“Well,” sais I, “the doctor, like an honourable man, has asked Squire Peter McDonald for his daughter; now, when he comes in, call Jessie and place her hand in his, and say you consent, and let the spruce and birch partridge go and live near the lake together.”
“Tat she will,” said he, “for ta toctor is a shentleman pred and porn, though she hasn’t the honour to be a Highlander.”
As soon as the Bachelor Beaver returned, Peter went on this paternal mission, for which I prepared my friend; and the betrothal was duly performed, when he said in Gaelic:
“Dhia Beammich sibh le choile mo chlam! God bless you both, my children!”
As soon as the ceremony was over, “Now,” sais I, “we must be a movin’. Come, Peter, let us go on board. Where are the pipes? Strike up your merriest tune.”
And he preceded us, playing, “Nach dambsadh am minster,” in his best manner—if anything can be said to be good, where bad is the best. When we arrived at the beach, Cutler and my old friend, the black steward, were ready to receive us. It would have been a bad omen to have had Sorrow meet the betrothed pair so soon, but that was only a jocular name given to a very merry negro.
“Well, Sorrow,” sais I, as we pushed off in the boat, “how are you?”
“Very bad, Massa,” he said, “I ab been used most rediculous shamful since you left. Time was berry dull on board since you been withdrawn from de light ob your countenance, and de crew sent on shore, and got a consignment ob rum, for benefit ob underwriters, and all consarned as dey said, and dey sung hymns, as dey call nigga songs, like Lucy Neal and Lucy Long, and den dey said we must hab ablution sarmon; so dey fust corned me, Massa.”
“In the beef or pork-barrel, Sorrow?” said I.
“Oh, Lord bless you, Massa, in needer; you knows de meaning ob dat are word—I is sure you does—dey made me most tosicated, Massa, and dey said, ‘Sorrow, come preach ablution sarmon.’ Oh, Massa, I was berry sorry, it made me feel all ober like ague; but how could I insist so many; what was I to do, dey fust made me der slave, and den said, ‘Now tell us bout mancipation.’ Well, dey gub me glass ob rum, and I swallowed it—berry bad rum—well, dat wouldn’t do. Well, den dey gub me anoder glass, and dat wouldn’t do; dis here child hab trong head, Massa, werry trong, but he hoped de rum was all out, it was so bad; den dey rejectioned anoder in my face, and I paused and crastimated; sais I, ‘Masters, is you done?’ for dis child was afeard, Massa, if he drank all de bottle empty, dey would tro dat in his face too, so sais I: