University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

THE first person I visited in New-York, was Doctor
N--, and enquired for Mrs. Hunter.

"She was not perfectly well," he said, "but would
be in a few days."

As every minute seemed an age, which detained me
from Clarissa, I hastened to her house. After enquiring
how she was, I told lrer my name was Burlington, and
was glad to find her so well.

She attempted to speak, but utterance failed her: I
sat by her side, with her hand in mine, but remained siIent
until tire first burst of feelings had subsided.

When she became a little composed, I told her "to be
comforted: I came to make her happy, and assist her, by
every means in my power."
Still she essayed to speak, but still she faultered. At
length she said,

"I was going to thank you, Mr. Burlington: I was
going to say how sorry I am for my conduct to your sister,
but I see it would not be areeable to vou."

"Dear madam, say nothing about it; Mary forgives
you, and so do I from my heart; Mary is happy and independent.
But excuse me, I have heard of your husband,
and have a letter from him to you--the repents sincerely
his conduct towards you: meantime I suspect his
father is in this city, I have a letter for him, likewise,
from his son.''

Having said this, I left her and returned to the inn,
where I had left Jinkins, and taking him with me, we
walked to Mr. L's. to enquire for Hunter; he gave us
directions to his lodgings.

Handing Hunter the letter, I retired with Jinkins until
he should have, read it. I then confided to Jinkins
that tire unfortunate man he and I befriended in the
street, was Hunter's son.

When we supposed Hunter had finished reading the
letter. we returned and asked him "What news?"

He replied, "the letter contained nothing but what he
suspected I knew ; he refers me to you."

I took the letter out of his hand; it ran thus:--
"Dear Father--

"This will be handed to you lay Mr. Burlington;
he found me in the streets, starving for bread, and almost
destitute of clothes. He took the to his lodgings,
gave me money and clothes, and by his bounty I am now
supported. I have a wife that is suffering too, of sickness
and want. If you ever intend to give me any thing,
I should think now is the time : I acknowledge my faults.
and crave your pardon. Your repentant son.
W. HUNTER."

Hunter asked "where his son's wife was?"

"She is in this city."

Having replied to his question, I ran over the principal
incidents of their elopement, marriage, and her subsequent
distress, concealing the worst.

Hunter was much mortified, and said very little.' After
giving him directions to her house, I called on the
McCallesters, who informed me Horton had arrived : as
his establishment was a matter by no means to be lost
sight of, it was necessary to come to an understanding
with respect to his funds; for this purpose we called on
him without loss of time. Horton informed us he had
seven hundred dollars: Jinkins presented him with a
draft for four hundred dollars, a present from my uncle;
but I thought it best for Horton's interest to draw the
money, and see the articles laid in--and thinking the
whole little enough, Jinkins and I added two hundred
more, and saw him properly installed in his grocery before
we left him.

Next day I called on Mrs. Hunter, who informed me
that Hunter gave her fifty guineas, and advised her (as
best for them both) to make it up with his son, and try
him once more; that he was led to believe he vrould reform.
She then handed me the letter from her husband--
it was as follows:

"My dear injured wife, if I don't call you by that

name can you forgive me ? but I know you cannot--indeed
you ought not. I have for several flays been attempting
to write to you, but found it impossible. I
have written half a quire anti threw it away, because I
could not express what I wished, and this is all I dare
say until I hear from you. Your friend and mine, Mr.
Burlington, is the bearer of this.

"Your penitent W. HUNTER."

"And what is your determination?"

"To tell the truth, Mr. Burlington, I do not know--
I wish to go and see my mother, in the first place. I
shall never be happy until I obtain her pardon: and my
next wish is to see your sister once more, I have but two
wishes in this world, and it is these.

"I am afraid to trust Hunter, he has deceived me once
already, by a show of compunction. But if he would
renounce his former way of life, and pursue some honest
means for a livelihood, I think I would be happier with
him than in any other situation--but I will be advised
by you."

