Mr. Astor occupies an imposing mansion in Lafayette Place, and immediately adjoining is the magnificent library to which we have referred, and which should commemorate the name of the son as well as that of the father. At this house he spends that small portion of his time which is not occupied by his duties in Prince street, where he does a full day's work (Sundays excepted) every day in the week. Thus the daily routine of the richest man in America is a walk to and from home, of a half-mile or so, and close attention to business.
The care of Mr. Astor's estate is a vast burden. His tenements of all grades number several hundreds, ranging from the dwelling at three hundred dollars per annum to the magnificent warehouse or hotel at thirty thousand dollars. To relieve himself from the more vexatious features of his business, he has committed his real estate collections to an agent who does the work well, and who is, no doubt, largely paid. He, with his clerks, collects rents, and makes returns of a rent-roll, whose very recital would be wearisome. As a matter of course, such a man must employ a small army of painters, carpenters, and other mechanics, in order to keep up suitable repairs. As Mr. Astor pays no insurance, the work of rebuilding after fires is in itself a large item.
A large part of Mr. Astor's property consists of vacant lots, which are in continual demand, and which he generally prefers to hold rather than sell; hence he is much employed with architects and master-builders, and always has several blocks in course of erection. This is a very heavy burden, and were it not for the help derived from his family, would, we believe, crush him. However, his son, John Jacob, is quite a business man, and bears his share of the load. This young gentleman has shown his patriotism by serving in the army for the Union, in which he bears an important commission. In addition to this, Mr. Astor has the aid of a gentleman of business character and habits, once a member of one of the largest shipping houses in the city, who has become connected with the family by marriage. The labors of all these parties would not be more than adequate to the task of collecting interest on bonds, looking after dividends, etc., since that little fire-proof office in Prince street contains several millions of Government and State securities.
In order to give something like an estimate of the immense income rolling in upon this family, we must commence with the fact that two dollars per day is considered fair wages for working men; that the man who makes five dollars per day all the year round may be considered very fortunate; that ten dollars per day is attained by that few who are more favored and gifted, and whose proportion to the mass is about one to a thousand. Starting from this estimate, we may be better prepared to rate Mr. Astor's position by comparing any of the above sums with six thousand dollars, which is said to be his daily income. Bless me! one can not but exclaim; here Crœsus himself might die with envy. Yet we reply, after a moment's pause, let no one envy the man of gold. It is said that when John Jacob Astor was once congratulated by a certain person for his wealth, he replied by pointing to his pile of bonds, and maps of property, at the same time inquiring: 'Would you like to manage these matters for your board and clothes?' The man demurred to the idea. 'Sir,' continued the rich man, 'it is all that I get!' Hence, thinking on these things, we have never envied Mr. Astor, and would not bear the burden of his wealth for all its glory. It is not the possession but the use of money, which affords enjoyment, and this is a secret which the rich seldom learn. Alas! among the annals of moneyed men, how seldom do we meet a Stuart or a Lenox—men who have learned what Goldsmith calls 'the luxury of doing good.'
It is one of the peculiar misfortunes of the rich, to be subject to the attentions of parasites and flatterers, and hence they can not possess that same certainty of the value of friendship enjoyed by the poor. The latter of these classes know that when a kind act is done to them, it comes from a pure motive; the other seldom can be sure that it is not from selfish ends. To illustrate the idea which wealth suggests, as to the motive of friendly visitors, we may state that among Mr. Astor's class-mates in Columbia College was a young man who became a preacher. The students separated—the one to handle millions, and to touch the springs of the money-market, and become the colossus of wealth; the other to his flock, as a poor domestic missionary, whose history was indeed a 'shady side.' The latter struggled on through thick and thin, and never in all his privations thought of sending a begging-letter to his old class-mate. But being once upon a time in New-York, he yielded to the inclination to make him a visit. Mr. Astor received him courteously, and the two conversed on the scenes of their early days. As the pastor arose to depart, an idea struck the capitalist's heart, which we mention to his credit. 'Can I do any thing for you?' he inquired. He had, in fact, misconceived the object of the visit, and supposed that under the guise of a friendly call, lurked an inclination to beg, which fear of refusal had suppressed. The poor clergyman at once perceived the drift of the question. Nothing could have been farther from his mind, and blushing at the thought, he acknowledged the suggestion with an expression of gratitude, and retired.
Perhaps a view of the unrest of the human heart appears most terrible when contrasted with the almost fabulous heaps of surrounding wealth, and one is thus led to the conclusion arrived at by Goldsmith:
'Vain, very vain, my weary search to findThat bliss which only centres in the mind;With secret course which no loud streams annoy,Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;Still to ourselves in every place consigned,Our own felicity we make or find.'
FOOTNOTES:[4]Undercurrentsis not a romance, and although its author calls it a 'Romance of business,' it is a life-like presentation of the deep things of trade, a series of dramatic scenes, holding the mirror up to a terrible reality. The characters are no fictions; they exist, they labor, they suffer daily, and will continue to do so, go long as the present system obtains, Mr. Kimball boldly lays bare the secret disease, like a demonstrator of anatomy. He is the only author who has succeeded in this department of literature, and here he shows himself a master.[5]Since writing the above, we have heard of that masterpiece of munificence, the gift of fifty thousand dollars to the Theological Seminary of Princeton by the Messrs. Stuart.[6]Calling on Church lately, we found him finishing his Cotopaxi for Mr. Lenox. Price, six thousand dollars.
[4]Undercurrentsis not a romance, and although its author calls it a 'Romance of business,' it is a life-like presentation of the deep things of trade, a series of dramatic scenes, holding the mirror up to a terrible reality. The characters are no fictions; they exist, they labor, they suffer daily, and will continue to do so, go long as the present system obtains, Mr. Kimball boldly lays bare the secret disease, like a demonstrator of anatomy. He is the only author who has succeeded in this department of literature, and here he shows himself a master.
[4]Undercurrentsis not a romance, and although its author calls it a 'Romance of business,' it is a life-like presentation of the deep things of trade, a series of dramatic scenes, holding the mirror up to a terrible reality. The characters are no fictions; they exist, they labor, they suffer daily, and will continue to do so, go long as the present system obtains, Mr. Kimball boldly lays bare the secret disease, like a demonstrator of anatomy. He is the only author who has succeeded in this department of literature, and here he shows himself a master.
[5]Since writing the above, we have heard of that masterpiece of munificence, the gift of fifty thousand dollars to the Theological Seminary of Princeton by the Messrs. Stuart.
[5]Since writing the above, we have heard of that masterpiece of munificence, the gift of fifty thousand dollars to the Theological Seminary of Princeton by the Messrs. Stuart.
[6]Calling on Church lately, we found him finishing his Cotopaxi for Mr. Lenox. Price, six thousand dollars.
[6]Calling on Church lately, we found him finishing his Cotopaxi for Mr. Lenox. Price, six thousand dollars.
'When it once begins to thunder,You will hear it all around!'And we waited—till in wonderSoon we heard the awful sound:Crashing cannon, rifle-rattle,Bowing many a traitor-head:On, McClellan, with the battle!Strike the Typhon-serpent dead!
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every onelivesit—to not many is itknown;and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.'Successful.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every onelivesit—to not many is itknown;and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.
'Successful.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.
You will find, as you travel through the country, but few very poor people in New-England. Rarely are the 'selectmen' called to act either on applications for admission as one of the 'town's poor,' or to 'bind out' a boy or girl till one-and-twenty.
One evening—it was the close of a cold, raw day in the latter part of November—the stage deposited a woman, and a lad perhaps twelve years old, at the village tavern in Sudbury. She was intending to ride all night; indeed, she had paid her 'fare' through to New-Haven, but, seized with sudden illness, she was compelled to stop. Her malady proved to be typhus fever. The doctor was summoned, who subjected his patient to the terrific treatment then in vogue for that disorder, and in due course she died. It turned out on inquiry, that the woman, whose name was Burns, was on her way to a married sister's in Pennsylvania; further, that she was a widow, the lad her only child, and the sister in Pennsylvania the only near relation she had in the world. This sister was by no means in affluent circumstances, but she could offer a home to 'Sarah,' which the latter was glad to accept. After disposing of the trifling articles unsuitable to carry with her, she had barely money enough to defray the expenses of herself and 'Joel' to their new abode. The poor woman's journey was interrupted, as we have explained, at Sudbury, and a new direction given to it. She departed for 'the undiscovered country,' leaving little Joel to cry himself asleep; for the time quite heart-broken, and desolate enough.
There was not time to write to the married sister; so the selectmen, after ascertaining what money still remained in the purse of the deceased, undertook the burial. They ordered a cheap pine coffin, scantily 'stained.' It cost but a quarter of a dollar to dig the grave, and old Sally agreed to 'lay the woman out' for the comfortable dress she wore on arriving at the inn. Of the three selectmen of Sudbury, two were from the east part of the town—thrifty, hard-working farmers; the third was a Mr. Bellows, a popular store-keeper of the village. The latter had not interfered with the action of his colleagues, because he himself was very busy, and they, having very little to do at that season, were pleased with the excitement the affair afforded them. But passing the inn the morning Mrs. Burns was to be buried, Mr. Bellows stepped in a moment at the request of the landlord, who was a kind-hearted fellow, and did not feel quite satisfied with the arrangements. Ascending to the chamber, he saw a sad but handsome-looking boy standing over a rudely constructed coffin, a picture of sorrow and despair. The little fellow had witnessed the action of the coarse-hearted men who took the direction of the funeral. He heard their private discussion as to the 'cost of burying the woman.' He was a witness to their haggling with Aunt Sally about laying her out. He could hear various propositions as to what was to be done withhim. He saw his mother hurriedly draped for the coffin and placed inside of it. He did not sob nor cry; a dreadful reality had so overcome him, that he lost the power of doing either. Once or twice, when every body had left the room, he had stolen softly up and kissed the face of the corpse, and some tears would then roll down his cheeks. It was at such a time that Mr. Bellows entered, and his heart smotehim that he had not sooner looked in. He spoke kindly to Joel, which seemed to loose the flood-gates of his grief, and for a time he continued to cry in the most piteous manner. Mr. Bellows soon decided what to do. His own family was small; he had a wife and one child—a little girl nine years old. He took Joel in his lap, told him not to cry—that he should go home with him, and behisboy. The tone in which this was uttered had more effect to soothe the lad than what was said to him. After a few minutes, Joel was persuaded to leave the room and to accompany his new friend to the house. Mr. Bellows then called on his minister, and requested him to perform the funeral rites at the grave; for so little interest had been shown in the fate of the strange woman, that her illness had not even been communicated to the clergyman, and the selectmen did not think it 'worth while to have any funeral'! Mr. Bellows hurried hack to the inn. The coffin was placed in a wagon. It was followed by the clergyman and Mr. Bellows, the two other selectmen, the landlord of the inn, and his wife. The burying-ground was soon reached, a short prayer made, and the company dispersed, leaving the man to fill up the grave according to contract. Mr. Bellows and his two associates returned to the tavern together, in order, as the latter expressed it, to settle up the business. Going into the sitting-room, and taking seats around a small table, one of them opened the subject in a serious and important tone, indicative of the weight of responsibility he felt was resting on his shoulders, by asking what was to be done with the boy.
'What do you think best to do with him?' said Mr. Bellows.
'Well, I suppose there is room in the town-house. There is nobody there now but Aunt Lois and foolish Tom, and we can probably bind him out next spring.'
'I don't think we have a right to charge the town with the expense,' said selectman number two. 'We know where the boy came from; the best way is to send him back to Granby.'
'He has got an aunt,' said the other; 'hadn't we better write to her?'
'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Bellows, 'I will cut this matter short. I will take the lad myself. You shall bind him out to me in the regular way. I do not think you need fear any interference from the town of Granby. As to his aunt, I propose first to write and get her consent. If she prefers to take the boy, why, she will send for him.'
This question disposed of, the spokesman next proposed to go into the accounts; which meant his own and his neighbor's charge for time and personal expenses twice from East-Sudbury with horse and wagon. They thought six dollars about right.
'How do you propose to be paid?' quoth Mr. Bellows.
'Twenty dollars and seventy-two cents was in their possession, taken from the pocket of the woman after she died.'
'And how did you dare interfere with property of any kind,' exclaimed Mr. Bellows, his smothered indignation bursting forth, 'without consulting with me? Don't you know the landlord has the first claim on every thing till his bill is paid? Don't you know, too, you are simply doing the town business, and if you have any claim, the town must pay you for it?'
Well, that is so, I guess,' said the third. 'Itisagin the town. I'll take my chances, for one—had rather settle it that way, any how.'
The result of the conference was, that the whole business, including the twenty dollars and seventy-two cents, was handed over to Mr. Bellows, leaving his colleagues to make out and collect their bill at leisure. Joel's aunt was written to, and freely gave her consent that the boy should go with his new friend. The latter promptly paid the bill at the inn, and the doctor for his services, and soon after paid his colleagues what they claimed, lest it might in the future be a subject of comment when Joel grew up.
He was a good man, this Mr. Bellows;not specially refined in manner, but possessing a delicacy of character and a lively sensibility which placed him among the ranks of nature's noblemen. He had been fortunate in business, and owned the principal store in the place, where he exercised a decided influence.
Little Joel gave promise of not disappointing his patron's expectations. In fact, he was a child of most engaging manners. His features were not regular, nor indeed handsome; but he had bright black eyes, a fine complexion, and an open, ingenuous countenance. He was treated by Mr. Bellows as considerately as if he were his own son. To be sure, Joel had some unpleasant scenes to pass through. As nothing is ever lost sight of in a small country village, the story of how he came to be living with Mr. Bellows was not forgotten. At school, occasionally, one of the boys would, on some slight provocation, point at him and call him 'Bellows's nigger,' or make faces and cry 'charity boy,' 'town's poor.' Now, fortunately, Joel had a happy, joyous nature—somewhat fiery and irascible, but still joyous—else he might have become morbidly miserable. As it was, these manifestations only provoked his anger, and led him forthwith into a rough-and-tumble fight, in which, whether victor or not, he always showed unquestionable pluck. If he came off second-best a dozen times, he went confidently into the thirteenth trial, brave as Bruce, and equally successful. At length the voice of gossip was hushed. Joel became the most popular lad in the village. Every body liked him, and what is better, he deserved it.
But the evil days came at last to good Mr. Bellows—came after years of happy, moderate, unclouded prosperity. First his wife died. This was when Joel was twenty years old, and Ellen Bellows seventeen. The illness was short, and the daughter was summoned from boarding-school in time only to attend her mother's funeral. Mr. Bellows, after that, as every body said, was an altered man. He could not bring his mind to business. Some people thought at times he acted strangely, by which they meant he was a little out of his head. Still, his affairs could not suffer while such a young man as Joel Burns was about. The fact is, in some things matters were even better managed than before. But great mistakes were made in the purchase of goods, which Mr. Bellows continued to attend to, and which Joel had too much respect for his benefactor to criticise. The succeeding year, speculation in wool ran high. Mr. Bellows was anxious to go into it. Joel took the freedom of begging him not to do so. The latter appeared to be persuaded; but he did what was worse than engaging actively in purchases, for then he would have had Joel's tact and energy to aid him. He lent his name to an acquaintance, for a very large amount, who was to go extensively into the scheme with him and divide the profits. The result was disastrous. Wool fell rapidly. An attempt was made to borrow money on it and hold it over to the next season—worse and worse; Mr. Bellows was ruined.
One morning, very early, several attachments were levied on his goods, and the store was shut up. One of the officers next proceeded to the house and took possession there, so that Mr. Bellows was now tied hand and foot.
I suppose few of my readers can appreciate what it is for a man to 'fail up' in the country. In our large cities, it is regarded, to be sure, as a misfortune, but one to which every merchant is exposed; and the usual course is to propose a compromise, obtain a release, and set cheerfully to work again, with loss of property, doubtless, butnotwith any damage to reputation. But in the country, failure is regarded as a disgrace, and a 'failed man' is looked and pointed at something as a felon would be.
When Joel Burns awoke in the morning and found every thing in the hands of the sheriff, he was astounded, for Mr. Bellows had not told him a word about his last year's operations. He perceived the amounts were larger than could ever be realized. He took in the whole situation at a glance. He hastened to consult with Mr. Bellows, but he was listened to with entire apathy. The merchant would say but little, and that was so incoherent and unintelligible, it was evident he was laboring under mental aberration. He continued moody through the day, and the next morning was found dead in his bed. He had severed an artery.
