University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

The story of this unfortunate young woman affected
me too much too sleep, I therefore called for pen, ink
and paper and answered the Doctor's letter, informing
him “that I should be in New-York in the course of a
week or ten days, and desired him to tell Clarissa that
Hunter's father was then in New-York, but she need
give herself no trouble on his account: that I would be
there shortly, and do her business with him.” Yes,
poor Clarissa, I will be your friend, true you have erred
greatly, said I internally, and who has not? thy tears
and prayers shall not be in vain: you have sinned, and
so have I: you have suffered much, so have I: God forbid
that I should add to your sufferings by upbraiding
you, but if I can find your seducer—rash thought. Yes,
if I could find him all hardened as he is, the thoughts of
his wrongs to thee should not be forgiven; I forgive from
my heart his conduct to my sister. But—no matter,
the vengeance of heaven will, if it has not already, overtake
him; poor wretch, perhaps he is even now in want
of bread.

Jinkins who slept with me, now entered my room.

“I am glad you are come,” said I, “I was just taking
the blues.”

“What's the matter now?” said he—“any bad news
from New-York? you have read the letter, I presume?”

I reminded him of the young woman whom I found ill
there, and read to him the letter.

“Curse them Hunters!” said he, “they must be limbs
of the D—l himself.”

I told him I should go to New-York in a week or two,
and would be glad of his company; that I wished to settle
my business upon a more permanent plan, as Wilson
would go to Tennessee in the spring, and I should accompany
him.”

He said “he did not care much, provided old square
toes was willing.”

I undertook to obtain his consent, without which I
would not wish him to go: and asked him “If he had
seen Smith?”

He said “he saw a man that he took to be him, but he
was so altered since he was dressed, that he never should
have known him; indeed, he had to ask if he was the
same man?”

“And what shall we do with him now, Jinkins?”
said I thoughtfully, and hardly knowing what I said.

“I don't know what you will do with him, now you
have dressed him up like a gentleman, without you can
get him into the army or navy, and he looks like a coward
too—I dare say he is not powder-proof. It would
have been better if you had set him to cleaving wood, he
looks so like a scape-gallows, that he is fit for nothing
else.”

“Oh don't talk so, Dick, the poor fellow is in distress—he
is poor.”

“He talks cheerful,” said Jinkins: “he seems to be
quite renovated since he had his supper.”

“I'll see in the morning what he can do, but no one
will employ him without a recommendation, and that I
suspect he cannot obtain. I suspect your plan will be
the best, that is to get him a birth on board of a ship, it
will be the best place for him.”

Next morning after breakfast I walked into Smith's
room, and asked him how he felt?

He replied “very well.”

I was truly surprized to see the alteration which dress
made in his appearance. I entered into conversation
with him, and soon discovered he was not of the lower
order. I asked him,

“What he intended to do when his trial was over? I
shall fee a lawyer for you, and expect you will be acquitted.”

Before he had time to reply, some one knocked at the
door, and Horton entered the room. He bowed slightly
to me, and viewing Smith with uncommon attention for
a few seconds, exclaimed, “Why, William is this you?”

Smith answered “yes,” advanced and shook hands
with Horton, but evidently very much embarrassed.

“And where have you been all this time?” said Horton;
“your father is much distressed on your account.”

“And where is my father?” said Smith.

“That I don't know,” replied the other, “but I suppose
this gentleman has told you where he was not long
ago.”

“He has not,” said he—“the gentleman does not
know who I am.”

“Then I will make you acquainted. This is Mr.
Hunter.”

I had indeed suspected it was Hunter's son, (but could
hardly bring myself to think so when I discovered that
he and Horton were known to each other; and what's to
be done now? thought I—what will those he has injured
say, if they find him out? Here was Burlington, alias
Dupon, here is my sister, will they forgive crimes such
as his? and here too is Mrs. Cary, it will not do, he
must remain unknown.

I informed Horton then of the circumstances which
occurred in the street, as we were returning home from
his house, and that he went by the name of Smith, and
that it would be best for him still to go by that name,
and charged him strictly not to discover his real name.
This I said in the presence of Hunter; I then left them
together, requesting Horton to tell him all he knew of
his father.

Getting up to leave the room, I told Hunter I wished
to have some conversation with him in the course of the
day, that he must abide where he was until something
was done for him, that he might depend upon my secrecy
as to his real name and character, of which I knew more
than he was aware: I then left Horton to explain, and
withdrew to the company.

