University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

Nothing worthy of notice occured during our voyage.
When we arrived at Philadelphia, I took the ladies
to an inn, hard by the dwelling of my friends, with
an assurance that I would visit them in the course of an
hour.

I next disposed of Pompey in a comfortable stable, and
then waited on my friends, whom I found well. Clarissa
rose and met me with a smile, (for she was there) and
asked, “what news from Boston?”

“All well,” I replied, “your mother and sisters were
well when I left there.”

“No letter?” said Clarissa.

“No,” I replied, “they would have wrote, but they
knew I could give more general satisfaction.” Not willing
to make minute enquiries before so many, Clarissa
said no more, particularly as I was engaged in replying
to the several enquiries of my friends.

In the course of the conversation, I failed not to acquaint
Mary, of my good fortune in meeting with Pompey,
and that he was now in Philadelphia.

After chatting some time, and enquiring of Clarissa
and Jinkins, how they got on, I proposed a walk, to the
latter, saying my excuse to the company. As we proceeded
to the Inn, where I left the ladies, I informed Jinkins
of my plan agreeably to surprise, not only Clarissa,
but the whole party.

“What three more women?” said Jinkins.

“Even so, and had like to have had one more.”

“What in God's name are you going to do with a
seraglio of women?”

“Leave them with you dear Dick, for I am going
away in the spring you know.”

“D—d if you do then.—One is more than I want;

but I suppose I shall have to be noosed to one,” rather
sheepishly. “for the sake of peace.”

“I am pleased to hear that, for I suspect you mean
Miss Watson.—I always wished that to take place,”
said I. “And why do you all pitch upon me to marry
her?”

“Because I wish the poor orphan under protection,
and happy.”

“Why don't you take her under your protection?
marry her yourself.”

“But she loves you Dick, and I know, although you
talk in this manner, you have a strong partiality for her;
and be assured that if you do not marry her, I will,
though I would not express as much to mortal, other
than yourself. But understand me distinctly, when I
make this declaration.—It is because I believe Miss Watson
would make any man happy—and that she deserves
to be so herself; but above all, because she is poor and
destitute.”

By this, we were at the house, where I left the ladies;
and without loss of time, we set out with them to Mrs.
Cary's.

When we entered the parlour, I discovered marks of
surprise in every countenance.

“I told you that you should see your Mother, Clarissa,”
said I, approaching her with the old ladies' arm
locked in mine, “this is your mother.” It is needless
to add the rest—when the transports of the mother, and
the daughter, had given place, Matilda, and Eliza, were
permited to approach and embrace their sister. Meanwhile,
surprise and pleasure, were alike predominant
in every beholder; not one of them had had the least
shadow of suspicion, and never were more completely
taken by surprise.

I left to Mary the balance of the ceremony, and steped
to the landlord, to have chambers prepared forth with,
and return to the company, telling Mrs. Simpson. Suitable
rooms were preparing for her, to which she might
retire when she thought proper. In the course of an
hour the Simpsons were shewn to their rooms, accompanied
by Clarissa.

“And now,” said Wilson, “you ought to close the
drama, by having old Harry is it?”

“Pompey you mean.'

“Well Pompey be it, brought from the stable, and
make me acquainted with him, for I confess I would
rather see him, than the Simpsons.”

“So would I.”

“So would I.”

Was uttered by every one; and I actually had to send
for Pompey. My uncle had been apprised of the arrival
of his brother's horse, and was no less anxious to see
him.

When it was announced that Pompey was at the door,
every one flew to meet him, except the commodore, and
as he could only move at a moderate walk, I waited for
him. When we joined the party, the ladies were caressing
the poor old fellow, talking to him and patting him
with their hands. Mary must needs run for salt, and
Pompey licked it out of her hand. I dare say, if he
would have excepted it, the ladies would have sent a
feather bed to his stall, so devoted were they to his ease
and comfort.

After their curiosity was gratified, I sent Pompey to
his lodgings, and taking Jinkins with me, proceeded in
quest of the Hunters.

The old man, Jinkins informed me, had arrived in
Ppiladelphia, and agreeably to the instructions he gave
him, discovered the residence of his son, but farther he
could not tell.

On our way thither, Jinkins informed me, that the
match was actually concluded upon, between him and
Miss Watson—and that great efforts were making to
bring about one between my uncle and his mother. Ferdinand,
was the principal spokesman with the old man,
though he threw in a word occasionally.

I asked “if the commodore had ever made any personal
overtures to his mother?”

“No, her rapelling modestly, he believed, would
never be brought to submit to a personal interview of
that nature, I have myself, however, said little to her on
the subject.”

“But what does my uncle say?”

“That,” said Jinkins, “I was just going to tell
you.”

“One night after my return, the ladies had retired to
their chambers, your uncle, Ferdinand, and myself, were
sitting by the fire, Ferdinand says, “come father, let us
know your decision now, Dick is present, you would
give no satisfaction till he arrived, now you can have his
opinion.”

“Oh thee's a worrysome dog—What do'st think Dick,
they wants me to enter upon matrimony, and like o' that,
with thee mother, and don't know whether she'll ha' me
or not.”

“Why don't you ask her?” said I.

“Ask thee granny, think I'm goin' a courtin' to a
woman that blushes when one looks at her? tell'ee what
it'ill never do, for such old folks as we be, to be huggin'
and bussin'.”

“No necessity for hugging and bussing, (said I,) until
after you are married.”

“What will'ee have on't? how is one to woo? always
seed 'um huggin' their sweet-hearts, but if so be that
thy mother is willing to take such an old weather-beaten
fellow as I be, an' I hear no more fash about it, why
I'm never the man that'll flinch, d'ye see, to take command
o' a steady vessel, and 'suppose it'll give comfort
to the youngsters.”

“Why, you are not so old, sir, you have just entered
your fifty-first year, and my mother, she says, is in her
fortieth—that is not so old, I'm sure, I havn't a doubt
but you'll have several children.”

“Ah, get along with thee, Dick—thought thee would
not lend a hand—and thee's 'worst o' the crew.”

He agreed, however, before we quitted him, that my
mother “was most like his Eliza of any woman he had
seen.”

“All we want now,” said Jinkins, “is my mother's
consent. I told her the other day that we had saved her
the trouble of courting, having obtained the Commodore's
consent, and that a little brother or sister would
yield me the most joy of all things.”

She burst into a laugh and almost broke my head, and
bid me begone. I have learned since that she told the
girls, who are always teazing her, that she would give
them an answer when you returned, that you were her
first and only friend, and if you advised her seriously to
it, she would comply.”

We now arrived at Smith's, as he is to be called, we
found him and his father both sitting together, they appeared
glad to see us, the young one particularly. I delivered
the money to the father, twenty thousand dollars.
He was pleased, beyond measure, at the sale, saying it
was more than he had expected.

After delivering the money, and a letter which his
agent sent, I proposed his going with me, immediately,
to purchase a house for his daughter-in-law, to which
he assented cheerfully.

But before we set out I asked the son if he and his
wife had become reconciled. He answered that she
waited for me, and would tell him nothing till I came.
I told him I would see her that evening, and we proceeded.

Upon looking over the papers at a reading room, we
picked out one in Elm-street, and waited on the proprietor,
who walked with us to the premises and concluded
the contract. To save trouble and keep on safe ground
I had the property conveyed to six trustees for her benefit
during her life.

It was a very handsome two-story brick building, two
rooms below stairs, and four above, a cellar and kitchen,
the whole was purchased for fourteen thousand dollars,
possession given on signing and sealing. I put the key
into my pocket, signifying to Hunter that the house must
be furnished, and he or I must do it.

He said he would do it, to be sure.—I replied I was
glad to hear it, as I had to provide for Mrs. Simpson,
and her two daughters, whom I found in distress in Boston,
and had brought them on to this city at my own expense.
Having said this, Jinkins and I returned. On
our return Jinkins said “he would not be much surprised
if young Hunter should rob his father, and clear out
with the cash.”

“The old fox will be too cunning for him.”

Waving the subject of the Hunters, I observed to
Dick “that so soon as we disposed of the Simpsons, we
must bring my uncle to woo your mother in earnest; I
wouldn't miss it hardly for the match. We must leave
them alone someday, and some of us must lie in ambush.”

At this we arrived at our lodgings—I knocked at the
door of Mrs. Simpson, and told Clarissa her house was
ready—gave her the key, saying it would be furnished
the next day.

Upon entering our parlour I sent for the landlord, and
desired him to have some good music at seven o'clock,
and a few other good things for supper; and turning to
Wilson and Ferdinand, I informed them “that I had a
matter though small, yet serious, to submit to them.
Here are three poor females in distress, and must be assisted.
I found them in want of the necessaries of life,
clothed them, and brought them on at my own cost; now,
as good christians, I wish to see what you will do, ladies
and all—and remember, that they have neither house,
nor home, nor friends: their brother, all the protector
they had, is no more. You that are able, throw in accordingly.”

Looking at Ferdinand, and calculating upon what his
father would give him, he was worth more than the whole
of us put together.

“You cannot mean them d—n Simpsons?” said Wilson.

“Yes, sir,” I replied warmly, “I mean them; where
is your charity? you surely would not bear malice
against females: here are two innocent girls, whom I
dare say had no hand in the affair, you resent—and even
if they had, I know you too well, Wilson, to believe you
would harbour resentment against friendless orphans.”

“There stop, you have said enough,” said Wilson,
“you would have made an excellent preacher.”

I then placed a table in the centre of the room, and
setting a candle and a few cards thereon; after writing
the sum I was willing to give and turning the card over
to couceal the amount, I retired to my seat. The others
followed my example, walking separately to the table,
each one wrote on a card and turned it over.

When all had got through, Wilson walked to the table
and read as follows:

                   

Thomas Burlington,	$500
Henry Wilson,	300
Martha Cary,	30
Ferdinand Burlington,	900
Richard Jinkins,	250
Mary Wilson,	50
Martha Burlington,	100
Charles Burlington,	300
Betsey Watson,	20
	$2,450

“Well,” said my uncle, “'think we all did pretty
well, han't we?”

“Yes sir, but it was nothing more than was to be expected
after a sermon.” said Jinkins.

Just at that moment the musicians arrived.

I desired Mary “to go and bring Matilda and Eliza,
and she might use her pleasure as to the other two.”
She, however, returned with them all, which completely
filled our parlour. I now saw, what I ought to have
done sooner, viz. that we must adjourn to a larger room,
and issued orders to that amount. I was, however, no
little amused at the perplexity of the Commodore, when
he saw so many persons enter the parlour, which were
to him unexpected; and although the room was small,
his heart was big—he cast his eyes round, up and down
the room, then on the company, and hitching his chair
closer to the wall, seemed by his looks to say `here is
room.'

The company was now filing off under the guidance of
Ferdinand. I remained behind with my uncle, intending
to bring up the rear. After they had sufficient time to
be regulated, I drew my uncle's arm under mine, and followed.
Leading him near the fire I left him, and took
up my flute—Ferdinand performed on the clarionette—
Jinkins and Wilson sung. The ladies appeared (and
probably were) highly delighted, while my uncle seemed
to forget his age.

An hour and a half had flown (while it appeared not
more than half that time) when refreshment was introduced.
The collation was delicious, ample, and in endless
variety—syllibubs foamed high, jellies trembled,
champaign and claret formed rivers, coffee and tea an
ocean, whilst cheese, ham, cake of all sorts, and fruit of
every kind completed the repast. The whole was seasoned
with glee, and merry jests, nor must it be forgotten
that Jack Jinkins made one of our guests; the man,
whose gallant conduct had endeared him to us all. He
was neatly dressed, and demeaned himself with that ease
of manner, which bespoke a just sense of the tribute he
deserved.

When our repast was over, Mary declared “she would
have a dance—it was too much to let all those good
things go off so.—Choose partners, ladies and gentlemen.”

Betsey Watson ran to my uncle and pulled him out.

“Oh, child, I knows nothing at all about thae sort o'
dances.”

“No excuse,” said she, “you can just walk the figure
—we only want you to make out the set.”

The old man suffered her to pull him on to the floor—
“—He'd seen the time he could foot it with the best of
'um.”

The music began, and so did we—I mean to go
wrong. Could not make the figure for our souls, and
I was seriously engaged in restoring order, before I discovered
that Wilson was putting the others out, to raise
a laugh. My uncle, though he lifted his feet now and
then, could by no means get into the way on't. In short,
all fell into confusion, every one was seized with laughter.

“Let us begin again,” said I.

“No, no:” answered Wilson, “we'll get right directly—cross
hands here madam—”

“Now we ha' it,” said my uncle, “right and left.”

I had to leave them, being unable to keep the floor
from laughing.

“Well, now, I've made thee all laugh, I'll go sit
down—'twas just what thee's wanted.”

We commenced again, and went through one or two
rules.

The music was now dismissed, and plays succeeded,
nor did we break up until the clock struck twelve. I
then conducted the Simpsons to their rooms, and we
separated for the night.