At this time Joel was in his twenty-second year. Already displaying extraordinary capacity in affairs, this event served to call out all his resources.
I ought to have mentioned, before this, what every body will guess, that Joel was desperately in love with Ellen Bellows, without, however, giving her the least reason to believe so, beyond that silent, unobtrusive devotion which girls, after all, are not very apt to mistake. Joel felt that in his situation he had no right to attempt to win Ellen's affection; but he unconsciously took the very best way to win it. In his intercourse with her he was reserved, almost formal, and, I may say, apparently indifferent. Ellen, when she came home from school to spend her vacations, used to feel a good deal piqued that Joel was not more demonstrative in his welcome. I can not believe she did not comprehend pretty well how Joel really felt; but his manner annoyed her, nevertheless. For example, he would frequently step aside and permit another to wait on Miss Bellows, when Miss Bellows would much prefer Joel had not been so accommodating. In fact, she was vexed with him half the time for what she called his stupidity, and half the time tantalized by his 'studious reserve.' Meanwhile, Joel pursued his career of self-martyrdom, honest and true-hearted.
Now the scene had changed, and Joel was no longer the diffident youth, but a man, competent and energetic. He took the direction of every thing; nothing was overlooked. Of course the relatives were sent for. It was the old story: they had paid great respect to their rich cousin, but they did not seem to care much for the memory of the broken-down insolvent.
The day of the funeral arrived—a dreary November day. It was just eleven years from the day Joel's mother was buried and he himself taken to the house of Mr. Bellows. Joel did not forget it, and it gave additional strength to carry out what devolved on him. There was a very large attendance at the house. The circumstances of the failure and subsequent suicide, the situation of the only daughter, and the many petty incidents which were now the town talk, excited the curiosity of the good people, and there was an opportunity to gratify it by attending the funeral. They wanted to see how the corpse would look. They were crazy to know how Ellen Bellows would appear, and what Joel Burns would do. So the house was thronged. After all, there was not much to satisfy their curiosity. The corpse was not exposed; Ellen Bellows, contrary to all custom in New-England, remained in her chamber, for which, as you may believe, she was pretty thoroughly picked to pieces; and Joel Burns sat quietly, with sad but tranquil countenance, among the mourners.
The next day Joel called Ellen aside and asked her whether she was not going home with her aunt.
'Am I not to stay here?' she said.
Joel could not explain to her just then the absolute ruin which stared her in the face. He simply answered: 'No, Ellen, you must go away for a few weeks. There is much to do, and for a time you had better be absent.'
'Very well, Joel, if you advise it. I have nobody else to advise me,' and she burst into tears.
Joel remained calm. He had previously made up his mind just what to do, and he brought all the energy of his nature to sustain him. His composed air helped to restore Ellen—she tried to be as calm as he.
'But aunt, since she came, has not invited me return with her,' she said.
'Oh! but she will, I am sure,' replied Joel, and he went out rather abruptly;for here was an obstacle to his plan which did not occur to him before. He proceeded at once to the aunt, and found her preparing to leave that afternoon.
'You will take Ellen with you, I suppose?' he said.
'I am sure I had not thought of doing it. You know all the children are home, and really we have no room at present.'
Two weeks previous she had written a pressing invitation to Ellen to come at this particular time. Joel bluntly reminded her of it.
'Yes, but circumstances alter cases. The fact is, I can't afford to maintain the girl, and I don't think I had better begin; and that's the English of it, Joel, if you force me to say so. You know very well there won't be a cent left.'
'I think I know more about that than you do,' replied Joel, with an air which would have done credit to adiplomat, 'and, I assure you, Ellen willnotbe left penniless; and if you will insist on her going with you for a short time—mind, I sayinsist—I promise before long to make certain disclosures which will satisfy you as to my assertion. But she must not be here while they are settling up. You understand.'
The old lady did not understand, but Joel carried his point by the aid of the mystery with which he surrounded it. It put her on her good behavior at once, lest she should lose the promised revelation. She spoke even affectionately to Ellen, and declared she should not let her remain in the house alone, but she must go home with her.
Before the two left Sudbury, Joel had a very long interview with Ellen. What passed at that interview never transpired, but the young girl's countenance, though very sad, did not wear the desolate and despairing expression which it exhibited before.
The stage now drew up, the ladies got in, and it rolled away, leaving Joel and the deputy-sheriffs the sole possessors of the premises.
A few miles to the north-east of Sudbury the country, at the time I speak of it, had a wild and forbidding appearance. This was partly owing to the immense forest which stretched along a continuous ridge of land covering both sides of it and the plain below. On one side of this ridge the face of the country was very rough; on the other side, through a fine intervale, flowed a stream of respectable size called Pine Creek, which took its rise in the mountains at some distance, and was fed by innumerable springs and rivulets from the surrounding hills. Nearly a thousand acres of these lands were owned by an old merchant in New-York, who had taken them for debt many years before, and had become, as he said, tired of paying taxes on them.
Joel had had his eye on the property for two or three years. What his views were, we shall presently see, for no sooner did Miss Bellows quit Sudbury with her aunt, than Joel, after remarking to the sheriff that he did not propose to interfere with him in any way, proceeded to pack his trunks, which he removed to the inn. Then he hired a horse and wagon for a week, and set off no one knew whither. He came back within the time limited, and found a committee of creditors awaiting his return. They wanted to engage him to sell out the stock of goods and to close up Mr. Bellows' affairs. Joel declined the service, although the offers were liberal and coupled with the intimation that it would be the means of starting him in business as the successor of Mr. Bellows. Joel resolutely declined. He knew the estate was hopelessly insolvent, and that he could not be of the least service to Ellen by any labors he should undertake; and besides, he did not care to even appear to thrive out of the broken fortunes of his patron. When still pressed by the now perplexed creditors, he turned sharply on them and said: 'Gentlemen, don't you think it would have been more judicious, not to say more humane, had you waited on Mr. Bellows in his lifetime, and requestedhimto undertake this service insteadof pouncing on his property, closing his store, and hurrying him into his grave? He was an honest man, and would have worked honestly for your benefit, and I would have aided him. As it is, I do not feel disposed to lift a finger for you. Good morning.'
Joel left the same day for New-York, and did not again return to Sudbury. Some weeks afterward, in mid-winter, the report was circulated that he was living in the woods on Pine Creek. Then the story went abroad that the poor fellow was crazy and had turned hermit. This was followed by other rumors still more ridiculous.
I have no desire to alarm the reader on Joel's account. It is time, therefore, I should say that he had formed extensive plans for the future, which he was proceeding to carry out. During his week's absence he went carefully over the entire tract owned by the old merchant in New-York. This lay on both sides of the creek, and extended to the eastward quite over the 'ridge.' It was well timbered and beautifully situated. After making these observations, Joel proceeded to New-York and called on the proprietor. He stated his object to be to purchase a hundred acres of the tract, for which he would pay five dollars an acre cash. He wanted, besides, the refusal of the rest of the property, for a certain time, at the same rate. The old merchant was pleased with Joel's ingenuous manner as well as with his intelligence. He questioned him minutely about the lands, for he had never seen them, and asked him what he proposed to do with his purchase. Joel answered promptly and truthfully. He put the owner in possession of every material fact.
'And all you will give is five dollars per acre?'
'Yes.'
'Do you think that is all the lands are really worth?'
'I hope to make them worth much more to me, else I would not seek to buy,' responded Joel. 'What they are worth to you, is for you to judge after what I have said about them.'
Thereupon the old gentleman told Joel he would do better by him than he asked. He would sell him the whole, receive the five hundred dollars, and take back a mortgage for the balance. Joel would not accept this proposition. He wanted one hundred acres, and he wanted to pay for them, and the money was ready at five dollars the acre, and he desired the refusal of the balance at the same rate. The bargain was closed in this way, and Joel went on to his own property rejoicing. The plot selected by him was from that portion nearest to the road, which here was about a mile distant, and at a point of the stream most favorable for the erection of asaw-mill. This hundred acres Joel had had carefully surveyed before he went to New-York. It embraced a portion of the 'ridge,' with a front on the stream. The old village was miserably situated, on the ancient principle of putting it in the centre of the township, and a new road had been talked of for some time, which would shorten the communication between two important points, and leave it to one side. This was also known to Joel, and it led him to greater energy in trying to secure the property. But he did not omit to mention this circumstance in his interview with the proprietor, though, if the truth be told, he was tempted to keep silent. Joel Burns had a fine moral sense, to violate which, gave him pain. Without going through any argument on the subject, hefeltthat it would amount to a deception if he withheld the information.
At the time of Mr. Bellows' death Joel was worth about twelve hundred dollars. His benefactor had not only paid him a full salary, but, besides this, perceiving that Joel displayed an aptitude for business, Mr. Bellows allowed him privileges by which he was able to make some money on his own account. The result was, he had accumulated the sum I have mentioned, from which had now been disbursedfive hundred dollars for the land purchase.
Through the winter Joel was very busy. He hired four stout, active lumber-men, built a rude log-hut, which was comfortable enough inside, and all set to work first to cut a road to the highway. Then they commenced clearing. The timber was magnificent first-growth pine. It cut up splendidly. The lumber-men now saw what Hiram was driving at. They began to respect the young fellow who looked so much like a boy, yet who showed such pluck, nerve, and sagacity. After a while, in a pleasant position on the ridge could be seen a very neat log-house in progress of erection. It contained four rooms—a spacious edifice for the woods—all of course on the ground floor, for there was no second story. Great attention was paid in a rude way to the interior, and by spring it was finished.
During the winter Joel was twice absent from the 'settlement' for two or three days. He was making a visit to—- Ellen's aunt. That worthy woman had only been half-persuaded when she invited her niece home. Very soon, she began to think she had made a mistake in 'harboring' her, especially as the news spread abroad that Bellows' estate was a very great deal worse than nothing. To be sure Joel's presence reässured her, he looked so competent, and spoke so confidently yet still so mysteriously. On his second visit, however, the lady pretty flatly intimated she was losing confidence in his assertions. She did not believe her brother had left Ellen a cent in any shape.
'And I tell you what it is, Joel Burns, you need not think we are going to support her. She must earn her living like other folks.'
'Iwill be responsible for Ellen's board,' said Joel indignantly. 'I would have said that before, but I should feel mortified to have her know I had made the offer, or you had accepted it.'
'You need not mount your high horse with me, Joel,' retorted the other, but in a mollified tone. 'You know I am just as kind to Ellen as any body would be under the circumstances.'
'As kind as Mr. Bellows would have been to Tilly and Eliza, had they been left orphans, I suppose,' interrupted the still indignant Joel.
'Yes, to be sure. You don't imagine I should have expected him to take care of my children!'
'But he would have done it though.'
'Well that may or may not be—he is dead and gone, poor man, and I have done my best to make it pleasant for Ellen, and she will tell you so. We have got along very well; I like her and her cousins like her, and I am satisfied after what you have said.'
By the middle of April, the people of Sudbury had made up their minds that Joel Burns was neither crazy nor exactly a hermit, nor yet a fool, though some candidly admitted they had been fools when they so judged of him. For by the middle of April a saw-mill with a double set of saws had been put in operation, and was turning out the lumber rapidly. Quickly the knowing ones saw into it, (but they did not see into it till Joel had made his demonstration,) and now wondered why they had overlooked the speculation. One very keen fellow determined to make the most out of Joel's beginning. He examined the records at the office of the register of deeds and discovered that Joel had title to but a hundred acres. Thereupon he went to New-York with the object of purchasing the adjacent lands. Imagine his chagrin, when he was told Joel had the refusal of the whole tract. With a low cunning he endeavored to make the old merchant dissatisfied with the sale, by telling him that he had parted with his property for a quarter of its value—in fact, had given it away. He would have offered twice the money himself.
'I am glad to hear you say so,' was the only reply the fellow received, 'for I take a great interest in that young man. So he has got his mill a-going, has he? Good.'
'But if I should offer you ten dollars an acre for the next hundred-acre-lot,don't you think you could manage to let me have it?'
'No.'
What an excitement there was when our smart man returned and gave an account of his trip. Then followed all sorts of rumors. Joel was in partnership with a rich old fellow in 'York,' who was going to let him have all the money he wanted. There was to be a new village right away, situated somewhere—on the ridge—on the stream—across the creek—on the plain—under the hill. What wouldn't the speculators give to knowjustwhere! With the erection of the saw-mill, several little huts went up near it for the use of those employed there. These huts were not made of logs—there was plenty of lumber now—but cheaply constructed and clap-boarded with slabs. Some of the Sudbury wits derisively called the place 'Slab City.' The lumber-men seemed to like this name, for they at once adopted it, and it has never been known by any other.
But before this, a remarkable event occurred, affording still greater food for town-talk and gossip generally. The neat log-house on the ridge had been comfortably furnished, and Ellen Bellows—now Ellen Burns—installed as its mistress.
On his third visit the mystery was solved in a manner quite satisfactory to the aunt. To do that lady justice, we must say she was not half so selfish nor so calculating as she might have been. It is true she had not generosity enough to run the risk of offering Ellen a home as long as she might require one, whatever should happen. But she was tolerably kind to her, and when she heard that a wedding was to be speedily improvised, she entered into it heart and soul, and made every thing pass pleasantly, yes, happily. Furthermore, I am bound to record that she refused to take one penny for Ellen's 'board,' although Joel pressed her to do so.
'Do you think I am an old hunks, Joel, because I did not feel able to undertake Ellen's support? Prudent I try to be, it is my duty. Haven't I my own children to look after? but because Iamprudent and do my duty, can't I show some kindness to my poor brother's only child? Don't talk to me about 'board,' and, Joel, don't say any thing to Ellen about our previous conversation. You know I have always been perfectly satisfied with every thing you told me.'
Joel felt too happy then to question the fact, if indeed, it could be questioned. He reässured the good woman on that head, and added he should in due time expect visits from Tilly and Eliza.
'They will be delighted to go, and what is more Mr. Barron (her husband) has been thinking a good deal of leaving here, and I should not be surprised if he paid you a visit one of these days to see what chances offer, for we have all heard how smartyouhave been.'
It is essential I should explain to the reader why Joel Burns, who was ingenuous and truthful, and by no means fond of mystery or concealment, should make use of both in his intercourse with Ellen's aunt. We have previously stated how desperately he was in love with Ellen, and further how hard he tried to make himself believe his affection could never be reciprocated. When, however, the day of trial came suddenly onher, all the nonsense was scattered from Joel's brain like mist before the wind. But the romance in his heart was not dissipated, because romance isnotnonsense. Genuine romance is a real element in our natures, and so long as we preserve it, we are young. When Joel found himself placed in the position of Ellen's sole protector, he took prompt and decisive stepsforher protection. But while he hoped to win her for his wife, he could not endure the thought that possibly a part of his success might be due to the change in Ellen's fortunes, or that her choice should not be free and unrestrained. It was for this reason he mystified the aunt and procured for Ellen a cordial invitation to stay with her 'till the business matters were settled,' thus mystifying Ellen also. She, poor girl,continued in happy ignorance of her absolutely destitute condition. She loved Joel dearly, and it was one of her happiest day-dreams to plan how she could aid him in his projects by putting him in possession of all she should have—yes, all.
The evening before the wedding, after Joel had given a full history of the progress of the 'settlement' and what he hoped to do in the future, Ellen, overcoming the timidity which had before prevented her speaking, exclaimed:
'O Joel! how much you have done—all alone, too! When you get what is coming to me, won'tthathelp you? and you shall have the whole of it, dear Joel, every dollar!'
She stopped and blushed, half-frightened at her boldness. Tears came into Joel's eyes, he was so happy. He threw his arms around his beloved and pressed her to his heart.
People could now understand where the village was to be. The new road had been laid out and was in course of construction. It passed along the ridge near the centre. On computing the distances, it was found this point would be a convenient one for a stage-house, where passengers could pass the night. Joel sold to the stage company what lots they required, at a very low price, on condition that they would erect a first-rate public house. The water-power at 'Slab City,' three fourths of a mile distant, attracted attention. The 'fell' was large, and the supply of water abundant. One man started with a turning-machine, which was attached to the mill. Another, with more capital, established a fulling-mill, and so on. Joel avoided the ordinary errors of landholders. He did not attempt to carry on all sorts of business himself, neither did he hold his lots at too high prices. To actual settlers he sold very cheap; to speculators he would not sell at all. The old merchant continued his friend. By his recommendation a man with considerable capital visited the place, and being well pleased, purchased some of the water-power and built a large button-factory, Joel's views proved most judicious. By laying out the village on the ridge, he secured a beautiful site, which was relieved from a close proximity to shops and mills and factories, while it had really the support of all these. Several fine houses were now erected. Two stores were started, and a meeting-house built, for which Joel gave nearly all the lumber. Next a post-office was established, and the place called Burnsville. It was a beautiful spot, and how it grew and flourished! But Burnsville would have amounted to little had it not been for Slab City. Joel took care not to lose an opportunity for strengtheningit. Water-power could always be had of him cheap. I forgot to say he erected a 'grist-mill,' which was much needed. Two other saw-mills beside his own were built a little way further up, but on his tract. Mr. Barron and family did move to Burnsville, as Mrs. B. intimated they might. He brought a good deal of money with him, and turned his enterprise to account. The families continued intimate. In ten years Burnsville became one of the most prosperous villages in the State. Joel Burns was a rich man, as well astheman of the place. These ten years had wrought no great changes in Joel's character or habits. To be sure he had become more engrossed in plans for future operations. By degrees he had narrowed his mind into the channel ofsuccessful effort. The circumference of his existence was probably more limited than when he brought his little wife into the pretty log-house on the ridge. (He now lived in the handsomest one in the village.) Still, he was more active, more perseveringly energetic, more effective than ever before. But the romance of which I spoke had faded, or was overshadowed, by the forms of active, busy, bustling life. Still Joel Burns was in the main the same ingenuous, honest-hearted fellow as ever. A happy man—happy in his home—happy because prosperous in his business—but by no means as happy as he might have been.Regarding him in this view, it was melancholy to see him so utterly engrossed in his pursuits and plans. He did not take time to look about him and enjoy. The Sabbath to him was a dull, wearisome, restless day. He had too much respect for it to desecrate it by even a private attention to his affairs, and he had very little idea of any spiritual wants. He was active in erecting a church and securing a good preacher, on whose ministrations he attended regularly with his family. Yet it was a great relief to him when Sunday was over, and he welcomed the succeeding morning with a renewed zest.
Joel Burns became a very popular man; he was universally beloved; he was generous and public-spirited. He was unselfish in his ordinary dealings, and always ready to lend a helping hand to those about him. His success was not owing to a close, hard, grasping nature, but was the result of fine business abilities, coupled with extraordinary energy and perseverance.
Joel Burns was unjust to no one but himself. He neglected to cultivate his moral nature, and left it in danger of being choked by the cares he voluntarily assumed. He had one safeguard, however. I have observed that he was happy in his family. This consisted of his wife, and one child—a daughter named Sarah, after Joel's mother. When with them, Joeldidforget his business life. His love for his wife and child was like a gushing fountain of pure water. It preserved his heart from becoming arid, and his nature from ossification.
Twelve years passed, and found Burnsville more nourishing than ever, and Joel Burns yet without any interruption to his fortunes or his happiness.
Late in summer, typhus fever—a dreadful visitor in this part of New-England—made its appearance, and became more prevalent than usual, and assumed a severer type. Mrs. Burns was among the first attacked, and with great severity.
Joel felt the foundations of his soul giving way when the possibility presented itself that his wifemightdie. He called to mind with a shudder the scene at the village tavern in Sudbury, when, a child, he stood by his mother's bedside and heard, awe-struck, her incoherent ravings while the delirium of fever was on her. 'O my God! she will die, she will die!' he exclaimed, as he rushed out of the room, unable to control his feelings.
The country was scoured for doctors. An eminent medical man from New-Haven was sent for. He was unable to come; but the house was filled with consulting physicians. Alas I they knew little in those days how to treat this terrible malady, or rather how to skillfully let it alone. Day after day, Joel paced up and down, now in this room, now in that, all over the house. At night he watched by his wife. He insisted on doing so; no argument or entreaty could prevail on him to leave her a moment. She was delirious nearly all the time. Then her voice would be strong, her eyes glassy bright, her cheeks flushed and burning. She recognized neither husband nor child.
It was in the middle of the night. The 'watcher' who sat up in company with Joel, slumbered in his chair. He did not slumber, but sat with eyes fixed on his wife, who for some time seemed to be resting easier than before. Presently her lips moved. Her husband bent over her.
'Joel.'
'I am here, my darling.'
'Joel.'
'Yes, dearest.'
'We have not lived right'
'No, dear.'
'You do not think we have lived right, do you?'
'No, oh! no.'
'I am going to die, Joel.'
'Do not speak in that way!' and the poor fellow groaned, in spite of every effort to control himself.
'I must, Joel, I must. We have notlived rightYouwill live right when I am gone. You will teach Sarah to live right, won't you?'
'I don't want to live at all if you do not live!' was the passionate answer.
'For our child's sake, Joel.'
No reply.
'What a kind, loving husband you have been to me—been to me always! I loved you—loved you before you knew it, Joel.' Here she opened her eyes languidly, and essayed to turn them on him. 'But we have not lived right.'
There was still no response, save by audible sobs.
'I think I have made my peace with God. Are you glad, Joel?'
'Now I don't care what happens, if you only feel happy!' he cried. 'But to have you die in distress of mind! It would drive me crazy.'
