The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, June, 1862

Such was the view which cheered the life of one thus early stripped of promised and expected happiness, and to which he dung during all changes of time and place. Amid the infirmities of advancing years, while surrounded by an endearing circle of relatives, who ministered to him with the most watchful affection, there was one that abode in still closer communion with his heart. While writing in his study at Sunnyside, or pacing, in quiet solitude, the streets of New-York, at all times, a fair young form hovered over him and beckoned him heavenward. Years passed on, until a half-century had been told. All things had changed, the scenes and characters of early life had passed away. The lover had become a kindly old man. The young essayist had become a great author and an heir of fame. The story of life was complete. The hour of his departure was at hand, when suddenly the same hand which had separated the lovers reünited them forever. Who shall say that the last image which flitted across his mind at the awful moment of dissolution, was not that fresh and lovely form which he had cherished in unchanging affection for fifty years?

I have stated my opinion that it was Irving's disappointment which made him the great American author, and to this opinion I now return with increased confidence. Had the plans of his youth been carried out; had he become a partner of Mr. Hoffman, and had the hands of the lovers been united, the whole tenor of his life would have been changed. He would have published some fine things, in addition to the Knickerbocker history, and would have ranked high as a gentleman of elegant humor; but where would have been his enduring works? We sympathize with the disappointed lover; but we feel thankful that from his sorrow we gather such precious fruit. The death of Matilda led him abroad—to Spain, where he compiled his Columbus and gathered material for his Alhambra—and to England, where the Columbus was finished and published, and where his name became great, in spite of national prejudice. Beside this, the sorrow which cast its sacred shadow upon him gave his writings that endearing charm which fascinates the emotional nature and enabled him to touch the hidden chords of the heart.

If Ogilvie could congratulate him on the bankruptcy which drove him from the details of trade to the richer fruition of literary promise, we may consider it a beneficent working of Providence, which afforded to Irving a still earlier emancipation from the law, cheered as it might have been by the kindness of Mr. Hoffman and the society of Matilda.

Such being the remarkable chain which unites the names of the author and his love, we can not but consider her as a part of his character through the best years of his life and amid all the splendid success of his literary career. Indeed, through coming generations of readers, the names of Irving and Matilda will be united in the loveliest and most romantic of associations.

I have prolonged this reminiscence to an unexpected length, and yet can not close without a few additional thoughts which grow out of the perusal of the biography. Perhaps the chief of these is the nationality of Irving's character, particularly while a resident of Europe. Neither the pungent bitterness of the British press nor the patronage of the aristocracy could abate the firmness with which he upheld the dignity of his country. He was not less her representative when a struggling author in Liverpool or London than when Secretary of Legation at the Court of St. James, or Ambassador at Madrid. His first appearance abroad was at a time of little foreign travel, and an American was an object of remark and observation. His elegant simplicity reflected honor upon his native land, and amid all classes, and in all places, love of country ruled him. This high tone pervaded his views of public duty. A gross defaulter having been mentioned in his presence, he replied, that 'next to robbing one's father it is, to rob one's country.'

It is also worthy of note that while Irving lived to unusual fullness of years, yet he never was considered an old man. We do not so much refer to his erect and vigorous frame as to the freshness of his mind. It is said that Goethe, on being asked the definition of a poet, replied: 'One who preserves to old age the feelings of youth.' Such was a leading feature in Mr. Irving's spirit, which, notwithstanding his shadowed hours, was so buoyant and cheerful. His countenance was penseroso when in repose, and allegro in action, and these graces clung to him even in life's winter, like the flower at the base of the glacier.

Among the varied elements which constituted Irving's popularity, one of them might have been the beauty of his name, whose secret is revealed by the laws of prosody. Washington is a stately dactyl; Irving is a sweet and mellow spondee, and thus we have a combination which poets in ancient and modern days have sought with sedulous care, and which should close every line of hexameter verse. Hence a measure such, as that found in 'Washington Irving' terminates every line in Evangeline, or the works of Virgil, thus:

'Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the mission,When, over green ways, by long and perilous marches,She had attained at length the depth of the Michigan forest.'

or

'Supplicia hausorem ecopulis: et nomine Dido,Et recidiva manu posuissem Pergama vetis.'

It will be readily perceived that the name of the American author can be substituted for the feet italicized above, without injuring the measure, while in some of Moore's finest stansas beautifully alternates the same verse, thus:'Oh! fair as the sea-flower, close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till love's witchery came!Like the wind of the South, o'er a summer lute blowing,And hushed all its music, and withered its flame.'

At the close of his last great work, Mr. Irving sought for rest. He laid aside his pen, even from correspondence, and felt that his work was done. When in New-York, he was often to be found at the Astor Library, of which he was a trustee; but his visits to the city became few, and he seemed to realize that his time was come. To one who kindly remarked, 'I hope you will soon be better,' He calmly replied, in an earnest tone: 'I shall never be better.' The words came true too soon, and amid an unequaled pomp of unaffected sorrow, they bore him to a place of rest, by the side of his parents and all of his kin who had gone before him.

BYRONIC MISANTHROPY

He has a grief he can not speak;He wears his hat awry;He blacks his boots but once a week;And says he wants to die!

NEW-ENGLAND'S ADVANCE

Hurrah! for our New-England,When she rose up firm and grand,In her calm, terrific beauty,With the stout sword in her hand;When she raised her arm undaunted,In the sacred cause of Right,Like a crowned queen of valor,Strong in her faith and might.Hurrah! for our New-England!When the war-cry shook the breeze,She wore the garb of glory,And quaffed the cup of ease;But I saw a look of daringOn her proud features rise,And the fire of will was flashingThrough the calm light of her eyes.From her brow serene, majestic,The wreath of peace she took,And war's red rose sprang blooming,And its bloody petals shookOn her heaving, beating bosom;And with forehead crowned with light,Transfigured, she presentedHer proud form to the fight.Hurrah! for our New-England!What lightning courage ranThrough her brave heart, as she boundedTo the battle's fearful van;O'er her head the starry banner;While her loud, inspiring cry,'Death or Freedom for our Nation,'Rang against the clouded sky.I saw our own New-EnglandDealing blows for Truth and Right,And the grandeur of her purposeGave her eyes a sacred light;Ah! name her 'the Invincible,'Through rebel rank and host;For Justice evermore is done,And Right comes uppermost.Hurrah for our New-England!Through the battle's fearful brunt,Through the red sea of the carnage,Still she struggles in the front;And victory's war-eagle,Hovering o'er the fiery blast,On her floating, starry standard.Is settling down at last.There is glory for New-England,When Oppression's strife is done,When the tools of Wrong are vanquished,And the cause of Freedom won;She shall sit in garments spotless,And shall breathe the odorous balmOf the cool green of contentment,In the bowers of peace and calm.

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it—to many it is known; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.—Goethe.

'SUCCESSFUL.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.

CHAPTER I

The little village of Burnsville, in Connecticut, was thrown into a state of excitement by the report that Hiram Meeker was about to remove to the city of New-York. Two or three elderly maiden ladies with whom Hiram was an especial favorite, declared there was not a word of truth in the ridiculous rumor. The girls of the village very generally discredited it. The young men said Hiram was not such a fool; he knew on which side his bread was buttered; he knew when to let well enough alone, and so forth. Still the report was circulated. To be sure, nobody believed it, yet it spread all the faster for being contradicted. I have said that the young ladies of Burnsville put no faith in the story. Possibly Sarah Burns was an exception, and Sarah, it was well understood, was an interested party, and would be apt to know the truth. She did not contradict the statement when made in her presence, and once, when appealed to for her opinion, she looked very serious, and said it might be so for all she knew. At length there were two parties formed in Burnsville. One on whose banner was inscribed: 'Hiram Meeker is going to New-York.' The other with flag bearing in large letters: 'No such thing: Hiram is not going.'

It would have been easy, one would suppose, to settle the important controversy by a direct appeal to Hiram Meeker himself. Strange to say, this does not appear to have been done, both sides fearing, like experienced generals, to risk the result on a single issue. But numerous were the hints and innuendoes conveyed to him, to which he always gave satisfactory replies—satisfactory to both parties—both contending he had, by his answers, confirmed their own particular view of the case.

This state of things could not last forever. It was brought suddenly to an end one Friday afternoon.