Jinkins asked me “what I was going to do with my
man?”

I told him “I believed I would take his advice, and
send him to increase the Navy.”

“That's right, my boy,” said my uncle, “I'll cut his
eye-teeth there.”

In the course of half an hour Horton came to the door,
saying he desired to a speak a word to me. It was merely
to tell me that he would close with my proposal to go
to New-York.

I informed him I should be there myself shortly, and
he might move as soon as he liked; I would give him instructions
what to do, should he get ready before I set
out.

After sitting some time, I excused myself to the company,
and took Hanter to my room; ordering more fuel
on the fire, I desired Hunter to be seated.

“It is not to upbraid you, sir, either for your own
crimes, or those which your father has committed towards
me and my family; I leave that matter between you and
your God. But we I find, are not the only persons you
have injured; you have something left yet, enough with
economy, to support you, which I suspect Horton has told
you—but in the first place, sir, I wish to know what reparation
you intend to make to another person, whom
you shall soon hear of?”

I then took the Doctor's letter out of my pocket, and
read it to him. When I had done, I looked at him for a
reply.

He hung his head, and said “it was all true.”

“And what sort of a wretch must you be, to treat a
woman thus—who took you out of prison, left her father's
house in the dead hour of the night, and no doubt
this was the cause of his death? What a sea of iniquity
have you waded through! But I spare your feelings; if
you have any, they must be bitter enough—say, what
will you do with your wife?”

“I will reform,” said he, “and try to make her happy,
if she will consent to live with me.”

“But that I don't know,” said I, “she will have a
bad bargain, make the best of you; but she is poor, and
now dependent on me—her family you see is likewise
poor, so that you have it in your power to do much.
—If your wife refuses to live with you, which I think
probable you can nevertheless render her some reparation
by contributing to the relief of herself and her family.”

He replied “that he was entirely ignorant of his resources—that
his father had for some years back almost
abandoned him to want, on account of the dissolute life
he pursued—that from what Horton had informed him
respecting the turn of his father's affairs, his prospect
was but small.”

I gave him to understand the amount of what he might
expect.

He rejoined, “that the balance of his life should be
spent in repairing the errors of the past, and whatever
he might receive from the wreck of his father's fortune,
should be liberally shared with his wife and her relations.
`This,' added he, “is all I can say on that subject;
but allow me sir to express my gratitude to you
for your kindness, not only toward me last night, but in
extending it to the forgiveness of crimes in their nature
of the blackest die, but rendered still more so by your
noble generosity.”

I told him “the best recompense he could make was
to amend his life.”

I apprized him of my intended visit to New-York,
where I should see his wife, and deliver any message or
letter, he might wish to send, and probably I might see
his father there also, “and as you can not, I presume, return
to New-York or Boston, you can give me instructions
in regard to what you wish done—I shall attend
to it punctually. In the mean time you can remain in
this city until your trial, and until I return, and pass by
the name of Smith, as your real name may subject you to
danger.—Here, even here, in this house, is the young man
who rescued my sister, and on whose account you were
imprisoned.

“My sister is here also, married to a man, who might
not so easily forget an injury; and here also is Mrs. Cary
whose daughter is lately married to the same Dupon,
whose real name is Burlington, a cousin of mine.

“I could not undertake to defend you from the vengeance
of all these, for which reason I think you had better
seek a lodging in some other part of the town. I will furnish
you with the amount of what you may want until
I return.

“All this you may do or not, just as it suits you, I merely
give you my advice.”

He accepted the offer, he said, and thanked me ten
thousand times for my kindness.

I left him for the present, and saught Jinkins to walk
with Hunter to some remote part of the town, where I
saw him comfortably lodged, paying his board in advance
myself, lest he might be tempted by it to the gaming
table. Learniug from Jinkins the amount, he gave
him the proceeding night (forty dollars,) I conceived it
quite enough to defray his ordinary expences. Finally,
I directed him to get his letters and instructions ready,
as I could not tell to a certainty when I should set out.
I recommended to him to keep no company, but rather
amuse himself with books—and that my favour and protection
could only be secured by good behaviour on his
part.

As he shook hands with Jinkins and I, the tears for
the first time trickled down his cheeks.