I told her "I was really at a loss--Hunter might be
sincere, and I believed he was, but I could not undertake
to guarranty for his subsequent conduct. I told her I
could not think of her visiting Boston in her weak state
--that she had better go to Philadelphia with Hunter
and Jinkins, and I would myself visit her mother and
sisters, obtain her pardon, and do all that was necessary.

She burst into tears--"And am I not to see my mother,
then?" said she.

"Yes, dear Clarissa, I pledge you my honour you
shall see her before I leave the country if I should take
you there myself."

I intended to add to the magazine of wonders, by
presenting old Mrs. Simpson and her daughters at Philadelphia,
(if they would go) as I could notthink of leaving
them in their distressed situation, but this I kept to
myself--leaving her there for the present, I took Jinkins
on my way and called on Hunter.

I informed him it was my wish that he should accompany
his daughter-in-law to Philadelphia, as she was desirous

of seeing my sister, Jinkins would accompany
them and conduct him to his son, and that whatever he
intended to bestow on him, I thought it nothing more
than justice to settle a permanent support upon his wife.
Perceiving by the letter that he was ignorant of his
son's assumed name, I apprized him that he assumed
the name of Smith, and that his wife had better adopt it
also.

I could not refrain from laughing at Jinkins after we
left Hunter.

"Damme if I like to have any thing to do with such
a scape-gallows set, as they seem to be all round," said
Jinkins.

I replied "that is the very reason why, and the time
when you ought to befriedn them--I mean when they
are abandoned by the world."

"Blast their eyes, I would give them the last penny
I have, but I do not like to be caught travelling with
them."

"I am sorry it has so happened, but, dear Jinkins, to
tell you the truth, I am afraid to trust this poor woman
with Hunter, and although I joined your names for
which I beg your pardon.) to save appearances, yet I
would as soon trust her with the d----I as Hunter; and
in fact I would trust her to very few, except yourself.--
And as for Hunter, he can go as he likes : and another
thing, no one knows as much of the parties as you do--
you will have the pleasure (the honour if you will) of
seeing the meeting between them.

"I will write to Mary by you, I wish her to receive the
letter before she sees Mrs. Hunter,this you will attend to."

We walked on to a mercantile house, where I purchased
ten thousand dollars worth of goods for myself, and
the same amount for Wilson. and consigned them to the
care of T. & Co. of New-Orleans. there to rernxirr till
spring, when I proposed to be in Tennessee, and have
them transported thence, as had been mutually agreed
upon between Wilson and I, before I left Philadelphia.

We had nothing to do now, but to take leave of Horton,
my Irish friends, arid Doctor N----. When
I returned, I took a sheet of paper, and wrote to Mary
as follows:--

"Dear Mary--This will be Banded to you by Mr.
Jinkins. Clarissa, your old acquaintance, is going with
him to Philadelphia-she assumes the name of Smith.

It is needless for me to tell you, what I know you will
do, that is receive her kindly, and treat her well till I
return; her husband will meet her there before long.

I am going to Boston, and shall return as soon as possible.
Adieu dear Mary."

Next morning I saw Jinkins, and Mrs. Hunter, safely
seated in a hack, and set off' before I left New-York.
Old Hunter took a passage also, and so did I, he to Philadelphia,
and I to Boston.

It was some time after my arrival in Boston, before I
found Mrs. Simpson. In their adversity, nobody knew
them.

I was forced to hunt up Mrs. Jones, and was at no little
trouble to find her. After finding Mrs. Jones, she
and I set out together, to Mrs. Simpson's.

After the usual salutation, Mrs. Jones observed, "here
is a gentleman who wishes to see you, Mrs. Simpson."
My name she told her, was Burlington.--I had a message
to her from her daughter.

"My poor Clarissa! and how is she? and where is
she?" asked the old lady eagerly.