Hiram Meeker was a member, in regular standing, of the Congregational Church in Burnsville. The Preparatory Lecture, as it is called, that is, the lecture delivered prior to 'Communion-Sabbath,' in the church, was always on the previous Friday, at three o'clock P.M. On a pleasant day toward the end of April, Hiram Meeker and Sarah Burns went in company to attend this lecture. The exercises were especially interesting. Several young people, at the close of the services, who had previously been propounded, were examined as to their 'experience,' and a vote was separately taken on the admission of each. This over, the clergyman spoke as follows: 'Brother Hiram Meeker being about to remove from among us, desires to dissolve his connection with the Congregational church in Burnsville, and requests the usual certificate of membership and good standing. Is it your pleasure that he receive it? Those in favor will please to signify it.' Several 'right hands' were held up, and the matter was concluded. A young man who sat nearly opposite Sarah Burns, observed that on the announcement, her face became very pale.

When the little company of church-members was dismissed, Hiram Meeker and Sarah Burns walked away together as they came. No, not as they came, as the following conversation will show.

'Why did you not tell me, Hiram?'

'Because, Sarah, I did not fully decide till the mail came in this very afternoon. I had only time to speak to Mr. Chase, and there was no opportunity to see you, and I could not tell you about it while we were walking along so happy together.'

Hiram Meeker lied.

Sarah Burns could not disbelieve him; it was not possible Hiram would deceive her, but her heart felt the lie, nevertheless.

Hiram Meeker is the hero of this history. It is, therefore, necessary to give some account of him previous to his introduction to the reader on the afternoon of the preparatory lecture. At the date of the commencement of the narrative, he was already twenty-two years old. He was the youngest of several children. His father was a highly respectable man, who resided in Hampton, about fifteen miles from Burnsville, and cultivated one of the most valuable farms in the county. Mr. and Mrs. Meeker both had the reputation of being excellent people. They were exemplary members of the church, and brought up their children with a great deal of care. They were in every respect dissimilar. He was tall, thin, and dark-complexioned; she was almost short, very fair, and portly in appearance. Mr. Meeker was a kind-hearted, generous, unambitious man, who loved his home and his children, and rejoiced when he could see every body happy around him. He was neither close nor calculating. With a full share of natural ability, he did not turn his talents to accumulation, quite content if he made the ends of the year meet.

Mrs. Meeker was a woman who never took a step from impulse. She had a motive for every act of her life. Exceedingly acute in her judgments of people, she brought her shrewdness to bear on all occasions. She was a capital housekeeper, a most excellent manager, a pattern wife and mother. I say, 'pattern wife and mother,' for she was devoted to her husband's interests, which, to be sure, were equally her own; she made every thing very comfortable for him indoors, and she managed expenditures with an economy and closeness which Mr. Meeker was quite incapable of. She looked after her children with unremitting care. They were sent to better schools, and their associations were of a better description than those of her neighbors. She took personal pains with their religious culture. Although they were sent to Sunday-school, she herself taught them the Catechism, the Commandments, the Lord's Prayer, and the Sermon on the Mount, beside a great variety of Gospel hymns and Bible-stories. But along with these excellent teachings they were taught—what is apt to be taught in almost every family, to almost every child—to regard appearances, to make the best possible show to the world, to seem what they ought to be; apparently a sort of short-cut to goodness, but really a turnpike erected by the devil, which leads any where rather than to the desired point. Mrs. Meeker was a religious woman, scrupulous and exact in every outward observance; in this respect severe with herself and with all around her. Yet this never prevented her having an eye to the 'main chance,' which was, to get on in the world. Indeed, to attempt to do so, was with her a fundamental duty. She loved to pray the Lord to bless 'our basket and our store.' She dwelt much on the promise of 'a hundred-fold' in this world in addition to the 'inheritance of everlasting life.' She could repeat all the practical maxims which abound in the book of Proverbs, and she was careful, when she feared her husband was about to give way to a generous impulse in favor of a poor relation or neighbor, to put him in mind of his own large and increasing household, solemnly cautioning him that he who looked not well after it, was 'worse than an infidel.' In short, being fully convinced by application of her natural shrewd sense that religion was the safest thing for her here and hereafter, she became religious. In her piety there was manifested but one idea—self. Whatever she did, was from a sense of duty, and she did her duty because it was the way to prosperity and heaven.

I have remarked how different were husband and wife. They lived together, however, without discord, for Mr. Meeker yielded most points of controversy when they arose, and for the rest his wife was neither disagreeable nor unamiable. But the poor woman had experienced through life one great drawback; she had half-a-dozen fine children. Alas! not one of them resembled her in temper, character, or disposition. All possessed their father's happy traits, which were developed more and more as they grew older, despite their mother's incessant warnings and teachings.

Frank, the first-born, exhibited fondness for books, and early manifested an earnest desire for a liberal education with a view to the study of medicine. His father resolved to gratify him. His mother was opposed to it. She wanted her boy a merchant. 'Doctors,' she said, 'were mostly a poor set, who were obliged to work very hard by day and by night, and got little for it. If Frank would only be contented to go into her cousin's store, in New-York, (he was one of the prominent wholesale dry-goods jobbers,) why, there would be some hope of him, that is, if he could cure himself of certain extravagant notions; but to go through college, and then study medicine! Why couldn't he, at least, be a lawyer, then there might be a chance for him.'

'But the boy has no taste for mercantile life, nor for the law,' said Mr. Meeker.

'Taste—fiddlesticks,' responded his wife, 'as if a boy has a right to have any taste contrary to his parents' wish.'

'But, Jane, it is not contrary to my wish.'

Mrs. Meeker looked her husband steadily in the face. She saw there an unusual expression of firmness; something which she knew it to be idle to contend with, and with her usual good sense, she withdrew from the contest.

'Have it your own way, Mr. Meeker. You know my opinion. It was my duty to express it. Make of Frank what you like. I pray that he may be prospered in whatever he undertakes.'

So Frank was sent to college, with the understanding that, after graduating, he was to pursue his favorite study of medicine.

A few months after he entered, Mrs. Meeker gave birth to her seventh child—the subject of the present narrative. Her disappointment at Frank's destination was severe. Besides, she met with daily evidences that pained her. None of her children were, to use her expression, 'after her own heart.' There were two other boys, George and William, who she was accustomed to say, almost bitterly, were 'clear father.' The three girls, Jane, Laura, and Mary, one would suppose might represent the mother's side; but alas! they were 'clear father' too.

In her great distress, as Mrs. Meeker often afterward declared, she resolved to 'call upon the Lord.' She prayed that the child she was soon to give birth to might be a boy, and become a joy and consolation to his mother. She read over solicitously all the passages, of Scripture she could find, which she thought might be applicable to her case. As the event approached, she exhibited still greater faith and enthusiasm. She declared she had consecrated her child to God, and felt a holy confidence that the offering was accepted. Do not suppose from this, she intended to devote him to the ministry. That required a special call, and it did not appear such a call had been revealed to her. But she prayed earnestly that he might be chosen and favored of the Most High; that he might stand before kings; that he might not be slothful in business; but fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. The happy frame of mind Mrs. Meeker had attained, at length became the subject of conversation in the neighborhood. The clergyman was greatly interested. He even made allusion to it in the weekly prayer-meeting, which, by the by, rather scandalized some of the unmarried ladies present.

Mr. Meeker took all this in good part. The truth is, he regarded it as a very innocent whim, which required to be indulged in his wife's delicate situation; so he always joined in her hopeful anticipations, and endeavored to sympathize with them. It was under these auspicious circumstances that Hiram Meeker first saw the light. All his mother's prayers seemed to have been answered. The boy, from the earliest manifestation of intelligence, exhibited traits which could belong only to her. As he advanced into childhood, these became more and more apparent. He had none of the openness of disposition which was possessed by the other children. He gave much less trouble about the house than they ever did, and was more easily managed than they had been at his age. It must not be inferred that because he was his mother's favorite, he received any special indulgence, or was not subject to every proper discipline. Indeed, the discipline was more severe, the moral teachings more unremitting, the practical lessons more frequent than with any of the rest. But there could not exist a more tractable child than Hiram. He was apparently made for special training, he took to it so readily, as if appreciating results and anxious to arrive at them. When he was six years old, it was astonishing what a number of Bible-verses and Sunday-school hymns he had committed to memory, and how much the child knew. He was especially familiar with the uses of money. He knew the value of a dollar, and what could be purchased with it. So of half a dollar, a quarter, ten cents, and five cents. He had already established for himself a little savings bank, in which were placed the small sums which were occasionally presented to him. He could tell the cost of each of his playthings respectively, and, indeed, of every article about the house; he learned the price of tea, sugar, coffee, and molasses. This information, to be sure, formed a part of his mother's course of instruction; but it was strange how he took to it. Systematically and unceasingly, she pursued it. Oh! how she rejoiced in her youngest child. How she thanked God for answering her prayers. I had forgotten to state that there was considerable difficulty in deciding what name to give the boy. Mrs. Meeker had an uncle, a worthy minister, by the name of Nathaniel. Mr. Meeker suggested that the new-comer be called after him. His wife did not like to object; but she thought Nathaniel a very disagreeable name. Her cousin, the rich dry-goods merchant in New-York, who had four daughters and no sons, was named Hiram. Hiram was a good name, not too long and very expressive. It sounded firm and strong. It was a Bible-name, too, as well as the other. In fact, she liked it, and she thought her cousin would be gratified when he learned that she had named a child for him. There were advantages which might flow from it, it was not necessary to specify, Mr. Meeker could understand to what she alluded Mr. Meeker did not understand; in fact, he did not trouble his head to conjecture; but it was settled Hiram should be the name, and our hero was baptized accordingly. He was a good boy; never in mischief, never a truant, never disobedient, nor willful, nor irritable, nor obstinate. 'Too good for this world;' that is what folks said. 'Such an astonishing child—too wise to live long.' So it was prophesied; but Hiram survived all these dismal forebodings, until the people gave up and concluded to let him live.

We pass over his earlier days at school. At twelve, he was sent to the academy in the village, about a mile distant. He was to receive a first-rate English education, 'no Latin, no Greek, no nonsense,' to use his mother's language; but the real substantials. Hiram proved to be an excellent scholar. He was especially good in figures. When he came to study bookkeeping, he seemed as happy as if he were reading a romance. He mastered with ease the science of single and double entry. He soon became fascinated with the beauties of his imaginary business. For his instructor had prepared for him a regular set of books, and gave him problems, from day to day, in mercantile dealings, which opened up to the youth all the mysteries of 'Dr.' and 'Cr.' Out of these various problems, he constructed quite a little library of account-books, which he numbered, and which were representations of various descriptions of trade, and marked with the name of some supposed company, and labeled 'Business Successful,' or 'Business Unsuccessful,' as the case might be.

We must now turn from Hiram, engaged in diligently pursuing his studies, and enter on another topic.

CHAPTER II

Mrs. Meeker had been a church-member from the time she was fourteen years old. There was an extensive revival throughout the country at that period, and she, with a large number of young people of both sexes, were, or thought they were, converted. She used to speak of this circumstance very often to her children, especially when any one of them approached the age which witnessed, to use her own language, 'her resignation of the pomps and vanities of life, and her dedication to the service of her Saviour.' Still, notwithstanding her prayers and painstaking, not one of them had ever been under 'conviction of sin;' at least, none had ever manifested that agony and mental suffering which she considered necessary to a genuine change of heart. She mourned much over such a state of things in her household. What a scandal that not one of her children should give any evidences of saving grace! What a subject for reproach in the mouths of the ungodly! But it was not her fault; no, she often felt that Mr. Meeker was too lax in discipline, (she had had fears of him, sometimes, lest he might become a castaway,) and did not set that Christian example, at all times, which she could desire. For instance, after church on Sunday afternoon, it was his custom, when the season was favorable, frequently with a child holding each hand, to walk leisurely over his fields, humming a cheerful hymn and taking note of whatever was pleasant in the scene, perhaps the fresh vegetation just bursting into life, or the opening flowers, or it might be the maturing fruit, or the ripening yellow grain. On these occasions, he would endeavor to impress on his children how good God was; how seed-time and harvest always came; how the sun shone on the evil as well as on the good, and the rain descended both on the just and on the unjust. He, too, would inculcate lessons of diligence and industry, agreeable lessons, after quite a different model from those of his wife. He would repeat, for example, not in an austere fashion, but in a way which interested and even amused them, the dramatic description of the sluggard, from the hook of Proverbs, commencing: