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| 33. | CHAPTER XXXIII. |
 | CHAPTER XXXIII. The Tennessean |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
My uncle being attacked with a disease, supposed to
be produced by the climate of the West Indies, had been
advised to try that of the United States. But he found
the change too much on the opposite extreme—I therefore,
the evening that preceded our departure, advised
him to try that of New-Orleans. To this he gave me no
positive answer, saying that he had a wife and children
now, and supposed “he be to be guided by them; but
thee'll write to us now and then, and I'll let thee know.”
Nothing worthy of remark happened on our journey
to Tennessee, where we arrived in fourteen days, at the
dwelling of old Captain Wilson, whom and his wife we
found well. Great joy distinguished this happy meeting,
but like the sorrow of parting with our friends, it
defied description.
After spending a day with Captain Wilson, I rode to
Nashville for the purpose of engaging a boat to transport
Wilson's goods and mine to Tennessee—and fortunately
met with a gentleman just setting out for New-Orleans,
who wished to engage a back freight. Having furnished
him with the necessary instructions, I was about to
mount my horse, when, whom should I meet but Captain
T.! It may be supposed this event was mutually pleasing—giving
my horse therefore to the landlord, we adjourned
to a room, and over a bottle of wine related to
each other the principal incidents which happened to each
since our separation.
In answer to my enquiries about his last escape from
the Spaniards, he replied,
“That he took it by land to Vera Cruz—that he never
stopped till the next night, when fearing his horse might
give out, and considering himself out of danger, having
as he supposed travelled about one hundred miles, he
stopped and rested that night at a small hamlet, and
think how you and Wilson came to suffer yourselves to be
taken? why, if you had fired on them they would have
flown at the flash of the gun.”
“In fact,” I told him, “I and Wilson had laid down
and were asleep, when they surrounded and had us prisoners
before we were wide awake.”
He resumed—“he had no fear whatever when he gained
the open plain.” He then expressed the most cordial
satisfaction at my good fortune. “You may place that
to my account,” said he, “if it had not been for my wild-goose
chase, you would not have met with Hunter.'
I told him what was true, “that my sufferings greatly
over-balanced all, and ten times as much as I gained by
Hunter; and yet still it seems like Providence.”
When we finished our bottle, he procured a horse and
rode home with me to Captain Wilson's, saying “he
must see Henry.”
After the expressions of meeting between him and Wilson
were over, I made him acquainted with my sister,
telling Mary that “that was Captain T. of whom she
had heard so much.”
“Yes, madam, I am the Capt. T. who was the cause
of much distress to you.”
Captain Wilson was now in the heighth of his glory;
somebody to laugh, and drink with him, and listen to his
long stories. He was just in the middle of a campaign
when Capt. T. and I arrived, when luckily for Mary,
(whom he was entertaining) we relieved her; but he will,
no doubt, indemnify her at some future day.
As Wilson was now to begin the world, it was proposed
by his parents that he should reside with them. But
this I objected to, and advised him to build a house for
himself, as the old man intended to leave him the plantation
on which he lived at his decease, he could build on a
part of it; two families in one house I told him would
never agree, no matter how near and dear they might
be. A store-house must likewise be erected, and that
very soon, ready for business, by the time the goods arrived,
this would keep us pretty busy.
Henry was the old lady's darling, she disliked this arrangement
the best plan—Henry could have the big field, and raise
him as much corn as would supply him, and build him a
house on one corner of it, and he could go and see his
daughter-in-law once a day, and rock the cradle for her
occasionally”—all this was well. The great road leading
from Nashville to New-Orleans, passed through the
Captain's plantation, the neighbourhood was populous,
and here we concluded to build a store-house.
These things being settled, that same evening, after
supper, I drew out my pocket-book, telling Wilson “that
it was full time to give him the balance of Mary's portion—ten
thousand dollars you have already received, or
will receive, when your goods arrive, and here is forty,
which makes fifty thousand dollars in the whole. Will
that do?” said I.
“Yes, it will more than do,” said the generous Wilson.
“You are robbing yourself, Charles,” said Mary—
“my brother we cannot take so much from you.”
But I silenced them saying, “that in justice they ought
to have had more, and perhaps (if you make good use of
this) I may add more hereafter.”
A great deal was said on this occasion, and not the
least by old Mr. Wilson and his wife, which it is needless
to repeat. The old lady, after expressing much
seeming satisfaction, got up and went to her chamber,
and in a few minutes returned, and laid the bag of guineas
which her son had given her in Mary's lap, saying
as she did so, that “they had given Henry nothing yet,
but I have done my part: now, old man, do you do yours.”
“Well, you're very cunning,” said her husband, “to
make a merit of giving Henry what is his own.”
“Dear madam,” said Mary, “it would be a sin to
give us more: I cannot take all this, indeed—here, you
must oblige me by sharing it with me at least.”
“Keep it, child,” said the old lady, “what use have
I for it?
Mary, however, forced a few guineas upon her.
The next morning Wilson and I set about business in
earnest—Some twelve or fourteen workmen, including
carpenters, were set to work—nothing but the sound of
the course of a few weeks, a store and dwelling-house
was completed, and at the end of six weeks our goods arrived
from New-Orleans, all safe and in good order.
Here then was employment for us all—Wilson and I
making sales, while Mary was busied in furnishing her
house. She would forsooth come into the store, and
pick the best of every thing, accompanied by her mother-in-law,
who was all admiration at the fine things. The
old gentleman regularly spent every day at the store,
where he found ample opportunity of indulging his inclination
for company and conversation.
At the end of two months from the time of our arrival
in Tennssee, we had the unspeakable pleasure of saluting
one of our friends whom we left in Philadelphia—and
you won't guess who it was. It was not my uncle—it
was not Ferdinand, nor Jinkins, nor Jack Jinkins, nor
Sambo, nor Ling. Who then could it be? Neither more
nor less than old Pompey!
I had enjoined it upon my friends, to send him by the
first waggons that came to our part of the country; the
waggoner tied him to the hinder part of the waggon, and
he travelled at his leisure—a handsome reward was bestowed
on the waggoner for his pains.
We had in the meantime, however, received letters
from our friends, who still remained in Philadelphia.
They were all well, and had determined to remain in
Philadelphia till fall, when it was unanimously concluded
to remove to New-Orleans, and establish a mercantile
house of trade, to communicate both with New-York and
Liverpool.
The letter which brought us the news that our friends
had come to a resolution to settle in New-Orleans, likewise
informed us that the whole party would make the
journey by land as far as Tennessee, and take water at
Nashville, and that we might expect to see them, if no
accident occurred, some time in October. This letter was
dated July 7th—It is not easy to say whether the old
Captain's family or that of his son's (of whom I was one)
was most pleased at hearing this news.
I pass over the intervening time between this and the
by nothing of consequence, with the exception of
the hurry and bustle of the senior and junior Mrs. Wilsons
in making preparation for the guests.
At length on the twentieth of October, having heard
that the party were at McMinville, I took horse to meet
them, accompanied by Wilson.
About twenty-two miles from our residence behold we
espied two carriages moving towards us very slow, and
two gentlemen on horseback, whom we soon recognized
to be Ferdinand and Jinkins. Long before we got within
shaking hands, every head that could get out of the
carriage, was out, and amongst the rest the knotty pate
of Sambo.
He was in the foremost carriage, which besides him,
contained my uncle and aunt.
The other carriage was occupied by Martha, Mrs.
Jinkins, and Jack. All was exclamation, joy, and universal
tumult, not a word of which could be distinguished
for several minutes.
At length, as I rode by the side of my uncle's carriage,
the old man addressed me with—
“How far may it be now to the lands end, o' a place
—thee didn't mind to stop this side o' it—sure, if I
havn't travelled a thousand leagues over mountains and
hills, and plagued wi' a sort o' boats they called 'um, in
crossing thae rivers.
“Oh, I'd a been across the Atlantic wi' not half the
din, but 'suppose 'can't be far now.”
“No sir, we will get there to-night, if you push on a
little faster; but you must put on more sail, sir, the road
is good now.”
“Thof I ha' nothing to do with sails or rigging, albeit
thee may tell the fellow at the helm what thee likes,
(meaning the driver,) tell'ee what, it be the first and
last voyage I takes by land, and I han't been jolted wi'
the tossin' o' the vessel, or what 'ere it be called, over
hill and dale, it be a wonder, sometimes on her starboard
and sometimes on her larboard, wi' runnin' down steep
places, and puttin' about ship, I ha' been sick on't, d'ye
see.”
None of the party complained but my zncle, all seemed
in high spirits. About dusk we arrived at the plantation
of Captain Wilson, and as his was the largest and
most convenient house to entertain our travellers, we
took Mary up as we passed by, and proceeded to the
Captain's.
Here they were met by the Captain himself, who after
a kind and welcome greeting, invited them to walk into
the house, where they were severally presented to Mrs.
Wilson and the Captain.
Nothing could exceed the joy, no words could describe
the raptures of Mary, Martha, and Betsey, and my
aunt—they seemed as though they would devour each
other embracing and caressing.
The ladies, however, retired to another room, leaving
the gentlemen at liberty to enjoy themselves without restraint.
I had much curiosity to observe how my uncle
and Captain Wilson would marshal the affair, of manifesting
to each other that exalted opinion, and good liking,
which existed between them long ere they met. After
my uncle, therefore, had done with be-theeing every
mountain, hill, river, and tavern, which thwarted him
on his way to Tennessee, the Captain got leave to put in
a word, and was soon engaged in one of his long stories,
when supper was announced.
Captain Wilson and the Commodore, resembled each
other as near as possible, in their dispositions and principles—they
were alike generous and warm-heated, each
was diffident, and appeared perfectly (as most good men
are) insensible of his own merit.
The Captain had been a great soldier, and the other
a great sailor; nor was the Commodore guilty of telling
such tedious stories as the Captain—such as they were,
however:—they were infinitely pleased with each other,
although it was evident that by far the greatest number
of my uncle's sea-phrases, were unintelligible to his
friend.
After spending a month in Tennessee, we were doomed
once more to part, our friends pursuing their journey
to New-Orleans, and Wilson and I pursuing our mercantile
business in Tennesse, after promising to visit
them in the course of the next year.
This pleasure was prevented, however, by the breaking
out of the Creekwar, and every man who had any respect
for the character of a soldier, and there were few
that had not, in our state, repaired to the field, under
the gallant General Jackson.
Wilson and I, with our commander, Captain T—,
were among the first volunteers that marched, much
against the will of the ladies, but with the warmest approbation
of the old Captain.
We continued in the army until after the victory of
New-Orleans, one or other of us visiting Tennessee occasionally
to see the family, having left Mary at Captain
Wilson's, who in the course of time gave birth to a
daughter, and that too while Wilson and I were both absent.
As every incident of notice, both of the Creek war,
and the different battles of New-Orleans, are now before
the public, I shall pass over them in silence, and confine
myself to those which more immediately concern myself.
When we were ordered to New-Orleans, for the purpose
of defending that city, it may be supposed we lost
no time in paying our respects to our friends, whom we
found in great consternation at the approach of the enemy,
particularly the ladies, as they had understood that
the city was to be given up to be plundered by the British
soldiers.
As we marched down the street our ears were assailed
by loud shrieking, and bitter lamentations—the women
running to and fro, wringing their hands, and bewailing
their situations in shricks and cries.
General Jackson enquired into the cause of their distress,
and being told it was occasioned by their fears of
the British, he desired those who informed him, to assure
the ladies that the British should never enter New-Orleans.
No sooner was this made known, than they rent
the air with “Vive la Jackson!” and waving their handkerchiefs,
greeted him as their deliverer.
It will be recollected that a day of public thanksgiving
was appointed to celebrate the victory; and through
crowds of joyful citizens we followed our General to the
occasion. Whilst every eye was bent upon the heroic
General, and every ear listening to the prayers that were
offered up for his happiness, some one pulled me gently
by the sleeve—I turned round, and who should I see but
my old friend, Dennis, of Mexico, who in the same instant
pointed to Leanora! My brain grew giddy, and
my heart fainted within me. To what a pinnacle of
happiness had I now attained! participating in the glory
of a victory which was to render our name immortal, and
at the same time in the presence of all I held dear on
earth—I was intoxicated with delight.
Leanora was standing, the better to observe the ceremony,
and though I could not catch a glance of her eye,
I kept mine fixed upon her; nor did I withdraw them,
until the service was ended; when, throwing myself in
the way she must pass, I caught her by the hand, but
was unable to command a word. She was likewise silest—nor
did she faint or shriek, or give way to any of
the weakness' of her sex. We walked some distance,
before I was able to say, “This pleasure, madam, repays
me for all I have suffered in your country.”
I asked permission to attend her home; and enquired
to what miracle I owed this happiness? She only replied
by a shower of tears, and we walked on in silence.—
When we arrived at her dwelling, she invited me to walk
in, and we had scarcely seated ourselves, when Dennis
entered the parlour.
