University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

Next morning I drew Mary aside and requested an
explanation of the conversation over night.

“What did Sullivan mean by Mrs. Cary's selling her
clothes to take him out of prison?”

As I understood it, Mary seemed averse to the expla
nation, but seeing I was serious she gave me the following
brief, but appalling, elucidation. She said “that
Sullivan was put in prison on Mrs. Cary's account, that
he had become her security for two hundred dollars,
which she owed for rent, that he had been a great friend
to them since they came to Philadelphia, and had it not
been for him they must have perished, or resorted to the
poor-house, that they had all been sick, and this man
happened to find them in that situation, and brought a
Doctor to attend them at his own expence.”

“Don't don't tell me any more Mary if you do not
wish to drive me mad, I cannot hear it. But why did
not you, if Mrs. Cary felt a delicacy in asking Wilson,
why did not you ask him for the money, and not suffer
Mrs. Cary to part with her clothes?”

“They all felt a delicacy.”

“Nonsense! mock delicacy that was truly. Why did
you not tell me before I left you?”

“You left us so soon brother—nor have you heard the
worst; Martha, Betsey, and myself, parted with great
part of the things you bought, or what is the same thing,
and had it not been for the money you sent us from New
York, Sullivan would not have been out of prison yet.”

“Shocking! and what became of his family whilst he
was in prison?”

“They did ill enough until you came, and then Mrs.
Cary sent them victuals every day.”

“I was wrong, I ought to have left money with her, I
see I am a novice—and where had this man been yesterday?”

“He went to pay the balance of the rent to a man who
lives in the country, one Fowler.”

“And why did you let him walk?” said I, losing all
patience. “You are ungrateful Mary, and unworth—”
I was going to say, unworthy of my regard, when she
replied—

“That she and her friends did give him money to bear
his expences, but probably he reserved it for the use of
his family.”

“What did Mrs. Cary mean, in her reply to Sullivan
about fearing to wait?”

“She ran to the prison,” said Mary, “on the evening
of your arrival in the city, while you and Wilson were
absent to apprize Sullivan of the good news, with a
view of cheering his spirits, and reviving his hopes of
relief.”

“And the woman he spoke of?”

“She was,” returned Mary, “the constable's wife, who
had arrested Mrs. Cary for the debt, and being left in
her care whilst in custody, and while her husband was
absent on other business, she treated Mrs. Cary with
great cruelty and harshness.

“But as it is over brother, and we are happy, don't
be poisoning our happiness or ruffling your temper by
investigating past misfortunes.”

“I will take your advice, dear Mary, and am prouder
of you than ever. I saw last evening by the reception
given to Sullivan, that he had been your friend.—
But what became of the relation mentioned in your letter
from Boston, why did he not befriend Mrs. Cary?”

“Oh, don't enquire, brother, he was dead, and his family
treated her with scorn and contempt; do let us—”

“I have done.”

After dinner we got the Commodore and the ladies into
carriages, and proceeded to our new friend's, the
Irishman's—Ling and Sambo walking together in the
rear, whilst Jinkins, Ferdinand, and myself, walked in
the van.

I wished to have left Jinkins at home to keep Miss
Watson company, but the old man would by no means
consent to go without him; so ardent was his attachment

to this young man, that his existence seemed interwoven
with that of Jinkins.

“No, Dick must go too.”

Thus the cavalcade moved forward like a funeral procession.
We from design had stowed my uncle and
Mrs. Cary, in the same carriage, but I shall believe to
the day of my death that they never exchanged a word
during the ride. It was ludicrous enough to see the party
ushered into the humble house of Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan.
After so long a time, we made shift to get my
uncle housed, and seated in an arm-chair, which had
been brushed up and placed before the fire for the purpose.
The old man completely filled the chair, muffled
up as he was in cloaks and great-coats, he resembled an
eastern Emperor, being fully as thick as he was long,
while he supported himself with his gold-headed cane,
in order to sit firm. After he was settled to our minds,
the ladies were next accommodated with seats; but the
size of the parlour was such that no room was left at the
fire for the gentlemen without crowding the ladies—we
therefore sat down at their backs, and a deficiency of
seats happening to occur, Jinkins after standing some
time, picked up an old three-legged chair (without a
back) and placing it firm against the wall sat himself
down, trusting to providence for consequences. But
Sambo and Ling are still to be disposed of—Sambo pushed
in and looking round to observe what prospect for
him, his master pointed to the corner on his left “here
stow thyself to larboard, thee swab.” Ling squeezed
in between his master's feet, and enjoyed the warmth of
the fire with more than common satisfaction, and sure
enough we were all finally settled.

Every thing in the house (and that was not much)
was neat—the hearth was cleanly swept, and the mantlepiece
tricked out in tip-top style.

