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Updated: May 31, 2025
Arthur Wynne, being found unfit to go to Europe with the rest, was taken a week later by our doctor on a transport to the Head of Elk, and thence by coach to Philadelphia. There, as I heard, the doctor took him to his own house, much amazed that Mistress Gainor would not receive him.
Wilson and my Aunt Gainor, I was fast becoming an ardent Whig, so that the talk, in which I had small share, interested me deeply. At last, about seven, the pipes having been smoked and much punch taken, the company rose to go, some of them the worse for their potations. We drove into town, and at the coffee-house put up and paid for our chaise. I said good-by to Mr.
It is late in the night, and Christmas-time, in the great stone house at Merion. The noise of little ones and they are many has ceased. I hear steps and laughter in the hall. The elder ones troop in to say good-night. There are Darthea and Gainor, mothers of the noisy brigade now in bed, and here is Hugh, the youngest, and Jack, with the big build of his race.
We rode of sunlit winter days out to Germantown, or upon the wood roads over Schuylkill, my Aunt Gainor from good nature being pleased to gallop ahead, and leave us to chat and follow, or not, as might suit us.
The fine furniture will pay for it, I fear. I think, Hugh, I am better, or I shall be soon." "They talk of the Meeting over the way for a barrack, Aunt Gainor." Now this was idly rumoured, but how could one resist to feed an occasion so comic? "I think I should die contented," said Miss Wynne. "Now go away, Hugh. I have had my medicine, and I like it."
Just come along with me." Elizabeth struck in. "Just a moment, Terence. There's Mr. Gainor, and he's been asking to see you. You can take the sheriff out to see El Sangre later. Besides, half a dozen people want to talk to the sheriff, and you mustn't monopolize him. Miss Wickson begged me to get her a chance to talk to you the real Sheriff Minter. Do you mind?" "Pshaw," said the sheriff.
I was again in a broil, not of my making; just a bit of ill luck, for here was a nice business. I went in, and was caught on my way upstairs by my Aunt Gainor, who called me into the sitting-room. Still too furious to be prudent, she broke out before Darthea. "Insolent idiots! I hope I made Mr. Galloway understand, and the rest of them too! I trust Bessy Ferguson will never darken my doors again!"
My parents, John and Mary Sheridan, came to America in 1830, having been induced by the representations of my father's uncle, Thomas Gainor, then living in Albany, N. Y., to try their fortunes in the New World: They were born and reared in the County Cavan, Ireland, where from early manhood my father had tilled a leasehold on the estate of Cherrymoult; and the sale of this leasehold provided him with means to seek a new home across the sea.
"Aunt Gainor," said I, "to meet that man is the dearest wish of my life." "The dearest?" "Not quite," said I, "but it will be for me a happy hour." "Then God forbid it, Hugh; and it is most unlikely. You must go and see Darthea. I suppose you will hardly tarry here long and get your epaulets, sir. I want to see my boy in his uniform. Bring Mr. Hamilton here, and the French gentlemen.
"Very well," I returned, as angry with the old lady as ever I had been in all my life. "It is a thing to settle," cried Aunt Gainor, in her strong voice. "We must agree agree on it all of us." "Go on," said I. And Darthea insisting, I said nothing more, and was only concerned to be done with it once for all. "The war will soon end," said my aunt, "and something must be done.
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