“May the powers bless us,” said he, offering his
hand, “but we are here, bag and baggage; and didn't I
know you the first glimpse I had of your face? You know
I did, and glad enough I was, I hope your honour is
well?”
“Dear Dennis I am well, and would rather see you
and your lady than to be monarch of the world; but I
will talk with you some other time—yes, a whole year,
Dennis,” and he took himself off. Leanora gave me to
understand, briefly, “That her father was accused, by
Government, of conniving at my escape, and had to fly
for his life, to this city.” I told her I would hear her
story some other time, when we were both more composed.
by father Antonio.
He saluted stiffly, as most Spaniards do, without
seeming to recollect me. Offering my hand, I informed
him who I was. He seemed little pleased at the renewal
of our acquaintance; asked, coolly, after my health, and
with a haughty air withdrew into another room, whither
Antonio followed him. Poor old man! his dress, as well
as that of Leanora, too plainly bespoke his situation,
and his head was almost white, and the wo-worn furrows
had taken possession of his cheek.
“The difficulties you have suffered on my account,”
thought I, “may well have prejudiced you against me;”
but for his daughter's sake I wished it had happened otherwise,
as I saw she was hurt.
“I will go and bring Wilson to see you, Leanora; he
is in town.”
Having said this I left her. When I arrived at Ferdinand's,
the company was thunder-struck at my discovery,
and my uncle, pulling a chair beside him, bid me sit
dawn and tell him all about it. I excused myself, of
course, borrowed a small sum from Ferdinand, and taking
Wilson's arm returned to Leanora's. We found
her and her father sitting in the same parlour where I
left her, engaged in conversation. Leanora expressed
much pleasure at seeing Wilson, and her father greeted
him with much more cordiality than he did me. Without
loss of time I told the old man I wished to speak with
him privately. He arose and walked into the room I
had seen him withdraw to upon his entrance into the
house. I followed him in, and laying the money on a
table that stood near me, addressed him as follows:
“Accept this trifle, sir, as a small remuneration for
the loss you have sustained on my account. It is with
much sorrow I learn that you were plunged into great
distress on my departure from Mexico. I have an ample
fortune, and you will confer an eternal obligation on me
by sharing it with me.”
But this haughty Spaniard touched it not, nor did he
deign to thank me; and turning his back upon me with
ineffable contempt, took the precedence in walking out
no means discouraged, and followed him out, leaving the
cash on the table, and father Antonio to watch it. I took
a seat by Leanora, and entered into conversation with
her, on matters of a different nature, whilst Wilson was
entertaining the old gentleman, God knows (for I don't)
about what. In a few minutes Wilson succeeded in persuading
the Don (may heaven reward him for the deed)
to walk with him and see his friends, and they left us
without speaking a word.
I was now alone with Leanora; my time was short,
and the only equivalent was to use it to the best advantage.
Waving every other consideration, therefore, I
adverted to that nearest my heart. Briefly, Leanora
agreed to be mine, in spite of frowns or fortune. The
conduct of her father to me she said was nothing but
the effect of spleen, and mortification, which arose from
his inability to leave her independent; and undertook to
obtain his consent to our union, of which she seemed to
have little doubt, when he came to be acquainted with
the advantages of the alliance. After things were settled
upon this footing, I desired Leanora to call Dennis.
When he came, I sent him into the room for the money.
Dennis, in the meantime, had prepared a repast, of
which Leanora and I partook; nor have we often since
that day enjoyed the comforts of the social board without
being blessed with the company of each other.
In the course of two hours Leanora's father returned;
but not quite in so sullen a mood. The reception he
met with, at the house of my friends, had evidently lowered
his Spanish pride. He condescended to smile, as
he entered the parlour, and said to his daughter, “de
lady beg you to honour them.”
“Yes,” I rejoined, “they will be proud of your acquaintance,”
and taking my hat I took leave of them,
saying to Leanora, “I would bring the ladies to see her
in the course of half an hour, and I hoped to have the
pleasure of her and her father's company that evening
at the house of my friends.”
Before I proceed further, it is necessary to give a brief
account of my friends in New-Orleans, where, as already
in the same house; Jinkins and his foster-father lived in
a separate one, not far distant from thence: but on this
evening they were all assembled at Ferdinand's. Mary,
taking the advantage of General Carrol's escort to New-Orleans,
to visit her friends, as well as her husband, had,
with her young daughter, lately arrived. Nor must I
omit to mention that both Ferdinand and Jinkins had
been blessed each of them with a son, but this is nothing
compared to what I am now obliged to add. Reader,
raise your expectations to the highest pitch: you are
about to be astonished, as I certainly was myself. My
uncle had the unspeakable pleasure of being blessed with
a son, three months before the birth of his grand-sons!