After the bustle our arrival occasioned was over, Sullivan
charged his fire with a double portion of wood,
which soon obliged the Commodore and the ladies to
give ground, and afforded an opportunity for all to
share the warmth of the fire. In the meantime Jinkins'
seat gave way, and he not being sufficiently guarded

against its fallacy, came with his starboard side to the
floor: this raised a laugh at his expence.

“Zounds, Dick,” said my uncle, “thee like to have
run afoul o' the rocks; why didn't thee make thy anchor
sure, boy?”

Sambo by this time began to be very much annoyed
by the heat, hemmed in on all sides as he was, I saw that
it would be impossible for him to occupy his tenement
much longer. He had been veering (as my uncle would
call it) from right to left, and from left to right, with increasing
activity for some time. At length being unable
to endure it any longer, he forced a passage through the
crowd, with an exclamation of “you reckon de debil
could stan' dat?” and flew out of the house with the rapidity
of lightning.

Mrs. Sullivan after recieving and returning the salutation
of the company, withdrew as I suspected to the
kitchen for the purpose of preparing tea. She was in
appearance older than her husband, not handsome, low
of stature, dark skin, and black eyes, but her looks bespoke
all that could be conceived of good nature and benevolence;
and if I had the liberty of giving my opinion,
I should say it would not be long before she —,
and I began to reflect that our visit perhaps was ill-timed.
My uncle Thomas viewed her at first sight with
a degree of surprise, resembling that of Sancho Panzy
when day light disclosed to him the pasteboard nose.

Mrs. Cary now enquired for the children, who came
pouring in from the kitchen, whence they had been driven
upon our arrival—there were six in all, three sons
and three daughters. When we love a man how natural
it is to love all that belongs to him; even before I saw
saw those children, I felt my heart warm at the sound of
their names. There's one apiece for us, thought I, and
took one of the rosy-cheeked rogues in my lap, and Jinkins
pulled another to him, patted him on the cheek, and
gave him some change to buy him a gun. My uncle
took out his gold watch and snuff-box, alternately presenting
them to the youngest (a beautiful boy of four
years old) to entice him to sit on his knee. The child,
however, stood off, surveying him with that sort of curiosity

so common to children—at length, being unable
to resist the temptation, he suffered himself to be lifted
on the old gentleman's knee, who called Sambo, to “go
and procure apples and ginger-bread, declaring that
not one of the other children should have one.” This
stipulation was no doubt an indispensable preliminary to
the treaty of amity about to be ratified between them.

Mrs. Cary had brought frocks for the little girls—
Mary and Martha remembered the brides' favours: every
thing was pretty, mighty pretty, mine is the prettiest,
it is beautiful—nothing but noise, pulling, hawling,
and joyful acclamations was to be heard. In the midst
of the tumult in comes Sambo, “give me one, give me
one,” was repeated by the whole group, but the little
proprietor however, seized them with both hands, and
looking up in my uncle's face, exclaimed—

“They sha'nt have them, they are mine, an't they?
sha'nt have one, shall they? an't I your boy? won't you
hit them with your cane?”

“Yes, that I will,” said the old man, “let 'um go
and buy apples themselves if they want 'um.”

To keep the peace, and restore harmony amongst
them, I sent the oldest boys to buy apples and cakes
for them all. In the meantime the champaign was handed
round with great liberality, accompanied with the
laugh and the jest. Mrs. Sullivan occasionally appeared
and disappeared; though it was evident she partook
in the merriment, I saw by the colour of her face
that tea could not be far off, and I was glad for her sake,
as she was not in a situation to undergo such fatigue.

The children were dismissed by Sullivan to the
kitchen, where they might regale themselves without
molestation on their sweet-cakes and apples.

Sometime after, they disappeared, one of them (the
one I had caressed on their first appearance) came running
in and addressing himself to me, in an audible
voice, said “O my, if mammy hasn't got the most cups
in the kitchen, and she is making tea, and a whole heap
of things, and she's borrowed all Mrs. Cantler's teaspoons
and plates and ever so many things; why there's
so many of you here you'll eat all mamma's victuals up.”
The company burst into a loud peal of laughter.

“Get you gone,” said his father, “and don't be after
talking saucy to the gentlemen.”

Just at this moment the maid appeared with a teaboard
loaded with cups and saucers, which she sat on a
small table, she then withdrew and in a short time returned
followed by the lady of the house, with whom we
took tea in form. I felt no small degree of concern for
Jinkins, as there was no alternative for him but to fix
up the old chair once more. I was in pain lest he
might tumble over again and scald himself, and worse,
break the poor woman's cups.

Tea being over and every expression of kindness and
good will interchanged between the two families, we returned
home safe and in fine spirits, laughing all the way
at the incidents of the evening.