Were I (as Goldsmith said upon another occasion) to
be angry at mankind for their vices, I might have ample
cause in the present instance to indulge that pasion;
but would this be acting like a christian? Besides, who
am I that I should impugn this unfortunate fellow creature?
No! I chose rather to draw a veil over his crimes,
and leave him to his conscience.

It will be objected that this is nothing but a specious
pretence to superior judgment, and that the subject was
a favourable one to contrast vice—and all sorts of crimes,
with their opposite virtues, and that such characters
should be held up to public view as examples.

Be it so—there are numbers no doubt, who would take
great pleasure in expatiating upon the conduct of this unhappy
young man; to them, therefore, I leave the task,
reminding them at the same time, that if they wish their
nostrum to go down, they must sweeten it well; and let
them remember by the way, “To err is human, to pardon
is divine.”

As we returned home, we picked up an old German
in the street, who was carrying a wallet on his shoulder,
which contained some excellent pipins.

As he was a great oddity, we brought him home with
us for the amusement of my uncle and the ladies.

He was about sixty or seventy years of age, a little
stoop shouldered, sandy hair, swarthy complexion, and
Jinkins said he was bandy-legged; as for that I can't say,
as his trowsers, or unmentionables (which you please)
were remarkably wide. His hat was a little less in circumference
than a moderate umbrella, his coat or roundabout,
came down to the waistbands, which were as low as
I ever recollect to have seen. They were both of the
same piece, stout and warm, his shoes were also strong
and serviceable, having some two or three dozen, flat-headed
nails droven into the heel. He walked with a staff
fully eighteen inches higher than his head.

We gave him his price for his apples, told him to bring
them along to our lodgings, and we would pay him well
for his trouble, and give him a glass of good wine besides.

Upon entering the parlour, he walked carefully round
the carpet, and made his obeisance to the company, by a
“how to to laties and shentlemans.”

I pointed to Mrs. Cary, telling him the apples were
for her, giving her the wink at the same time. He layed
his hat and his cane on the floor by him, but before he
went farther, I gave him a glass of wine, saying “he
must tell the lady all about his good apples, and the best
way to rear them, as they were the best I ever saw.

“Laty I ish been cot ta peshest aupples auver you tit
see laty, ta ish shest ash sweet ash ta can pe une (and)
I ish peen cot more areaty, une I ish peen cot dam (them)
all ta year laty, une ta beach, une ta bear, une ta blum
un ta charries laty.”

“You must have a fine orchard sir, have you got the
winter pear.”

“Yough (yes) laty I ish peen cot ta vinder-bear ash
pig ash so laty (putting his fists together) put ta ish all
con areaty.”

During this preamble, he never once thought of taking
out the apples but sat with the wallet across his knees.
Uncle Thomas viewing him with a mixture of surprise,
dislike and impatience, not common to him, and perhaps

his sympathy was excited in behalf of the ladies whose
patience he thought might well be exhausted, accosted
him with “Harkee comrade with the wallet, haul in thy
outlandish lingo needn't make suck a fashs, cant unship
cargo, and say no more about 'um.”

It was pretty evident that neither understood the other.

“I fear ta shantlemons not fersta,” (understand) said
Coonrod looking round at my uncle who sat a little to
the one side.

“Thee may stay as long as thee likes friend, but thee
needn't raise such a hurricane about thae apples if so be
thee has got 'um, can't discharge freight and be done
we' it.”

I explained that he must take out the apples, he immediately
emptied them out, and the ladies flocked round
him in a trice, praised his apples and asked him abundance
of questions about them, such as where he came
across them? how long he had them? and the best
method of preserving fruit-trees?

Coonrod however was not to be discouraged by such a
number of queries, asked in a breath.

“I ish peen cot tish von, tish Swansyh (twenty) year
laty, I cot dam from Fretherick Shitherstriker[1] une he
pring dam from Sharmany.”

“I must have some of the trees I declare,” said Mrs.
Cary.

“Fel laty you ken kit 'um, une Felty Holshhopple he
ish peen cot dam too he'll kim you ta sem oder he leess
farder in ta gundry.”

Wilson interrupted him in this part of the conversation,
by asking him “if he understood surgery?” The German
however was not so easily to be taken by surprise.

“You mean vot ish von procken pone, une but him to
geder akin oder make him crow upe areaty.”

“Yes sir that is what I mean to mend broken bones.”

“No I ish peen cot mine angle vat out order blace
more ash dwo dimes areaty, une it pen me, it pen me
tish vat vorst ting, can pee areaty.”

“An thee was put on a gib, for a monkey would pass
well enough an thee larboard hat, spliced for a sail,'

said me uncle. “Charles give him another glass of
wine, an thee can understand him, it's more than I can.
What nation do h' belong? if bean't got amongst a very
heathens, I believe sure there was none o' thae sart o'
people where I was born.”

I replied “he was a German, that they made the best
of citizens—they were sober, peaceable, and industrious.”

Old Coonrod now bethought himself of home, picked
up his jacob-staff and hat, and bid us farewell.

The balance of the evening was spent at the expence
of the old German and his nation. For my own part, I
took no part in the conversation respecting the Belgic
race, but amused myself in explaining to my uncle, Coonrod's
hard names.

“Siderstricker,” said he, “Old Davy himself never
heard such a name.—Well Dick that beats thee an thy
old stool at the Irishman's.”

An opportunity offering, I drew Mary to her chamber,
and put into her hand the letter I received from Doctor
Nevitt, telling her “the unhappy subject of it was no
other than her old acquaintance, Clarissa Simpson,”
and how I received her nacklace.

The tender hearted Mary was deeply effected at the
poor girl's situation, and enquired if there was no account
of the wrotch Hunter? I informed her that I had
heard of him, and would if in my power, make him do
her justice.—I was going to New-York, where I probably
should see all parties.

In the mean time, I desired her to sound Mrs. Cary
on the subject of marriage with my uncle. I told her I
was serious, he was an excellent match for her, and that
his situation required a help mate of her amiable disposition

Indeed if any two were ever calculated for each other,
they were. Their natures if any thing were too generous.
I told Mary she must try and bring about a courtship
through the agency of Fredinand and Martha, while
Jinkins and myself were absent—that I promised myself
much amusement on the part of the old man at least—as
Mrs. Cary was so diffident, and her claims on us were

too great to be made the subject of mirth; but I should
like to hear my uncle adapt his sea phrases to the subject
of wooing.”

Mary replied, “that she and Martha had joked her
mother about the old gentleman, but she feared it would
be difficult to bring her uncle to bear, as he says, but
we'll try him, I confess it would give me great pleasure
to see them man and wife.”

Having at length a small respite from business, I resolved
to share the society of my friends, for as yet it
had not been in my power to partake with them in that
pleasure without which life has no charms.

As I might not be long blessed with the opportunity,
I determined to consecrate a few days at least, to that
happiness to which I had long been a stranger.

Our time was filled up with various amusements;
some times we went to the play, sometimes we read an
amusing play or novel, sometimes we told stories, played
blind man's buff, the lady's carpet, and a number of
other plays many of which were new to me, though Mary
and Martha were perfect adepts in them.

Sambo too amused us with many comic jestures and
plays, common amongst the blacks of his original country.

The old commander in chief would often join in our
amusements, he always had to redeem his pawns by giving
Mrs. Cary a kiss. Jinkins had to kiss Miss Watson,
and very often I was obliged to kiss Sambo wheelbarrow
fashion.

Ling would sometimes join us, though I can't say he
was altogether well pleased, particularly with blindman's
buff, the propriety of which he seemed to question,
as with pitiful looks, and tail tucked between his legs,
he would scamper out of the way, thinking us crazy no
doubt.

Horton's wife and daughters, and our friend Mr.
Sullivan were very often partakers in our amusements,
and no one was better calculated to promote mirth, or
beguile time than Sullivan; he was a perfect original,
the child of nature, artless and modest, yet all mirth and
humour.

It was one of those pleasant evenings in which I strove
to forget my past sufferings, that Mrs. Cary gratified the
company, and myself in particular with the incidents of
her life.

She had promised us this pleasure some time, but my
engagements had been such that it was delayed until I
should be perfectly at leisure.

She therefore one evening apprized us to be prepared
against the following. It was likewise agreed that
Jinkins should indulge us with a similar favour the
succeeding night.

I confess I had more than common curiosity on this
occasion, both being amongst the numbers of those for
whom I had the greatest regard.

On the evening appointed, Mrs. Cary commenced the
story of her life, which the reader will find in the following
chapter.