University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

I had been at Princeton, nearly five months, when I
received a letter from my father, which overwhelmed
me with astonishment and distress. It was as follows:

With a heart full of grief, I took leave of Wilson,
and set off the same evening. When I arrived at home,
I hastened to examine my father's books, and soon discovered
that Hunter was at the bottom of this unaccountable
plot. I found that my father had regularly
remitted his share of the payments! Hunter must have
kept it! Hunter must be combined with them! Hunter,
I concluded, was the villain!

But what was to be done, I could not devise; for the
property was to be sold in forty days. The sum required
was enormous—one hundred and eighty-four thousand
pounds, sterling! I was horror-struck! Every
thing we had, must be sacrificed. In this dilemma, we
held a consultation, the result of which was, that I
should take Hunter's bounds, go to him, and collect the
money, if possible, or get what I could; with a view to
save a few necessaries. I was to set out the next morning.
In the mean time, my father called for a candle
and walked into his library. After attempting to console
my mother and sister, whose distress was beyond
description, I stepped into the library to receive the

bonds, intending to set out before day. When I approached
my father, he was looking in a small trunk,
seemingly unconscious of my entrance. “The bonds
were enclosed here,” said he, “I saw them not long
ago.” “Can't you find them, father?” “No.” I
proposed to assist him, and, taking the trunk to a table,
I emptied the contents on it, and then examined every
paper, one by one. No bonds to be found. My father's
fortitude entirely forsook him—he fainted. I
called for help, and removed him to bed.

As my father sunk under his misfortunes, my mother
seemed to be inspired with fresh courage. She strove to
reconcile him to this new calamity. “Charles,” said
she, “it is the will of Providence that we should be afflicted:
thee need not be cast down; remember Job.—
Thy family is grown; Charles and Mary can maintain
us; little will do thee and me.”

My sister and myself strove to comfort him. Mary
kissed him, and begged him to remember that he
had enjoyed many years of felicity; and that he ought
to be resigned under his present trials; but he was
mute. Nothing could equal the distress I felt; but this
was not the business, and despondency would avail
nothing.

My suspicion respecting the bonds, fell on Horton.
He had quitted my father, without assigning any reason;
and had left Boston, a few weeks before the property
was seized. Although I had little hopes of succeeding
with Hunter, yet, to gratify my father, who still
retained some opinion of the man, I set out for New-York.
When I made my name and business known to
Hunter, he assumed a haughty distant air, and replied,
“I am surprised at your father,” (raising himself with
unparalleled impudence as he spoke,) “I am surprised,
that he should demand a debt long since paid; but it
is nothing more than I expected.”

He had scarcely uttered the last word, before I seized
him by the collar—“You lie, villain! nor dare to use
such language of my father. You stole the bonds, and
now you deny the debt.” He bawled out, “Murder!
murder!” as loud as he was able. The house was filled,

instantly, with people. I attempted to withdraw
from it, but was seized and conveyed before a magistrate.
I began, but too late, to reflect on my rashness.
The wretch, thought I, will swear any thing. I have
no friends here. The horrors of a jail—my father,
mother, and sister—the distress they would suffer, rushed
upon me at once; but I will not attempt to describe
my feelings. Indeed, I was, for some time, insensible;
nor would any one understand me, who has not experienced
misfortunes like this. A calamity, so great, so
sudden, and so unexpected, has scarcely a parallel.

Hunter swore that I entered his house to maltreat
him, and that I would have murdered him, had he not
been suddenly and seasonably relieved. It is scarcely
necessary to add, that I was committed to prison, to
await my trial at the ensuing term of the city court;
which was twelve days hence. I happened to have
money enough to fee a lawyer who visited me in prison,
and very candidly informed me that if the same evidence
was, (as it certainly would be,) admitted in court,
the consequence would be serious. It might be a heavy
fine, and, perhaps, ten months imprisonment.

What was to be done? I felt no concern for myself;
but the affliction of my parents distressed me, beyond
measure. I had written to them on the subject, but softened
the thing as much as possible, without concealing
the truth.

The lawyer asked if no other person was present
when the affray took place. I told him there was a servant-maid,
(as I took her to be,) but what of that?
Hunter would dictate to her. “We will risk it,” said
he, “you cannot be worsted. Say nothing about it,
when you are in court, and I will arrange it.”

Accordingly, when we, Hunter, &c. were called before
the court, I saw my attorney send an officer out,
who soon returned with the servant-maid, whom he interrogated
privately. Hunter was at this time giving
in his testimony, and was unapprized of her being in
court. The attorney managed to keep the servant
closely engaged in conversation, during Hunter's examination,
so that she never heard a word of his evidence.

While he was talking with the girl, I noted down the
testimony of Hunter. He stated, that “Charles Burlington
came into his house, fell on him, without speaking
a word; beat him, and abused him with the most insolent
language.”

The girl was then desired to stand forth, and was
sworn

Q. Do you know the prisoner at the bar?

Witness. He came to our house, week before last.

Q. Did you see him enter Hunter's house?

Witness. I opened the door for him, myself.

Q. Did you see and hear all that passed between him
and Mr. Hunter?—If you did, state what it was, to the
court.

Witness. Last Monday week, (this was Friday,) I
was sweeping the front room, I heard a knocking at the
door. I opened it, and this gentleman came in. I asked
him to walk into the parlour. He refused, and asked
if Mr. Hunter was at home. At that moment Mr.
Hunter came in. The prisoner asked him if his name
was Hunter. He answered, “It is.” “I have a letter
for you—I believe from a friend of yours.” He took
the letter out of prisoner's hand, and asked prisoner to
be seated. He looked at the letter, and said, “I am
surprised that your father should send to me for money,
when he has been paid, long since; but it is just what I
expected from a man of his principles.” The prisoner
catched Mr. Hunter by his collar, and called him a villain.
Mr. Hunter cried out, “Murder!” and called for
assistance. Some men that were passing the house, ran
in and seized the prisoner.

Q. Were you present until the prisoner was carried
out of the house?

Witness. I was.

Q. Were you summoned upon the first examination?

Witness. I was not.

Q. Did you see the prisoner strike Hunter?

Witness. I did not.

Q. What were you doing in this front room?

Witness. I was sweeping it, as I told you, before.

The testimony being got through, the charge against

me, was ably and splendidly supported, and I gave myself
up for lost. I thought I could see ten thousand devils
in Hunter's countenance; I felt the pangs of a long separation
from my parents;—I felt wretched. But the
attorney who defended me, had proceeded but a short
way in my defence, before I conceived my innocence secure,
and I felt happy.

Those conflicting sensations were the effects of my inexperience,
particularly of courts, and pleadings;—
though I have since learned that Mr. W—, who defended
me, possessed genius, eloquence, and a consumate
knowledge of the law. A trifling fine, was the end of
this mighty matter, and I left New-York.

Upon my arrival in Boston, I found my parents in
the deepest distress, on account of my absence, and confinement.
My father, compelled at last to change his
opinion of Hunter, gave all up for lost. The shock of
this sad reverse of fortune, entirely deranged him; his
vivacity forsook him—he became melancholy, and, in
short, his life was despaired of.

My mother had, by dint of inquiries, whilst I was at
New-York, learned from the servants enough to confirm
the suspicion, that Horton had stolen Hunter's bonds.—
One of them, being out late one night, saw Horton coming
out of the library with a lantern in his hand; but,
thinking he had been sent by his master for something,
never mentioned the circumstance, until it was revived
in his memory by the inquiry for the bonds.

Our situation was desperate. I attempted to borrow
money, but the report that the firm was completely broken,
had spread far and wide—no one would lend. We
therefore awaited our doom in deep melancholy. We had
not even the consolation of a friend—we had many of
them, in our prosperity; but they all forsook us, at the
time we had most need of them.

The day of sale came; the property went for almost
nothing. I purchased a few necessaries for the family;
but they were not long needed.

My father, who had been almost insensible before the
day of sale arrived, died shortly after it; and my mother
survived him only six months. She strove to combat

fortune, while my father lived; but, upon his death,
her fortitude forsook her—she gave way to her grief,
and ended her sorrow in death.

A few days before this best of mothers died, she called
me to her, desired me to fasten the door, and set down
by her. After doing as she dictated, she thus addressed
me:—“My dear Charles, I feel that I shall soon
leave this world.” Seeing that I began to weep, she
endeavoured to comfort me—“It is no time to weep,
my son; listen to my advice. Thou hast had a good
lesson from the Almighty; I trust thou wilt profit by it.
He has taught thee, (for it is all his doings,) how vain
and transitory are all earthly things. Thy father has
toiled, and laboured, to leave thee and thy sister an independence;
but this displeased our heavenly Father,
and it has pleased him to blow it away with the breath
of his nostrils. Learn, from this, my son, what empty
bubbles are wealth and honour. Alas! what can they
do, in the hour of distress! But, above all things, my
child, pity and relieve your fellow-creatures, when in
distress—never turn away from the poor; for God hears
their cry, and he will revenge it on thee. Be humble;
respect the widow's tear and the orphan's cry. Remember
that thy days are but very few here; lay up, therefore,
your treasure in heaven, by loving mercy and walking
humbly. Thou need not doubt thy Saviour's ability
to save. Christ has died for thee; therefore thou
canst not be lost; but I warn thee, never boast of thy
piety; keep thy piety to thyself, and let that of others
alone. Never run here, or run there, to hear this or
that great or small preacher. Such is not true Christianity;
but love god and your neighbour. True and
vital religion, says St. James, is not in running to night
and day meetings; it is in succouring the widow and
orphan in their distress, and keeping thyself unspotted
from the world. Have no connection with those people
who are noted for running to church, and nothing else.
I have always found them the most unfeeling, cruel, and
hard-hearted of the human race. They have mistaken,
they have forgot, they have entirely misinterpreted
Christ's precepts. Thou wilt find, my Charles, that

those religious bigots have none of the meek, kind, and
loving spirit of Christ; therefore imitate them not. I
have not the presumption to say why this is so; but, I
think it is the fault of the clergy. So long as they can
draw the people to hear them, so long can they rule
them; and if they continue, they will soon be as despotic
as as the Pope, and, perhaps, not half so charitable.
Be not deceived by these cold-hearted, cold-blooded
professors—remember what this wretch, Hunter, has
done. Perhaps he never would have thought of such a
black piece of treachery, had he not become a professor.
I may be wrong, my son; but, if I am, I have Christ
with me, that charity is the foundation and top-stone of
Christianity. For the rest, my child, I cheerfully leave
this world—I am not afraid to die; far from it. I long
to be with Christ. And now I come to the only terrestrial
consideration which interests me, at this awful moment,
and that is thy sister; love her, sooth her, and
comfort her, when I am gone. Distress like hers, my
Charles, will need comfort. I have kept the worst concealed
from her—I could not see her tears. I leave thee
poor and friendless, it is true; but, he who “tempers the
wind to the shorn lamb,” will be thy friend. Trust in
him; he will never forsake thee; and, never, oh, Charles!
never abandon thy sister; she will soon have no protector
but thee.”

My mother spoke with a firm, clear, and distinct
voice, until she came to the last sentence. She then gave
way to her tenderness, for some minutes. I pressed her
hand, the only reply I was able to make.

“I said thou hadst no friends; but God can raise up
friends for thee, my children;—do not be cast down entirely—only
rely upon thy Maker.”

This was the last conversation I ever had with my
mother. I happened to be from home, when she died,
suddenly. When I returned, what was my anguish to
find my mother a corpse, and my sister raving! She
was sitting flat on the floor, her clothes and hair in great
disorder—she was pale, and her eyes red with weeping.
No company was with her, except a few indigent neighhours.
She was insensibly leaning her head on her

knees, looking at the fire, exclaiming, “My brother,
oh! he will break his heart.”

“Oh, no,” said I, as I entered the house, “I will
live to protect you, my dear Mary.” She flew into my
arms---not a word was uttered, for several minutes.

Though I have since that day experienced every vicisitude
of fortune, and difficulties that fall to the lot of
but few; yet the bitterness, the heart-rending pangs I
felt, while I pressed my afflicted sister to my breast,
have never been equalled. Those, and those only, who
have experienced similar calamities, will understand my
feelings at that moment;—but I drop the curtain. Lament,
I certainly did; but I did not abandon myself to
despair. I led my sister into another room, and sat
with her during that day. It required all my skill, and
and all my tenderness, not to reconcile her. (that was
impossible,) but to enable her to support her sufferings.

In our prosperity, few families could count a more numerous,
or a more respectable circle of friends; but, where
they were then, I know not—none of them came near
us. Not so Wilson, our friend at college. We had
kept up a regular correspondence from the time I left
Princeton; in consequence of which, he was informed
of our misfortunes. The sympathy and kindness expressed
by this truly great and generous young man,
ought to redeem the human character from that obloquy
which the conduct of too many has cast upon it. In answer
to my letter, in which I disclosed to him this last
sad blow, he addressed me as follows:

This letter was of more value to me than the whole
world. I read it to my sister—it cost her a flood of
tears; but from that time her grief seemed to subside.
I saw that the attachment between them was mutual.
When I came to answer Wilson's letter, I asked my sister
what reply I must make to that part of his letter
which evidently related to her, as it was the only thing
in it to which he entreated an answer. Her reply was
perfectly consistent with her situation, and such as I
would have dictated myself: she said that, “had fortune
continued to smile upon her, Wilson would have been
the man of her choice; but, poor and friendless as she
now was, she could not think of accepting a man of so
much worth; that her want of wealth, in a connection
of that nature, would subject her to obligations which
her feelings could not brook; that she was but too sensible
of the honour of his esteem, and thanked him for
his kind solicitude for her happiness.”

This ingenuous declaration of my sister, was highly
gratifying to me, and was precisely the measure that coincided
with my own opinion. I therefore communicated
the substance of her answer to Wilson, and concluded
by asking his advice. I told him, that I must turn my
attention to some calling for support, and begged him
to give me his opinion. For a lawyer, I thought I was
not sufficiently educated—the occupation of a clerk, appeared
my only chance; but something must be decided
on, as there was no time to lose.

In the mean time, I sought an asylum for my sister.
In her distress she had been frequently visited by the
family of a Mr. Simpson who seemed to express some
kindness for her. He had two daughters grown, tolerably
agreeable. The old gentleman was also very respectable.
It was finally agreed, that Mary should remain
at Mr. Simpson's, for the present, until I could
make other arrangements for her accommodation.

After disposing of my sister, I collected the small remains
of my father's fortune. It cost me great trouble
and pains to recover small debts, that he had, in his distress,
overlooked. In the whole, it amounted to eleven
hundred dollars, only; which was my whole dependence.
Out of this, my sister was to be supported—I determined,
however, she should lack nothing, if I had to labour
by the day for her support.

While all this was going forward, I received a letter
from Wilson, stating that his father had recently moved
to Rutherford county, in Tennessee, whither he himself
was to go when his time was expired at college; which
would be in the course of three months; that the country
he spoke of was very desirable—that it was rising
fast, in reputation; the soil was rich, the climate mild
and healthy, and the navigation promising every advantage
to be derived from commerce; and finally, that he
would insist upon my accompanying him thither.

I was well pleased with this proposition, telling my
sister that I should leave her in Boston, until I should
visit Tennessee, and provide a place for her in that state,
should her inclination lead her to make it her residence.
I likewise informed her that she was to receive a visit
from Wilson, and at what time.

Having fixed, in my own mind, upon a plan for my
future destination, I felt considerably relieved. My sister
also became more tranquil.

While I was busily engaged in arranging all my little
matters, in order to be ready for my departure by the
time Wilson arrived, I received a letter from Mr. W—,
the attorney who defended me in the prosecution instituted
against me by Hunter. When I left New-York, I requested
Mr. W— to make all possible inquiry into

the affairs of Hunter: How he stood in society? Whether
the property, (meaning the store held in partnership
with my father,) was sold? Not having heard from
New-York previous to the death of my father, I addressed
a letter to Mr. W. and empowered him to settle with
Hunter.—The letter just mentiened was the answer.

As this was fully expected I was less afflicted at the
news; I therefore resigned myself to my fate.—The
three months soon rolled round and Wilson arrived in
Boston; after three days we took leave of my sister and
set out for Tennessee. The parting scene between my
sister and us was truly distressing: but I pass it over!
We both promised to write to her often and to come for her
in the course of a year or two, at farthest. We travelled
the usual rout to Alexandria, and there took the stage
to Abbington in Virginia; where we purchased horses and
prosecuted the rest of the journey on horse-back; after

a tedious journey we arrived at Wilson's father's where
we were joyfully received by the old people. They had
one other son, but he was not at home when we arrived:
he returned, however, the next day. It seems he had
been to the house of a gentleman in the neighbourhood
to whose daughter he was in a short time married.