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In due time Sybrandt received the letter of Mr.
Aubineau, and obtained a slow unwilling assent
from Mr. Dennis Vancour to accept the invitation.
Colonel Vancour also gave his approbation, and
madame did not oppose, though she had a great
inclination to do so. She was a wife of the old
egime—that is to say, an antediluvian wife,—for I
have heard of none since the flood who like her acted
on the principle that in matters where men's business
was particularly concerned men should be left to judge
for themselves. But she did not like the arrangement.
I don't much approve disclosing the secrets
of ladies, but the truth was there had been a sly
correspondence going on for some time between her
and Mrs. Aubineau, in which the project of making
madame the mother of a titled lady was communicated,
and received with singular complacency.
There was probably not a mother in the whole wide
circumference of this new world who could have
resisted the temptation. The apple of Eve was
nothing to it. The good Dame Vancour thought
of little else by day and by night,—nay, she dreamed
three nights running that she saw Catalina with a
coronet, instead of a nightcap. However, she made
no opposition to the visit of Sybrandt, trusting to the
assurances contained in a letter from Mrs. Aubineau,

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which came by the same messenger who brought
the invitation, that she would take care no good
should come of Mr. Aubineau's impertinent interference.

The good Dennis was resolved his nephew and
heir should not disgrace him at the little court of the
little puissant governor of New-York. He got him
two full suits constructed by his own tailor, whom he
considered the greatest hand at inexpressibles in the
whole universe. Certain it is he took the greatest
quantity of broadcloth, though he was never in his
life suspected of cabbaging. The favourite colours
of Dennis were snuff and drab, and accordingly
these were ordered. The tailor was enjoined to be
very particular in not making them too tight, as
people were very apt to grow fat as they grew old;
and Ariel had a glorious time of it. He went to
Albany four times a week, to superintend the construction
of Sybrandt's wardrobe, and hasten the
completion of this arduous business. Thus stimulated,
the tailor, who was called Master Goosee Ten
Broeck, bestirred himself with such consummate diligence,
that at the end of three weeks he brought
home the whole twelfth labour of Hercules triumphantly.
Sybrandt was out of all patience in the
mean while; but was amply rewarded for the delay,
by the perfection of Master Goosee's work; which
Uncle Dennis affirmed fitted just like wax, though
heaven knows why. It certainly did not stick to him
like wax, but hung around his body and limbs at a most
respectful distance. All things being in readiness,
the good Dennis gave Sybrandt his blessing, together
with abundance of advice, backed by a purse of
guineas, the music of which far transcended that of
the spheres, which the poets make such harangues

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about. If they were a little accustomed to the
chincking of guineas, they would find there was no
comparison between the two. “D—n it, Sybrandt,”
exclaimed the little Ariel, “d—n it, I should like to
go with you; but now I think of it, I can't neither.
I've promised old Ten Broeck to graft some peachtrees
for him, as soon as the spring comes on.”

“Good-by, massa Sybrandt,” said old Tjerck,
now almost bent double with age and rheumatism—
“Good-by, massa Sybrandt—never see old nigger
again.” Sybrandt was touched with this homely
address, and the tears came into his eyes. He shook
hands with the old partner of his first adventures,
when he put on the toga and commenced man, and
parted from him with sorrow. His speech to his
young master was prophetic—they never met again.
The old man died of a rheumatism about a fortnight
afterward. Peace to his manes, black as they were!
I honour his memory, for he was one of those faithful
servants the race of which has long become extinct,
amid the pious endeavours of pains-taking folks who
have nothing to do but better the condition of mankind,
and meddle with other people's concerns.

While these things were going on in the country,
our heroine was in what is called in homely phrase—
I like homely phrases—in a sort of a quandary.
Sometimes she was glad that her cousin was coming,
and sometimes she was sorry. Sometimes she was
very angry he was so long in coming, and at others
she found it in her heart to wish he would not come
at all; for mighty were her fears that the fashionable
people of New-York, and more especially the aids-de-camp,
would laugh at his country manners and
homely apparel. Sir Thicknesse and Gilfillan still
continued their attentions; the former gentleman

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gathered himself together in consequence of being
incited thereto by Mrs. Aubineau, and achieved a
most triumphant piece of gallantry. He actually
spoke to our heroine three times in one morning.
As to the tinder—I don't mean tender—hearted Milesian,
he swore at least six dozen times a day that
she was an angel, and that he was dying by barleycorns
for the love of her sweet soul. He certainly
was deeply smitten after the fashion of a soldier and
an Irishman, for notwithstanding he was dying for
love, he was the healthiest, merriest fellow in the
world, and laughed, sang, danced, drank, gamed, and
gallanted, just as if nothing was the matter with him.

Catalina had much ado to keep him in due order
and subjection to the rules of feminine delicacy, for
your true Milesian is ever daringly enterprising.
Even love cannot make them cowards. Our heroine
was always obliged to act on the defensive, when
alone with him, and more than once had occasion
to be seriously angry. One day he came in, humming
his favourite Ellen a Roon, and finding a
miniature of Catalina, which had just been taken by
an eminent hand, and which is still extant in the
Vancour family, the honest gentleman was seized
with the gallant whim of possessing himself of it, at
least pro tem. Our heroine expostulated—Gilfillan
laughed; she was angry—Gilfillan laughed still
louder; she stated to him seriously the indelicacy
of such a procedure, and the consequences
of the picture being seen in his possession—all
would not do; he replied in rhodomontade and extravagant
professions, swore he did not mean to
keep it, that he only wanted to worship her image
in secret for one night, when he would return it,
provided it was not demolished with kisses; and,

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finally, turned the whole into a joke, and set our
heroine laughing in spite of her vexation. In short,
he carried off the bauble with a solemn lover's assurance
of returning it the next day. But the next
day, and the next, he made some such odd, extravagant,
or humorous excuse for retaining it one
day longer, that Catalina yielded to his irresistible
grotesque, and was actually ashamed to be angry.
In about a week, however, he returned the picture,
with the assurance, that nothing but its being
the actual representation of a divinity had miraculously
preserved it from destruction by the intensity
of his devotion. In a short time the whole affair
was forgiven and forgotten by Catalina.

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