Wilson and myself had been so much engaged since our
arrival in the city, that our friends had but little of our
company, and being now at leisure, it was agreed and
intended to celebrate the birth of their children by “a
great merry-making,” as my uncle called it, and the
banquet was to take place the next day; when the mighty
scheme was entirely forgot in the joyful discovery of Leanora.
It would be mockery, as well as loss of time, to
repeat the expressions of joy on this occasion. The ladies
chided me severely for keeping them so long from
the sight of Leanora. Mary and Martha were sitting,
with their bonnets in their hands, and could hardly be
restrained by Wilson from setting off to see her, without
more ceremony.
Meanwhile, a sumptuous supper was ordered, and the
tedious half hour had expired, when Martha, Mary,
Betsey, and my aunt, attended by all the gentlemen, except
my uncle, sallied forth to the house of my intended
father-in-law, for hitherto I had never heard his name;
I apprized them on the way, that they would be much
disappointed upon seeing the object of their curiosity;
that they must not expect to see a beauty. Leanora was
well formed, had a very expressive countenance, good
features, a brilliant black eye, and brown complexion,
but the roses had left her cheek; in fact, she was much
altered from what she was: the effect of distress, no
doubt, and that too on my account. But it was her
captivated me.
Poor Leanora had like to have been pressed to death,
by the eager embraces of her new acquaintances, whilst
her father viewed the scene in silent astonishment.
Without paying the least attention to him, they were
flying off with Leanora, when I hinted the oversight to
Mary. She flew back in an insant, and taking hold of
his arm, led him along, whilst I wiped the tear of sensibility,
from the wan cheek of Leanora. Seeing Dennis
look mournfully after us, I asked Leanora to let him
come too; and the delighted Dennis, accompanied us,
and was permitted to be seated amongst us, at the general
rendezvous. Meanwhile, Mary never let go the
old Don's arm, until she landed him safe in the house.
And now I am once more nonplused in my narrative,
being unable to do justice to the happiness which distinguished
this evening's entertainment.
I must, however, relate a few of the incidents which
distinguished the flight of Don Emanuel, which I learn
is the name of Leanora's father, and formed a part of
the evening's amusement.
The keeper when he found the door of the prison open,
and the prisoner gone, hastened to the Vice-Roy, and
charged Don Emanuel, with effecting the prisoner's escape;
making oath to the allegation, and orders were
immediately issued for his apprehension. It had been
previously rumored, that he connived at the escape of
capt. T—, and that he had often of late transcended
his instructions in several instances.
“Meantime, a friend who was present when the order
was issued, fled to the Don, and apprized him of his danger,
and hastily addressing me, said, “Leanora, (for
it was her that related the circumstances) secure all the
money in the house, as quick as possible, my daughter,
Unco will —. He then, pale as a corpse, disappeared.
Although I trembled at such a degree, that I could scarcely
stand, with the assistance of Dennis, and father Autonio,
I had just secured one small box of money, when the
house was filled with offices in quest of my father. After
making strict search for him, in every part of the
success, whilst the others remained in possession of the
house. In a short time, an officer came and took possession
of every thing in the house, as forfeited to government,
concluding that my father had absconded, which
was proof of his guilt. I was permitted to stay in the
house, but sat up the whole night. Toward day, Dennis
went to the garden, and took what money he had secreted
there, and carried it to the dwelling of Unco;
there he saw my father, and disclosed to him the whole
matter. My father had intended to proceed on to Vera-Cruz,
that night, had Unco heen at home; but you know
where he was, said she with a smile to me.
“Briefly my father told Dennis, “that he would try
to escape to New-Orleans, as he would not be safe in any
other country, and that he and father Antonio must accompany
me thither afterwards, as he could better effect
his escape alone. I believe he continued there, concealed
by Unco's wife, forty days, before he set off accompanied
by Unco to Vera-Cruz, and then he lay concealed at
the house of Unco's uncle, three weeks, before he could
obtain a passage to New-Orleans; and I just arrived at
Vera-Cruz the next day, after he set sail. I took a passage
for Havana, and from there to New-Orleans, where
with my faithful friends, Antonio and Dennis, only to attend
me—I arrived safe.
“And every word of that is the trut,” said Dennis,
“but my lady did'nt tell you after all, how I fixed 'um.
“No Dennis,” said I, “you must tell us that yourself,
I love to hear the sound of your voice once more.”
“Well, I'll tell you how it was; the cursed divils,
God forgive me, they wasn't satisfied with getting all my
master had in the world, and his money into the bargain,
but they says to me `Old man, your master had more
more money than here is; don't you know where he kapes
his money?' God knows my master, poor sowl, never
hoarded up money in his born days—I don't know any
thing about my master's money;' and so it passed on—
every time they'd see me, they would be sure to ax me to
tell them where my master hid his money? and at last,
thinks I, I'll match you, and so just the very day before
do but tells them that (making out as if it was a great secret)
that if they would just give me fifty guineas, I
would tell them; but they must never betray me, and
they must put the money down first, and that I would
agree to give it back if in case they didn't find what I
told them wasn't the truth—and so they gives me the
money, and I tells them right in the sout corner of my
master's garden, if they would dig there, if they didn't
find it, I'd agree to be buried there myself. The sorrow
a bit they know'd we were were coming away, and I'll
warrant my poor master's garden paid for the roast;
and I got that much out of them, clear gain.”
Dennis continued to entertain us during the balance of
the evening, to the great amusement of the company.—
Meantime my father Don seemed to relax by degrees;
but I paid little attention to any thing but one object:
once in the while I would observe how he relished my attention
to his daughter. So far as I could perceive he
showed no sign of disapprobation. We sat up late, and
Don Emanuel arose to take leave, saying to his daughter,
“it was time to go,” when the ladies, all with one
accord, declared they could not part with her.
“Indeed, sir,” said Martha, “she cannot go, and
you, sir, must stay, likewise.”
But there was father Antonio, some one would be obliged
to go—when Dennis said, “Devil a fear of him—
sure won't I be there.” Finally it was settled that Jack
Jinkins and Dennis should go: and Mary, seating herself
by the side of the Don, and taking hold of his hand,
said “He must reconcile himself to stay;” to which
he assented.
I must gratify the reader with a partial disclosure,
(but it wil be partial, of a few matters which occurred
between myself and Leanora that evening, while the
company was otherwise engaged. I proposed to her to
fix upon some day, and not a very distant one, for our
union. She said a week, I wished it the next day, and
so we split the difference—and the third day from that
was finally agreed upon. She had previously given me
to understand that she had been questioned by her father
him what he might expect.
On the evening appointed, Leanora and I were united,
to the great joy of our friends, and still greater of ourselves.
Thus having brought the narrative of the principal
incidents of my life (so far) to a happy conclusion,
I have but little more to add.
And here I must remark, what never fell within my
knowledge until after my marriage, and that is, that the
individual least noticed in the narrative, is perhaps the
most interesting and efficient character connected with
it, I mean father Antonio.
To his instructions Leanora was indebted for those
principles which influenced her conduct, and disposed her
to acts of charity and benevolence. He had attended
her from infancy, and devoted all his time and talents
to her instruction. Antonio was a confessor to Leanora's
grand-mother, in Portugal; and after her death, he
accompanied her daughter to Mexico. This last, when
on her death bed, conjured him never to forsake her
daughter; but if she lived, to educate her in the principles
of virtue and religion, and if possible, convey her
from Mexico, which she detested.
In short, she could not have consigned her daughter to
the care of a more deserving man. He possessed all the
elegance and refinement of a gentleman, and all the piety
of a saint; and was, in every respect, the most amiable
of his species; and through him his pupil became
what she was, the mirror of every virtue.
In a word, father Antonio was no other than Sir William?
When Leanora's mother, to whom he was much
attached, was carried off by her mother to Portugal,
Antonio followed her thither; but before he could discover
the place of her residence, she was married to Don
Emanuel. Disappointed in his hopes, he became disgusted
with the world, and took holy orders. Thus
having devoted his life to the church, he assumed the
name of Antonio, and under the disguise of a Spanish
priest, became a confessor in the same family of her,
who had once been the object of his ardent affection.—
After the decease of the mother, he accompanied the
she ever mistrust his person until he revealed it himself
on her death bed.
Horton continued to live happily with his wife, and
was increasing rapidly in wealth and reputation. The
M'Callester's had left New-York, Dr. N—, with
whom I corresponded informed me; but whither they
were gone, he knew not.
The Simpsons still remain in Philadelphia. Clarissa,
who corresponds with Mary, states that Eliza and Matilda
are happily married to respectable mechanics, and
the old lady resides with Eliza. Clarissa's husband
continues to behave well; but his father will not suffer
him to have any hand in money matters. Her own
health, however, continues delicate, and a trip to the
mineral springs of Virginia was prescribed by her physicians.
Sullivan, also, remains in Philadelphia, it being better
suited to his calling, which is that of a ship-carpenter.
Jinkins had joined Ferdinand and the commodore, in
mercantile business, and, out of respect for Jack, he refused
to resume his father's name.
Old Jack continues to live with Jinkins, who treats
him with all the filial affection of a son.
After the flurry of war, and my subsequent marriage
was over, I had leisure to observe how uncle Thomas
kept his reckoning with the young squadron. There
were four. “Uncle,” said I one evenining, “how do
you manage to steer clear of all those little ones? Do
they not annoy you?”
“An I han't been dinned wi' um till I be a most crazy.
It be nothing but squalls, from mornin' till night.”
“But your little Charles, (the name he gave his son,)
is such a sweet little boy, you never get angry with him?”
“Oh, I likes the little rogue well enough, when it be
in good humor.” Old Sambo is in his glory, dandling
his young master on his knee, and leading him about.
After spending three weeks with my friends, at New-Orleans,
I took leave of them, and set out for Tennessee,
where I at present reside. Besides my wife, I was
and Mary choosing to spend the winter in New-Orleans.
On our journey, our carriage broke down, in the night,
within a few miles of Captain Wilson's. We were driving
pretty fast, in order to reach the captain's that night,
when one of the tires suddenly dropped from the wheel.
The accident happened near a new log cabin, on the
road-side; and, though the prospect was not very flattering,
it was much better than spending the night in the
woods. Taking Leanora's arm, I approached the house,
and, relating our misfortune, asked accommodation for
the night.
“Lord save us!” said Matty, “if it isn't his honour.
You are ten thousand times welcome. I'm sure, had it
been my father out of the grave, I would not have been
glader till see him. And do ye think, we were just talking
about ye, the very minute ye spoke at the door.” I
told her to get us something to eat—a cup of coffee or
tea, if she had any, and prepare a place for Leanora to
lie down, and the rest of us could sit up till morning.
“And troth have I both tea and coffee, and good loafsugar;
and do ye know, I have three as good featherbeds
as ever ye slept on. Didn't I buy them wi' the
money that your honur's uncle gift me? And troth, it
was a lucky day that.”
William had no opportunity to say a word, till Matty
went to prepare supper; when he informed me that
he had arrived in Tennessee, about four months before,
and met with a kind reception from captain Wilson,
with whom I had left directions to provide for him, if he
should arrive in my absence; as I thought he might probably
follow the advice which I gave him in New-York.
In a short time, supper was ready. After doing particular
honour to Matty's good things, we were all comfortably
lodged, some on the floor and some on bedsteads,
all in one room; while the family climbed up a ladder,
into the loft, as these log cabins are called.
Next morning I sent to captain Wilson's, which was
only three miles distant, for a carriage, and proceeded to
his house.
Mrs. Wilson had been dead about six months. The
old man, however, was alive and well, and often ensnares
me into one of his long stories.
Nor must I forget two other individuals, equally entitled
to notice: I mean Unco and his uncle. Cold must
be the heart, and lost to the best feelings of our nature
would be the man, who would not do homage to virtues
like theirs. To account for their attachment to the family
of Leanora, it need only be mentioned, that they
both owed their lives to the humanity of Leanora's
mother.
Shortly after her arrival in Mexico, these Indians
were on some trivial account condemned to death; but
through her intercession were pardoned, and ever after
became strongly attached to her family.
Old Pompey is still alive, (I mean when these memoirs
were written in 1816) as fat as a seal, and as frolicsome
as a colt, though his eye-sight is not so good as formerly.
But the glory and amusement of my family, is Dennis,
who is quite lifted up. “I always said so, I could
see how it would end,” he would often say, “I always
told my lady, you were not sent there for nothing.”
The last I heard of my friends in New-Orleans, they
were well, except that uncle Thomas, and his favorite
Ling, were sometimes afflicted with the gout.
| CHAPTER XXXIII. The Tennessean | |