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

V >> Various >> The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

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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 naive 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 reaeppears 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
personae_, 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.

THE GOLDEN HOUR. By MONOURE D. CONWAY, Author of
the 'Rejected Stone,' '_Impera Parendo_.' Boston: Ticknor and
Fields.

The most remarkable work which the war has called out is beyond question
the _Rejected Stone_. Wild, vigorous, earnest, even to suffering, honest
as truth itself, quaint, humorous, pathetic, and startlingly eccentric.
Those who read it at once decided that a new writer had arisen among us,
and one destined to make no mean mark in the destinies of his country.
The reader who will refer to our first number will find what we said of
it in all sincerity, since the author was then to us unknown. He is--it
is almost needless to inform the reader--a thorough-going abolitionist,
yet one who, while looking more intently at the welfare of the black
than we care to do in the present imbroglio, still appreciates and urges
Emancipation, or freeing the black, in its relation to the welfare of
the white man. Mr. Conway is not, however, a man who speaks ignorantly
on this subject. A Virginian born and bred, brought up in the very heart
of the institution, he studied it at home in all its relations, and
found out its evils by experience. A thoroughly honest man, too
clear-headed and far too intelligent to be rated as a fanatic; too
familiar with his subject to be at all disregarded, he claims close
attention in many ways, those of wit and eloquence not being by any
means the least. In the work before us, he insists that there is a
golden hour at hand, a title borrowed from the quaint advertisement, of
'Lost a golden hour set with sixty diamond minutes'--which if not
grasped at by the strong, daring hand will see our great national
opportunity lost forever. We are not such disbelievers in fate as to
imagine that this golden hour ever can be inevitably lost. If the cause
of freedom rolls slowly, it is because even in free soil there are too
many Conservative pebbles. Still we agree with Conway as to his estimate
of the great mass of cowardice, irresolution, and folly which react on
our administration. If the word 'Emancipationist,'--meaning thereby one
who looks to the welfare of the _white_ man rather than the negro--be
substituted for 'Abolitionist' in the following, our more intelligent
readers will probably agree with Mr. Conway exactly:

'If this country is to be saved, the Abolitionists are to save it;
and though they seem few in numbers, they are not by a thousandth
so few as were the Christians when JESUS suffered, or Protestants
when Luther spoke. There is need only that we should stand as one
man, and unto the end, for an absolutely free Republic, swearing to
promote eternal strife until it be attained--until in waters which
Agitation, the angel of freedom, has troubled, the diseased nation
shall bathe and be made every whit whole.

'The Golden Hour is before us: there is in America enough wisdom
and courage to coin it, ere it passes, into national honor and
peace, if it is all put forth.

'Up, hearts!'

It is needless to say that we earnestly commend this book to all who
are truly interested in the great questions of the time.

TRAGEDY OF SUCCESS. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

Another of the extraordinary series bearing the motto, '_Aux plus
desheritees le plus d'amour_'--works as strongly marked by talent as by
misapplied taste. The dramatic ability, the deep vein of poetry, the
earnest thought, faith, and humanity of these dramas or drama, are
beyond question--but very questionable to our mind is the extreme love
of over-adorning truth which can induce a writer to represent plantation
negroes as speaking elegant language and using lofty, tender, and poetic
sentiments on almost all occasions, or at least to a degree which is
exceptional and not regular. If we hope that the time may come when all
of GOD'S children will be raised to this high standard of
thought and culture, so much the more reason is there why they should
not now be exaggerated and placed in a false light. Yet, as we have
said, the work abounds in noble thoughts and true poetry. It may be read
with somewhat more than 'profit,' for it has within it a great and
loving heart. True _humanity_ is impressed on every page, and where that
exists greatness and beauty are never absent.

THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME. By VICTOR HUGO.
New-York: Dick and Fitzgerald. 1862.

Many years ago--say some thirty-odd--when French literature still walked
in the old groves, and the classic form and style of the old revolution
still swayed all the minor minds, there sprung up a reaection in the
so-called romantic school of which Victor Hugo became the leader. The
medieval renaissance, which fifty years before had penetrated Germany
and England, and indeed all the North, was late in coming to France, but
when it did come it stirred the Latin Quarter and Young France
wonderfully. If its results were less remarkable in literature than in
any other country, they were at least more admired in their day.
Principal among these results was the novel now before us. And this book
is really a tolerable imitation of Walter Scott. The feverish spirit of
modern France craved, indeed, stronger ingredients than the Wizard of
the North was wont to gather, and the _Hunchback_ is accordingly
'sensational.' It has in fact been called extravagant--yes, forced and
unnatural. Even ordinary readers were apt to say as much of it. We well
remember meeting many years ago in a well-thumbed circulating-library
copy of the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ the following doggerel on the last
page:

'In Paris when to the Greve you go,
Pray do not grieve if VICTOR HUGO
Should there be hanging by a rope,
Without the blessing of the Pope,
Or that of any human creature
On him who libels human nature.'

Yet we counsel all who would be well-informed in literature--as well as
the far greater number of those who read only for entertainment, to get
this work. It is exciting--full of strange, quaint picturing of the
Middle Ages, has vivid characters, and is full of life. Among the series
of books with fewer faults, but, alas! with far fewer excellencies,
which are daily printed, there is, after all, seldom one so well worth
reading as _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_.

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