"At Philadelphia," said I, "with my sister, by this
time, and in tolerable health."

"Can you be Mary Burlington's brother?"

"I am Madam."

"Why haven't you heard," said Mrs. Jones, "that
Miss Mary is married to one of the first gentlemen in the
country ?"

"How you talk," replied Mrs Simpson, taking off
her glasses, and surveying the in astonishment.

"You seem surprised, madam, don't you think my
sister was good enough for any man?"

"Yes," she said, "Mary was a good girl, but she
got affronted and left our house."

"And how is Miss Mary?" said Matilda, (as I took
it) I should like to see her."

"You can see her then; Mary would be equally pleased

to see you, and if you can put yourself under my
protection, l will see you safe there."

"Oh, sir, she cannot--she was treated too ill here
ever to forgive us."

"She does forgive you, madam--you are mistaken in
my sister."

I then turned to Mrs. Jones, and asked "if she recollected
Dupon?" and informed her what he was to me,
and that he was married to Martha on the same day
with my sister, and that his father was amongst the
wealthiest men in the country.

I wished to mortify this oId madam Simpson, whom I
discovered was a mean wretch, but for the sake of her
daughters I resolved to accomplish my scheme.

I also apprized Mrs. Jones of Mrs. Cary's good fortune
in the miraculous preservation of her son: and added
a shining description of our thrice happy assembly
that we all sat in one parlour. eat at one table, and our
whole time filled up with the most agreeable amusements.

"I am sure Miss Simpson, you must wish to see theim."

Mrs. Jones expressed the most heart-felt satisfaction,
and said "I always thought them girls would meet with
good fortune at last, for they never had a spark of pride
almut them ;and well does Mrs. Cary deserve her good
fortune, for there never was a better woman, though she
was persecuted in this town by a set of vipers, that ought
never to prosper."

Besides Matilda, there was present another daughter
of Mrs. Simpson's, Eliza.

I told them "I was serious, and that they must get
ready, for I would not go without them ; and as you may
not wish to go without your mother, we will take her
too."

"Oh, sir, you are very kind--but we cannot go--I
am not fit to appear amongst such great people," said
Matilda.

"And why are you not fit?"

"I am not able, sir; we have been very unfortunate
since you saw us: we have been reduced almost to beggary.

"That shall be an excuse," I answered, handing her

my purse--"take that, and rig yourselves up.. get
plenty of warm clothes, for I assure you, you will want
them."

"You can't be in earnest," said Mrs. Simpson.

I told her--"I never was more in earnest in my life."
The situation of this friendless family recalled to my
mind my mother's last injunction; poverty marked the
house throughout. Her son, the only one she had, was
dead.

Putting on air of gaiety, I told tire girls I should sup
with them that evening, and have us something good for
supper. Matilda get its some good wine, I am a great
epicure, and let us have a better fire. I shall return after
seeing Mrs. Jones home.

Poor things! their wan looks and sunken cheeks, intimated
too plain that good suppers and them had long
been strangers.

Mrs. Jones expressing a wish to go, I waited on her
home.

"I wonder, Mr. Burlington, how you can be so kind
to them Simpsons, when they used your sister so ill?
they had better have taken her life."

"Ah, madam, but we must forgive each other. Does
not the scripture tell us so? and only remember that
they are poor."

When we arrived at her house tea was ready, and I
took an humble cup with the humble Mrs. Jones.

While we were taking tea, a well dressed young man,
with an epaulette upon his shoulder, entered the house,
and asked if "he could get boarding there?"

Mrs. Jones told him "he could not--she was not prepared
to take boarders."

He then asked "if she could lodge him that night?"

"No; there were taverns and boarding-houses enough
in the city--why do you not go to them?"

The stranger smiled, and asked her "if she did not
recollect him?"

Upon which, Mrs. Jones looking earnestly at him,
exclaimed "if it is not my William!" at which they
flew into each others' arms.

It proved to be her son, who had just returned from a
three years' cruise in the Mediteranean, and being
much burnt with the sun was the reason she did not
know him at first.

I had intended to invite Mrs. Jones to go with me
likewise, to see her friends: but the return of her gallant
son, (her only child) had filled her heart to overflowing,
and it could hold no more.

When I returned to Mrs. Simpsons, the girls had just
returned from shopping, which gave me hopes of my
success—a glowing fire, good wine, and a good supper
quite irradiated the countenance of Mrs. Simpson, while
she repaid me in yankee style—“I guess you'll be too
good,” and all that.

“And had you no friend, Matilda, in your distress?”

“No, indeed sir—yours is the first friendly voice we
have heard.”

While we were at supper, I proposed to Mrs. Simpson
“to leave Boston and settle in Philadelphia: that she, I
thought, would do better there, and I see no inducement
to remain here; your son-in-law will, with his father
probably settle there, and if you resolve to go, I
will undertake to see you safe there, and see that you are
comfortably situated afterwards; that I could not think
of going away and leaving them unprotected and friendless.
You may think upon it, however, and let me know.
Meantime I desired the girls to get ready with all dispatch,
for I should insist upon their accompanying me
thither, whether they concluded to remove there or not.”

After sapper we sat up late, drank wine, and chatted
about Mary, and about Martha, and about every thing;
and to tell the truth, I believe old mother Simpson and
me took a little too much.

Next day I called on a few of my old acquaintances,
merely to see how the same people would behave under
different circumstances—`Won't you stay and dine?'—
`Can't you come and spend the evening?' I would as
soon have dined with Beelzebub.

Hunter, before we parted in New York, gave me a
power of attorney to sell the property he owned in Boston,
and bring him the money. I therefore called on

Mr. S. his agent, to apprize him of my business. As I
pursued my way to his house, not without some melancholy
reflections on former times, my attention was arrested
by the cruelty of a dray-man to his horse. He
was beating the poor animal, and forcing him to proceed
with a load too much for his strength. I stopped, and
mildly reproved the man for his cruelty—he desisted for
the purpose of attending to what I said: I was standing
rather on one side of the horse, when the innocent creature
turned his head to look at me, and seemed to implore
my pity: the big tear was standing in his eye—it pierced
me to the heart. The horse was familiar to me—I must
know that horse, and should have known him amongst
ten thousand—it was my father's old Pompey! He was
sold at the sale, with the rest of his property, and must
have been at least fourteen years old.

“What will you take for him?” said I to his brother-brute.

“Thirty dollars,” he answered.

I pulled out the money and paid it—“Now, sir, take
off the harness.”

“O, I must take the load to the wharf, first.”

“I would see you in perdition before he should pull it
another inch—so take him out—he is my horse.”

He took him out, while I stept to a shop for a bridle,
and patting the poor old fellow, told him he should fare
on the best, and never work more.

I seturned to the tavern, and the first thing I did, was
to see that Pompy had plenty to eat, and drink, and a
tripple bed of straw. Poor old friend, I could have
hugged him to my heart, nay I did do it.

After disposing of Pompey, I called on Mrs. Simpson,
(hearing would not be at home till evening) I found
the girls very busy, preparing for their journey, and the
old lady perfectly reconciled to remove to Philadelphia.
I told them I should sail the ensuing day, and desired
them without fail to be ready.

Having completed Hunter's business, and the ladies
their dresses, we on the day appointed, set sail for Philadelphia,
taking old Pompey along. Poor old horse, I
was afraid the vessel would jolt him too hard, but I

made him a soft bed, and advised him to lie down. And
now like a true knight errant, I appear, I dare say in
the eyes of many. By different people, however, the
thing will be viewed differently. Some will perhaps,
have evil things in their heads; but let me tell them,
they are evil people who think evil. I would pay as little
attention to their opinion, as I would to the opinion
of an ass.