insinuations false as they were painful
to me. I was in a strange place, amongst people of whose
principles and character I had little knowledge, and to
tell the naked truth, this injurious report prevailed principally
amongst the females, which put it out of my power
to combat it, or I certainly would.

“I curst them in the bitterness of my heart, and on
all occasions defended the reputation of Mrs. Cary's
family. I was not, however, aware of the extent and
malignity of the report, at the time of my leaving Boston.

“I, for some time previous to my departure, was less
frequent in my visits, which proceeded from a desire to
afford slander less grounds for suspicion; and it is with
much sorrow I learn (through Martha) the deep distress
into which they were plunged on my account, after my
departure—but you will excuse—(his emotion again disconcerting
him.)

“Upon my arrival in Liverpool, I found Mr. Dupon
partially recovered from a dangerous fit of illness; he

was overjoyed to see me, and mildly reporved me for
staying so long, adding that had he died of his late illness
great loss would have been sustained—he meant the
concern.

“I was truly afflicted at this distressing intelligence,
and have never forgiven myself for the risk I had incurred
of losing the best of fathers, as he certainly had always
been to me. The disorder in which I found the
firm, my father's ill health, and the unprotected situation
of my acquaintances in America, combined to render
me very unhappy.

“After a long consultation, in private with Dupon,
respecting the means most proper to redeem the concern
from difficulty, I left him and set about this arduous task.
After putting the business in the best train which it admitted,
I hastened to my father, whose complaint seemed
to assume a more favourable appearance. Yet though
there was much to hope, there was much fear, and he
intimated something about making his will.

“I expressed myself to him in terms of opposition to
this intimation, from no other motive than that I thought
it would tend to depress his spirits, adding that of course
I could be no loser, his only child; and finally I treated
the subject with perfect indifference.

“Ah,” said he, “Ferdinand, you know not what situation
you might fall into, were I to die intestate.”

“Dear father,” said I, “you speak mysteriously—
what can you mean?”

“My child,” said he, “prepare yourself for something
that will astonish and distress you.

“You lost your mother in your infancy—I supplied
her place to the utmost of my power—I nursed you on
my knee—I cherished you in my bosom—but you are not
my son!”

“Had the earth opened to swallow me, had the final
dissolution of nature arrived, it would not have filled me
with more amazement. I was speechless some time—a
variety of feelings rushed upon me: my mind was a
complete chaos.

“Not your son? thought I, whose son am I, then?
who was my mother? who is this man who has reared

me so tenderly? what motive, what am I to him? I felt
partly annihilated.

“Mr. Dupon was so much affected that it was with
much difficulty he proceeded. “I thought it best to inform
you of this, indeed I always intended to do so, and
perhaps it is as well now as any time.”

“Oh, sir! haste to tell me who I am!”

“That I know not, dear Ferdinand—your mother escaped
from St. Domingo in the same ship with myself,
but she was never in her senses sufficiently to tell who
she was. The second day after we left the Island I went
down to see how she was doing; she was very ill. I
took the child from her, (which was yourself,) and she
died the next day: she had no domestics with her, nor any
one who could give any intelligence whatever. She was
without trunks, papers, or any thing which could lead to
a discovery.

“I preserved her jewels, and a miniature, which was
round her neck, and which I presume must be your father's.
The richness of the jewels, and her attire, bespeaks
you of no ignoble birth, but from them I could
make no discovery of your name, as nothing but the initials
of your father and mother's name appeared on
them, and I called you by my own name.

“Having lost a wife and two lovely children, in St.
Domingo, I felt for your distressed situation, and concluded
that your father had fallen in the awful massacre
in which my wife and children had been cut off; and I
am still of that opinion. But if this should not have
been the case, the survivors were scattered over different
parts of the world, and the difficulties of obtaining information
were so many, that I never exerted myself to get
information on the subject.

“But if your father should be alive, the miniature and
jewels will serve as a clue, for I have little doubt but the
miniature is his, from your resemblance to it.”

“I asked him if he ever heard any enquiries respecting
me.

“He replied that he saw numerous advertisements, and
many of the signatures corresponded with the initials on
the miniature, which rather served to embarrass the discovery.

And to tell you the truth, dear Ferdinand, and
it is a truth you can well vouch for, I was too much attached
to you—”

Here my cousin became too much affected to proceed.
I proposed to drop the subject until after dinner—when
he resumed—

“I have little more to add—the scene that succeeded is
beyond description, I felt as though I had lost a father,
and he as though he had lost a son. I fell on his neck—
he embraced me tenderly and proceeded—

“My motive for passing you as my own child may be
attributed to a desire of screeing you from the ill nature
of my brother's wife, who would have stopped at nothing
to effect your destruction, had she known the truth. It
therefore passed that you alone escaped the massacre in
which my wife and children were cut off. She being now
dead you have nothing to apprehend. I mean to divide
my estate equally between you and my niece, and as she
is young I wish you to act as her guardian.”

“The will was drawn agreeably to his desire, and in
the way I just mentioned. Finally he never recovered,
although he lived eleven months after this circumstance,
and as soon as I could finally arrange my business, I set
sail for the United States.

“Being one day in a public room, previous to my departure,
I was engaged in looking over an old file of news
papers, endeavouring to obtain some information from
them on the subject of my family. While thus employed,
I overheard an old Tar observe, “he is the very image
of him, poor soul!—As I was saying, he never held
up his head afterwards—about the same size too: ah,
that was a dreadful piece of work!”

“Upon turning round I discovered that he and the
person he was addressing were both looking at me.

“Was it I, that you had an allusion to just now sir?”

“I was just telling my comrade here, that you had put
me in mind of my old commodore when he was a young
man.”

“What was his name, sir?”

“His name was Thomas Burlington, and a braver
man never stepped between stem and stern.”

“Where did you know him, sir?”

“I knowed him every where; we have been over the
whole world together. I was just telling my comrade
that the poor soul lost his wife by the d—n savage negroes
in St. Domingo. May I ask your name?”

“I told him I did not know my real name, being
found by a gentleman when young, and have never since
discovered who I was. Without troubling you with his
tedious narrative, it is sufficient to say, that his relation
agreed with my own story so near, that I determined to
proceed to Havanna, where he informed me he had left
Commodore Burlington. When I arrived there I learned
that he had just sailed for New-York. The rest you
are acquainted with.”

My uncle wiping his eyes, said—“thee hast seen
some squalls, my son, as well as thy father, but 'trust
thee is laid up now But after all, that was a noble fellow,
that Dupon, I can't blame thee to bewail his loss.”
But seeing that his son was much affected, “let's have
something to drink and go to dinner.”

After dinner we all assembled again in the parlour,
and to gratify Sambo, he was allowed to relate to his
young master his share in his preservation. He exulted
very much in his usual way. The evening was spent
in the most agreeable manner, the conversation being
enlivened with with wit and sprightliness, until after
supper.