The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Everyone lives it—to not many is it known; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.

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

CHAPTER SEVENTH

HIRAM MEEKER VISITS MR. BURNS

Mr. Burns had finished his breakfast.

A horse and wagon, as was customary at that hour, stood outside the gate. He himself was on the portico where his daughter had followed him to give her father his usual kiss. At that moment Mr. Burns saw some one crossing the street toward his place. As he was anxious not to be detained, he hastened down the walk, so that if he could not escape the stranger, the person might at least understand that he had prior engagements. Besides, Mr. Burns never transacted business at home, and a visitor at so early an hour must have business for an excuse. The new-comer evidently was as anxious to reach the house before Mr. Burns left it, as the latter was to make his escape, for pausing a moment across the way, as if to make certain, the sight of the young lady appeared to reassure him, and he walked over and had laid his hand upon the gate just as Mr. Burns was attempting to pass out.

Standing on opposite sides, each with a hand upon the paling, the two met. It would have made a good picture. Mr. Burns was at this time a little past forty, but his habit of invariable cheerfulness, his energetic manner, and his fine fresh complexion gave him the looks of one between thirty and thirty-five. On the contrary, although Hiram Meeker was scarcely twenty, and had never had a care nor a thought to perplex him, he at the same time possessed a certain experienced look which made you doubtful of his age. If one had said he was twenty, you would assent to the proposition; if pronounced to be thirty, you would consider it near the mark. So, standing as they did, you would perceive no great disparity in their ages.

We are apt to fancy individuals whom we have never seen, but of whom we hear as accomplishing much, older than they really are. In this instance Hiram had pictured a person at least twenty years older than Mr. Burns appeared to be. He was quite sure there could be no mistake in the identity of the man whom he beheld descending the portico. When he saw him at such close quarters he was staggered for a moment, but for a moment only. 'It must be he,' so he said to himself.

Now Hiram had planned his visit with special reference to meeting Mr. Burns in his own house. He had two reasons for this. He knew that there he should find him more at his ease, more off his guard, and in a state of mind better adapted to considering his case socially and in a friendly manner than in the counting-room.

Again: Sarah Burns. He would have an opportunity to renew the acquaintance already begun.

Well, there they stood. Both felt a little chagrined—Mr. Burns that an appointment was threatened to be interrupted, and Hiram that his plan was in danger of being foiled.

This was for an instant only.

Mr. Burns opened the gate passing almost rapidly through, bowing at the same time to Hiram.

'Do you wish to see me?' he said, as he proceeded to untie the horse and get into the wagon.

'Mr. Joel Burns, I presume?'

'Yes.'

'I did wish to see you, sir, on matters of no consequence to you, but personal to myself. I can call again.'

'I am going down to the paper-mill to be absent for an hour. If you will come to my office in that time, I shall be at liberty.'

Hiram had a faint hope he would be invited to step into the house and wait. Disappointed in this, he replied very modestly: 'Perhaps you will permit me to ride with you—that is, unless some one else is going. I would like much to look about the factories.'

'Certainly. Jump in.' And away they drove to Slab City.

Hiram was careful to make no allusion to the subject of his mission to Burnsville. He remained modestly silent while Mr. Burns occasionally pointed out an important building and explained its use or object. Arriving at the paper-mill, he gave Hiram a brief direction where he might spend his time most agreeably.

'I shall be ready to return in three quarters of an hour,' he said, and disappeared inside.

'I must be careful, and make no mistakes with such a man,' soliloquized Hiram, as he turned to pursue his walk. 'He is quick and rapid—a word and a blow—too rapid to achieve a GREAT success. It takes a man, though, to originate and carry through all this. Every thing flourishes here, that is evident. Joel Burns ought to be a richer man than they say he is. He has sold too freely, and on too easy terms, I dare say. No doubt, come to get into his affairs, there will be ever so much to look after. Too much a man of action. Does not think enough. Just the place for me for two or three years.'

Hiram had no time for special examination, but strolled about from point to point, so as to gain a general impression of what was going on. Five minutes before the time mentioned by Mr. Burns had elapsed, Hiram was at his post waiting for him to come out. This little circumstance did not pass unnoticed. It elicited a single observation, 'You are punctual;' to which Hiram made no reply. The drive back to the village was passed nearly in silence. Mr. Burns's mind was occupied with his affairs, and Hiram thought best not to open his own business till he could have a fair opportunity.

Mr. Burns's place for the transaction of general business was a small one-story brick building, erected expressly for the purpose, and conveniently located. There was no name on the door, but over it a pretty large sign displayed in gilt letters the word 'Office,' simply. Mr. Burns had some time before discovered this establishment to be a necessity, in consequence of the multitude of matters with which he was connected. He was the principal partner in the leading store in the village, where a large trade was carried on. The lumber business was still good. He had always two or three buildings in course of erection. He owned one half the paper-mill. In short, his interests were extensive and various, but all snug and well-regulated, and under his control. For general purposes, he spent a certain time in his office. Beyond that, he could be found at the store, at the mill, in some of the factories, or elsewhere, as the occasion called him.

Driving up to the 'office,' he entered with Hiram, and pointing the latter to a seat, took one himself and waited to hear what our hero had to say.

Hiram opened his case, coming directly to the point. He gave a brief account of his previous education and business experience. At the mention of Benjamin Jessup's name, an ominous 'humph!' escaped Mr. Burns's lips, which Hiram was not slow to notice. He saw it would prove a disadvantage to have come from his establishment. Without attempting immediately to modify the unfavorable impression, he was careful, before he finished, to take pains to do so.

'I have thus explained to you,' concluded Hiram,'that my object is to gain a full, thorough knowledge of business, with the hope of becoming, in time, a well-informed and, I trust, successful merchant.'

'And for that purpose—'

'For that purpose, I am very desirous to enter your service.'

'Really, I do not think there is a place vacant which would suit you, Mr. Meeker.'

'It is of little consequence whether or not the place would suit me, sir; only let me have the opportunity, and I will endeavor to adapt myself to it.'

'Oh! what I mean is, we have at present no situation fitted for a young man as old and as competent as you appear to be.'

'But if I were willing to undertake it?'

'You see there would be no propriety in placing you in a situation properly filled by a boy, or at least a youth. Still, I will not forget your request; and if occasion should require, you shall have the first hearing.'

'I had hoped,' continued Hiram, no way daunted, 'that possibly you might have been disposed to take me in your private employ.'

'How?'

'You have large, varied, and increasing interests. You must be severely tasked, at least at times, to properly manage all. Could I not serve you as an assistant? You would find me, I think, industrious and persevering. I bring certificates of character from the Rev. Mr. Goddard, our clergyman, and from both the deacons in our church.'

This was said with a naïve earnestness, coupled with a diffidence apparently so genuine, that Mr. Burns could not but be favorably impressed by it. In fact, the idea of a general assistant had never before occurred to him. He reflected a moment, and replied:

'It is true I have much on my hands, but one who has a great deal to do can do a great deal; besides, the duties I undertake it would be impossible to devolve on another.'

'I wish you would give me a trial. The amount of salary would be no object. I want to learn business, and I know I can learn it of you.'

Mr. Burns was not insensible to the compliment. His features relaxed into a smile, but his opinion remained unchanged.

'Well,' said Hiram, in a pathetic tone, 'I hate to go back and meet father. He said he presumed you had forgotten him, though he remembered you when you lived in Sudbury, a young man about my age; and he told me to make an engagement with you, if it were only as errand-boy.'

[O Hiram! how could that glib and ready lie come so aptly to your lips? Your father never said a word to you on the subject. It is doubtful if he knew you were going to Burnsville at all, and he never had seen Mr. Burns in his life. How carefully, Hiram, you calculated before you resolved on this delicate method to secure your object! The risk of the falsity of the whole ever being discovered—that was very remote, and amounted to little. What you were about to say would injure no one—wrong no one. If not true, it might well be true. Oh! but Hiram, do you not see you are permitting an element of falsehood to creep in and leaven your whole nature? You are exhibiting an utter disregard of circumstances in your determination to carry your point. Heretofore you have looked to but one end—self; but you have committed no overt act. Have a care, Hiram Meeker; Satan is gaining on you.]

Mr. Burns had not been favorably impressed, at first sight, with his visitor. Magnetically he was repelled by him. He was too just a man to allow this to influence him, by word or manner. He permitted Hiram to accompany him to the mill and return with him.

During this time, the latter had learned something of his man. He saw quickly enough that he had failed favorably to impress Mr. Burns. Determining not to lose the day, he assumed an entire ingenuousness of character, coupled with much simplicity and earnestness. He appealed to the certificates of his minister and the deacons, as if these would be sure to settle the question irrespective of Mr. Burns's wants; and at last the lie slipped from his mouth, in appearance as innocently as truth from the lips of an angel.

At the mention of Sudbury and the time when he was a young man, Hiram, who watched narrowly, thought he could perceive a slight quickening in the eye of Mr. Burns—nothing more.

His only reply, however, to the appeal, was to ask:

'How old are you?'

'Nineteen,' said Hiram softly. (He would be twenty the following week, but he did not say so.)

'Only nineteen!' exclaimed Mr. Burns, 'I took you for five-and-twenty.'

'It is very singular,' replied Hiram mournfully; 'I am not aware that persons generally think me older than I am.'

'Oh! I presume not; and now I look closer, I do not think you do appear more than nineteen.'

It was really astonishing how Hiram's countenance had changed. How every trace of keen, shrewd apprehension had vanished, leaving only the appearance of a highly intelligent and interesting, but almost diffident youth!

Mr. Burns sat a moment without speaking. Hiram did not dare utter a word. He knew he was dealing with a man quick in his impressions and rapid to decide. He had done his best, and would not venture farther. Mr. Burns, looking up from a reflective posture, cast his eyes on Hiram. The latter really appeared so amazingly distressed that Mr. Burns's feelings were touched.

'Is your mother living,' he asked.

Hiram was almost on the point of denying the fact, but that would have been too much.

'Oh! yes, sir,' he replied.

Again Mr. Burns was silent. Again Hiram calculated the chances, and would not venture to interrupt him.

This time Mr. Burns's thoughts took another direction. It occurred to him that he had of late overtasked his daughter. 'True, it is a great source of pleasure for us both that she can be of so much assistance to me, but her duties naturally accumulate; she is doing too much. It is not appropriate.'

So thought Mr. Burns while Hiram Meeker sat waiting for a decision.

'It is true,' continued Mr. Burns to himself, 'I think I ought to have a private clerk. The idea occurred even to this youth. I will investigate who and what he is, and will give him a trial if all is right.'

He turned toward Hiram:

'Young man, I am inclined to favor your request. But if I give you employment in my office, your relations with me will necessarily be confidential, and the situation will be one of trust and confidence. I must make careful inquiries.'

'Certainly, sir,' replied Hiram, drawing a long breath, for he saw the victory was gained. 'I will leave these certificates, which may aid you in your inquiries. I was born and brought up in Hampton, and you will have no difficulty in finding persons who know my parents and me. When shall I call again, sir?'

'In a week.'

'Won! won! yes, won!' exclaimed Hiram aloud, when he had walked a sufficient distance from the 'office' to enable him to do so without danger of being overheard. 'A close shave, though! If he had said 'No,' all Hampton would not have moved him. What a splendid place for me! How did I come to be smart enough to suggest such a thing to him? I rather think three years here will make me all right for New-York.'

Hiram walked along to the hotel, and ordered dinner. While it was getting ready, he strolled over the village. He was in hopes to meet, by some accident, Miss Burns.

He was not disappointed. Turning a corner, he came suddenly on Sarah, who had run out for a call on some friend. Hiram fancied he had produced a decided impression the evening they met at Mrs. Crofts', and with a slight fluttering at the heart, he was about to stop and extend his hand, when Miss Burns, hardly appearing to recognize him, only bowed slightly and passed on her way.

'You shall pay for this, young lady,' muttered Hiram between his teeth—'you shall pay for this, or my name is not Hiram Meeker! I would come here now for nothing else but to pull her down!' continued Hiram savagely. 'I will let her know whom she has to deal with.'

He walked back to the hotel in a state of great irritation. With the sight of a good dinner, however, this was in a degree dispelled, and before he finished it, his philosophy came to his relief.

'Time—time—it takes time. The fact is, I shall like the girl all the better for her playing off at first. Shan't forget it though—not quite!'

He drove back to Hampton that afternoon. His feelings were placid and complacent as usual. He had asked the Lord in the morning to prosper his journey and to grant him success in gaining his object, and he now returned thanks for this new mark of God's grace and favor.

Mr. Burns did not inquire of the Rev. Mr. Goddard, nor of either of the deacons mentioned by Hiram. He wrote direct to Thaddeus Smith, Senior, whom he knew, and who he thought would be able to give a correct account of Hiram. Informing Mr. Smith that the young man had applied to him for a situation of considerable trust, he asked that gentleman to give his careful opinion about his capacity, integrity, and general character. As there could be but one opinion on the subject in all Hampton, Mr. Smith returned an answer every way favorable. It is true he did not like Hiram himself, but if called on for a reason, he could not have told why. As we have recorded, every one spoke well of him. Every one said how good, and moral, and smart he was, and honest Mr. Smith reported accordingly.

'Well, well,' said Mr. Burns, 'if Smith gives such an account of him while he has been all the time in an opposition store, he must be all right.... Don't quite like his looks, though … wonder what it is.'

When at the expiration of the week Hiram went to receive an answer from Mr. Burns, he did not attempt to find him at his house. He was careful to call at the office at the hour Mr. Burns was certain to be in.

'I hear a good account of you, Meeker,' said Mr. Burns, 'and in that respect every thing is satisfactory. Had I not given you so much encouragement, I should still hesitate about making a new department. However, we will try it.'

'I am very thankful to you, sir. As I said, I want to learn business and the compensation is no object.'

'But it is an object with me. I can have no one in my service who is not fully paid. Your position should entitle you to a liberal salary. If you can not earn it, you can not fill the place.'

'Then I shall try to earn it, I assure you,' replied Hiram, 'and will leave the matter entirely with you. I have brought you a line from my father,' he continued, and he handed Mr. Burns a letter.

It contained a request, prepared at Hiram's suggestion, that Mr. Burns would admit him in his family. The other ran his eye hastily over it. A slight frown contracted his brow.

'Impossible!' he exclaimed. 'My domestic arrangements will not permit of such a thing. Quite impossible.'

'So I told father, but he said it would do no harm to write. He did not think you would be offended.'

'Offended! certainly not.'

'Perhaps,' continued Hiram, 'you will be kind enough to recommend a good place to me. I should wish to reside in a religious family, where no other boarders are taken.'

The desire was a proper one, but Hiram's tone did not have the ring of the true metal. It grated slightly on Mr. Burns's moral nerves—a little of his first aversion came back—but he suppressed it, and promised to endeavor to think of a place which should meet Hiram's wishes. It was now Saturday. It was understood Hiram should commence his duties the following Monday. This arranged, he took leave of his employer, and returned home.

That evening Mr. Burns told his daughter he was about to relieve her from the drudgery—daily increasing—of copying letters and taking care of so many papers, by employing a confidential clerk. Sarah at first was grieved; but when her father declared he should talk with her just as ever about every thing he did or proposed to do, and that he thought in the end the new clerk would be a great relief to him, she was content.

'But whom have you got, father,' (she always called him 'father,') 'for so important a situation?'

'His name is Meeker—Hiram Meeker—a young man very highly recommended to me from Hampton.'

'I wonder if it was not he whom I met last Saturday!'

'Possibly; he called on me that day. Do you know him?'

'I presume it is the same person I saw at Mrs. Crofts' some weeks since. Last Saturday a young man met me and almost stopped, as if about to speak. I did not recognize him, although I could not well avoid bowing. Now I feel quite sure it was Mr. Meeker.'

'Very likely.'

'Well, I do hope he will prove faithful and efficient. I recollect every one spoke very highly of him.'

'I dare say.'

Mr. Burns was in a reverie. Certain thoughts were passing through his mind—painful, unhappy thoughts—thoughts which had never before visited him.

'Sarah, how old are you?'

'Why, father, what a question!' She came and sat on his knee and looked fondly into his eyes. 'What can you be thinking of not to remember I am seventeen?'

'Of course I remember it, dear child,' replied Mr. Burns tenderly; 'my mind was wandering, and I spoke without reflection.'

'But you were thinking of me?'

'Perhaps.'

He kissed her, and rose and walked slowly up and down the room. Still he was troubled.

We shall not at present endeavor to penetrate his thoughts; nor is it just now to our purpose to present them to the reader.

Hiram Meeker had been again successful. He had resolved to enter the service of Mr. Burns and he had entered it. He came over Monday morning early, and put up at the hotel. In three or four days he secured just the kind of boarding-place he was in search of. A very respectable widow lady, with two grown-up daughters, after consulting with Mr. Burns, did not object to receive him as a member of her family.

AN ARMY CONTRACTOR

Lived a man of iron mold,Crafty glance and hidden eye,Dead to every gain but gold,Deaf to every human sigh.Man he was of hoary beard,Withered cheek and wrinkled brow.Imaged on his soul, appeared:'Honest as the times allow.'

LITERARY NOTICES

Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. By the Author of Paul Ferroll. New-York: Carleton, 413 Broadway. Boston: N. Williams & Co.

Those who remember Paul Ferroll, probably recall it as a novel of merit, which excited attention, partly from its peculiarity, and partly from the mystery in which its writer chose to conceal herself—a not unusual course with timid debutantes in literature, who hope either to intriguer the public with their masks, or quietly escape the disgrace of a fiasco should they fail. Mrs. Clive is, however, it would seem, satisfied that the public did not reject her, since she now reäppears to inform us, 'novelly,' why the extremely ill-married Paul made himself the chief of sinners, by committing wife-icide. The work is in fact a very readable novel—much less killing indeed than its title—but still deserving the great run which we are informed it is having, and which, unlike the run of shad, will not we presume—as it is a very summer book—fall off as the season advances.

The Channings. A Domestic Novel of Real Life. By Mrs. Henry Wood. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson. Boston: Crosby and Nichols.

Notwithstanding the praise which has been so lavishly bestowed on this 'tale of domestic life,' the reader will, if any thing more than a mere reader of novels for the very sake of 'story,' probably agree with us, after dragging through to the end, that it would be a blessing if some manner of stop could be put to the manufacture of such books. A really original, earnest novel; vivid in its life-picturing, genial in its characters; the book of a man or woman who has thought something, and actually knows something, is at any time a world's blessing. But what has The Channings of all this in it? Every sentence in it rings like something read of old, all the incidents are of a kind which were worn out years ago—to be sure the third-rate story-reader may lose himself in it—just as we may for a fiftieth time endeavor to trace out the plan of the Hampton Labyrinth, and with about as much real profit or amusement.

It is a melancholy sign of the times to learn that such hackneyed English trash as The Channings has sold well! It has not deserved it. American novels which have appeared nearly cotemporaneously with it, and which have ten times its merit, have not met with the same success, for the simple and sole reason that almost any English circulating library stuff will at any time meet with better patronage than a home work. When our public becomes as much interested in itself as it is in the very common-place life of Cockney clergymen and clerks, we shall perhaps witness a truly generous encouragement of native literature.

The Pearl of Orr's Island. A Story of the Coast of Maine. By Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

In reading this quiet, natural, well-pictured narrative of Northern life, we are tempted to exclaim—fresh from the extraordinary contrast presented by Agnes of Sorrento—O si sic omnes! Why can not Mrs. Stowe always write like this? Why not limit her efforts to subjects which develop her really fine powers—to setting forth the social life of America at the present day, instead of harping away at the seven times worn out and knotted cord of Catholic and Italian romance? The Pearl of Orr's Island, though not a work which will sweep Uncle Tom-like in tempest fashion over all lands and through all languages, is still a very readable and very refreshing novel—full of reality as we find it among real people, 'inland or on sounding shore,' and by no means deficient in those moral and religious lessons to inculcate which it appears to have been written. Piety is indeed the predominant characteristic of the work—not obtrusive or sectarian, but earnest and actual; so that it will probably be classed, on the whole, as a religious novel, though we can hardly recall a romance in which the pious element interferes so little with the general interest of the plot, or is so little conducive to gloom. The hard, 'Angular Saxon' characteristics of the rural people who constitute the dramatis personæ, their methods of thought and tone of feeling, so singularly different from that of 'the world,' their marked peculiarities, are all set forth with an apparently unconscious ability deserving the highest praise.