University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

We had scarcely seated ourselves around the fire,
when a stranger of tolerable appearance entered the
room. After bowing to the company, he advanced to
Mrs. Cary and thus addressed her:

“Long life to you, Mrs. Cary, how do you do? Well,
I suppose I'm too late for the wedding—well, I declare
to you, that I tried to be here, but them divilish Fowlers
and one c—d thing or another happened, that I couldn't
be here any sooner. But it's no odds, as I suppose the
girl is married, anyhow.”

“They are both married, Mr. Sullivan.”

“The d—l they are!”

Mary and Martha now presented themselves; he
wished them joy, and shook hands with them. But
Mary not being content with his salutation, held her
face near to his.

“Why, an't you going to kiss me, Mr. Sullivan?”

“No, shame the one of you will I kiss.”

“Nor me neither?” said Martha.

“No, nor you nather.”

“Now I'm mortified,” said Mary.

“Divil a hair I care. Who do you think wants to
kiss you after them fellows been slavering your mouth?
I'd know who the mischief they are. Get me something
to eat, and something to drink too, for I'm both tired,
hungry and dry. Just bring it in here, and set it on
this little table, for I want to be after talking with Mrs.
Cary, d'ye hear—now don't be calling any body and
making a rout about it, just bring a bit of something
yourself—I'm right hungry, I never broke my fast since
morning, for as soon as I got home, I came right on.”

The two ladies withdrew and after a few minutes absence
returned, with cake, cold ham and a fowl; to this
was added wine, and all placed on a small table near the

fire, between him and Mrs. Cary. After things were
settled to his mind, he sat down with his side to the table
and his face towards the fire. Drawing out a red silk
handkerchief and spreading it on his knee, he told them
to go about their business—they insisted upon waiting
upon him, but he bid them “go along to your husbands,
and let them kiss you in my stead. Go sit down, I
want to talk with Mrs. Cary; stop, let me see what we
have here,” taking up the decanter, “pretty good,”
(tasting it) “this will do, you may go sit down,” said
he, addressing Mrs. Cary, while he regaled himself as
follows:

“I have been upon thorns to see you ever since I got
out of that cursed place. I do'n know what I could be
about when you called at the prison, sure you must a gone
like the wind; I was astonished when they told me.”

“I waited for you,” said Mrs. Cary, “some time, as
I knew it would gratify you; indeed, I would have waited
longer, but was afraid the gentlemen would return.”

“Well, it's no odds, all well enough; I suppose there
wasn't much time lost, before I heard the news. That
cursed crature (Lord forgive me) comes to the prison
with one of her smiles upon her countenance—

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Sullivan?”

“What about?” says I.

“Don't you think two great gentlemen have been and
took Mrs. Cary and the girls off to the Mansion House
in three fine carriages, he, he, he. What do you think
of that? he, he, he. They helped them into the carriage
just as if they'd been the greatest ladies in the
land, he, he, he.”

“Curse her giggle! Mrs. Cary, I was going to observe
that I love a modest female as I do my life, 'don't
care who they are, nor where they come from. By all
that's sacred, I'd lay down my life for any female, rather
than see her in distress or imposed upon. I'm sure you
know that, but to to see such a brute as that, she is a disgrace
to her sex—and there she'd smile, and Mr. Sullivan,
and Mr. Sullivan and he, he, he. I hope the Lord
will forgive me, for God knows I never hated any body
so cordially Why, why didn't,” said he, stuttering as

he grew warm in the cause, “the d—n crature show all
this kindness to you who stood in need of it? No, but
she could give a laugh and turn up the whites of her eyes
on me. Did you take notice when company would come
into her room, what a difference? I always could tell a
male from a female visitor, from the giggle; the d—l a
bit would she laugh when a woman would come in. I'd
hear them talk jest, but whenever a gentleman would
come in, he, he, he—blast her smiles I wanted none of
them: it makes me so mad, well, d'ye mind the time she
made her husband lock you up and abuse you, Lord if I
didn't want to kill her, then there's no smoke, and wanted
to freeze you to death, and wouldn't let the girls bring
you any thing good to eat. Oh heavens! and this is a
free country! And her husband, poor pitiful soul, but
it's well enough—she'll give him the child to mind and
away she'll go over town—race here and race there;
well, it don't signify, I won't say what I was going to
say—can you ever forgive her?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Sullivan, don't think of her, don't vex
yourself—she is unworthy your resentment.”

“My dear madam I know she is.—Well, I believe I
will take your advice.—Where are you Mary?”

“Here I am.”

“Where is Martha? I want to know what sort o' looking
folks these are ye have got: I suppose it's some o'
these gentlemen sitting here?”

“Yes sir—you would not suffer me to make you acquainted.”

“Well, go along now and bring them forward.”

We all advanced up to him, and were severally introduced:
my uncle shook him cordially by the hand, “thou
art a hearty soul—glad to be acquainted with thee.”

I was struck with the appearance of this extraordinary
man from the moment he entered the house. His easy
manners, and that perfect unconcern with which his
conduct was marked in the presence of so numerous a
party of strangers, bespoke a man of great independence
of mind. Perfectly at his ease and unembarrassed, he
received the salutations of the company.

His countenance was strongly marked with vivacity,
good nature, and benevolence. He was of middling stature,
inclining to robust—handsome, though in the decline
of life. He was clad in a short coat, commonly
called a sailors jacket, with ferret strings. This was
carelessly thrown open, and partially displayed a fine,
and very neat ruffle shirt.

From the time he entered until we were called on to receive
his address not a word was uttered, the profoundest
silence reigned throughout, the ladies excepted. I
was afraid to breathe or stir, lest I might lose a single
word. Our admiration increased as the conversation advanced,
between him and Mrs. Cary; but it was effectually
secured when we found him the warm friend of our
idol.

The more he gained upon us the more we felt our own
inferiority. After our introduction we retired to our
seats without offering to interrupt the conversation.

“Mary,” said this Irishman, “get us something
stronger, this wine is too cold—don't be a hesitating,
many a time I've waited upon you. I intend you shall
wait upon me now.”

Mary lost no time in producing some brandy. As
she sat the decanter on the table and was removing the
remains of the repast, he looked her in the face with the
best natured smile, and asked, “you havn't forgot when
old Patrick (meaning himself) used to bring you wood,
and make you a fire after working hard all day. Many's
the time Molly would send the children to-bed with
a piece, and slip the milk for their suppers into my hand
and say “here Patrick, take this over to widow Cary's,
the girls want it worse than we do—ay, do you mind
that, Mary?”

“I do sir, and trust that I ever shall remember it.”

“That's a good girl; you know I do not care a
curse about a bit of a supper, and all these things, but
it does me good to see a little gratitude left in the world yet
—it's not the value of a benefit I care about, but the way
it is conferred.

“Ah, and Mrs. Cary too, sold her finery to redeem
me out of prison. Well, it'll be all one a thousand years

hence. But, I'm mad at you that you didn't tell Mister
—, what's his name, Mary's brother, what you
were saving your money for? why but you told him you
wanted a little sum for a friend, he'd a given it to you,
I'll warrant, and a keep'd your duds of clothes.”

Mrs. Cary blushed exceedingly at this artless and unexpected
disclosure, and chiding him mildly for telling
tales about her, said, “Now I shall get a scolding from
Mr. Burlington.”

“Oh, blame the odds, what he says. Martha bring
me something to put under my head. I'll just lay down
here on the carpet, (throwing himself down) I'm afraid
you will be jealous of Mary if I don't make you wait on
me too. There, I just want to dry my feet by the fire,
I'm tired too.

“I've walked to day—let me see,—ten, eight and two
is ten, twenty miles this good day; and do you think
Fowler hadn't the impudence to deny the payment till I
showed him his own recaipte, (Martha placed a pillow
under his head) ah, that's my darling; Miss say little and
think the more after all Mary's ding-dong about her
sweet heart, I think you got the handsomest man at last.
How did it happen, Martha? I never heard a breath of
it till to night, you must be a snake in the grass.”

“Oh, sir, you know still water is deep?”

“Faith! I believe so. Well, now talk away as fast as
you please, I'm not agoing to sleep, I can hear all your
say-so's. Where is them baby clothes, Mary, that you
are agoing to send to Molly? ye needn't be sniggering
and laughing, I'm sure Molly tould me you were agoing
to send her something—I hate to see this mock-modesty,
Mary, in a girl of sense too.”

I told Mary she ought to be as good as her word to
Mrs. Sullivan. She whispered to him something that
could not be heard, when he proclaimed aloud—

“Your very bad all at once—you'll have good luck if
you ain't making some yourself 'fore long.”

My uncle could maintain silence no longer, he roared
out, “he was the gallantest fellow he had seen since he
cast anchor.”

“I don't know what you're all laughing about.”

“Where do'st live? we'll go and see thee to-morrow,
Mary and Martha too—she shall bring thy wife what
she promised, herself; and if it's a boy call it Thomas,
—never stir if 'wouldn't rather go and see thee than the
King of England—he ain't half so clever.”

“Faith! and you may well say that, without anny of
it's being the truth at all at all.

“But you havn't tould me, Martha, where you picked
up this blue-eyed boy. I suppose now you'll hardly
spake to a poor fellow like me.”

“God forbid, Mr. Sullivan, that I should ever forget
your kindness.”

“Och, now, none o' your palaver, just let us all thank
God for his mercies, and laugh and sing, and be merry
—such a day as this don't come every day.”

“Mr. Sullivan,” said Martha, “you will not let any
body talk but yourself. I was going to tell you that I
had become acquainted with Mr. Burlington sometime
before I left Boston, that he was then known by another
name, and has proved to be a cousin of Mary's, and the
son of this gentleman, pointing to my uncle, who thought
he was lost at sea when a child. Nor did he know any
better until yesterday.”

“Then there was double joy as well as a double wedding—Well
if that's the case I'll get up; it won't do to
be lying down here like a baist.”

He got up and told Mary to fill up the glasses, he'd
have to pledge the strangers in a glass or two. Mary
filled the glasses, and we all advanced to the table, and
drank to the health of this noble Irishman.

“And where will we find a match for you sir?” said
he, addressing himself to me, “if seem that you have a
helpmate to find, and this young man,” pointing to Jinkins.

I told him “I would trust to Providence, and as for
Mr. Jinkins, I thought he was very suitably accommodated,
if he could bring over Miss Watson.”

Looking first at my uncle and then at Mrs. Cary, he
said, “He was going to say something, but he believed
he would let it alone.”

“Oh, tell what thee's a mind to, I love to hear thee
talk o' all things,” said my uncle.

“Well then, I was just going to say that your honour,
and Mrs. Cary here, had better make a bargain for better
for worse.”

I told him I was just thinking of that myself. The
old man laughed and said—

“The lady would have a bad bargain o' it, to take
such a crazy old vessel as I be in tow; but if so be she
had a mind to come to, he had no objection to lowering
sail.”

The young folks laughed immoderately, when Wilson,
wishing to change the subject, asked Jinkins to give us
“Life let us Cherish,” observing that I must get my
flute, for he longed to hear Jinkins sing.

“Neither the ladies or my new cousin had heard him
yet. Jinkins acquitted himself with his usual taste and
sung several other songs, in which we joined. Ferdinand
sung, Wife, Children, and Friends, with great applause.

It was now the Irishman's turn to sing, and when requested,
he began without further solicitation, Barney
let the Girls alone, which set the house in a roar. Being
solicited for another song, he gave us, “Langolee,” putting
on all the brogue he could bring to bear, as my uncle
has it.

By this time it grew late and Sullivan arose to depart,
when my uncle said—

“—Shan't till thee take thy allowance—Shiver my
limbs if thee bain't the heartiest tar amongst us.—
Thou need'st not think of tarrying till we have had some
more vocal singing.

“I love thee because thou was kind to thae women
folks.”

He however begged off, and drank with the old man,
who, holding him by the hand, bid him—“Tell his
wife we'd all be to see 'um to-morrow,” putting his left
hand into his pocket in the meantime—the rest may be
guessed.

Wilson and I waited upon him to the street door, and
upon taking leave of him each of us put a bank note into
his hand, and begged he would oblige us so far as to present

it to his wife, and tell her that we would call on her
in the morning if nothing happened.

“The plague a hair I care for money, but it will plaise
Molly, and so I'll kape it.”

We pressed his hand and he departed.

The company being disposed to retire, we separated
for the night.