'Give God the praise, Joel. Iamhappy. It is so sweet to trust in Him! You won't neglect—neglect—you won't——' She fell into a stupor, from which she never fully awoke. Although she lived another day, she exhibited no signs of consciousness. Joel fancied that she was aware of his presence; but she never spoke again.
The funeral was attended by a large concourse of people—very different from that of Joel's mother, whom three selectmen followed to the grave. When it was over, Joel and his daughter went back to their desolate house, while the village set to work to speculate as to whom the widower would marry. 'Sucha match!Sorich, and only one child! Emily Parks would make him a good wife; only Emily was rather old—at least twenty-seven or eight—and Mr. Burns would marry a young girl, of course. Why shouldn't he, with the amount of money he had? He might take a fancy to Julia Davis—she had just left school.' 'Why shouldn't he marry Lizzie?' said Mrs. Barron to herself. And Lizzie was sent over that very day to 'see to things' for Mr. Burns.
His trials were not ended. Sarah, who was now in her twelfth year, was taken ill the following week. The fever was no doubt going through the family, said the doctors. Joel's faith in medical men was a good deal shaken, but he had to call them in, and Sarah grew worse. Three weeks she lay, submitting to the old treatment, waiting for the 'crisis.' Joel could endure it no longer. He started for New-Haven, changing horses every ten miles. He found the doctor he went in quest of at home; but he said it was impossible for him to go.
'I have lost my wife, and shall lose my child,' said Joel Burns hoarsely.
'My friend,' said the doctor in a mild tone, 'people are dying every where. I have my own patients, whom I ought not to neglect.'
'Go with me, I, implore you,' urged the despairing man; 'I have relays of horses, and I will drive ten miles an hour.' Joel's importunity prevailed. The distance was accomplished in a marvelously brief time.
It was a hot, sultry day, the second week of September, about noon, when Joel, accompanied by the doctor, entered the sick-room.
'How is Sarah?'
'No better,' whispered Miss Barron, who had remained in the house. 'The doctor left half an hour ago. He says he thinks she will go as her mother went.'
'I am awake, father!' (He had approached the bed very carefully, so as not to disturb her.) 'It seems a great while since you went away.'
'I have brought a doctor to cure you, my child,' said Joel. He knew the value of hope and confidence.
Meanwhile the physician was glancing around the room. As I have said, it was a close, sultry day; but the windows were all closed, so that not a breath of air could circulate through the apartment. The doctor quietly threw up every one of them. Perceiving a cot standing near, he ordered it made up with fresh sheets. Going to the bedside of his little patient: 'How do you feel, my child?' he asked.
'I don't know.'
'Bring me a bowl of water and a soft napkin.'
'Warm water, I suppose?' said the nurse.
'Cold.' He threw off the heavy blanket from the bed, and unbuttoning the night-dress, which came close around her, he bathed the child's face and neck with the grateful fluid.
'You feel better now?'
'Yes,' she whispered.
'Don't you want any thing, my dear?'
'I want some water.'
'Give her water, nurse,' said the doctor.
The woman stared in utter amazement. If she had been ordered to cut the child's throat, she could not have been more astounded.
'I say, bring a tumbler of water.'
This was done, and the nurse offered the patient a few drops in a tea-spoon.
'Give me the glass,' and he took it out of her hand. Tenderly he raised the sick child to a comfortable position, and placed it to her lips. 'Take as much as you like, my dear. Water was made to drink.'
He now directed a complete and speedy change of garments, and then he himself took Sarah in his arms and laid her on the other bed. In fifteen minutes, she was sleeping, while a gentle perspiration showed the crisis had passed. Joel Burns stood still, regarding the doctor as he would a being from another world. When he saw him doing just what was invariably prohibited, doing it with such an air of decision and self-confidence yet with no peculiar ostentation, he felt it would all be right. The nurse, at first, was in very bad humor; but nobody noticed her, so she concluded it was best to be good-natured and obey orders. The next day, the doctor pronounced little Sarah out of danger, provided she was properly nursed, and after leaving special directions, which he charged Joel to see to personally till he could hear from him, he returned home as rapidly as he came. When the man who accompanied him came back, he brought the doctor's favorite student, who had directions to devote himself to the 'case,' in which the doctor took so strong an interest. The good man had another motive. He believed the fever was about to attack Joel, and he determined to exert his skill to save him, if possible. To have advised him of his fears, would have been injudicious. He therefore dispatched a young man in whom he had great confidence, after giving him minute instructions. Little Sarah, watched and tended with great care, grew rapidly better. But when the excitement produced by the scenes through which Joel had passed was at an end, a great reaction took place, which left him in a very weak state. In that condition, he was seized by the terrible malady, which found a fit subject in his weakened frame and broken spirits. For weeks Joel Burns lay balancing between life and death. It seemed as if a feather's weight on either side would turn the scale. Morning after morning, the question was put by the whole village: 'Is Mr. Burns alive?' Twice, on occasions which seemed specially urgent, did our worthy doctor come from New-Haven, spend a few hours, and return. The medical student kept his post manfully. It was something to go counter to the opinions and judgments of all the physicians about, far and near. Especially when, if the patient should die, the voice of authority would proclaim that a murder had been committed. [Now, it would be considered murder to follow the old method.] But the doctor was firm, his pupil an enthusiastic believer in his master's genius, and the course was persisted in. At length, the daily reports were modified. First, Mr. Burns was 'no worse.' After that, he was 'a little more comfortable.' Then came the announcement that he was 'better.' The medical men round about were excessively chagrined; but every body else rejoiced at the good news.
All this time, what of Joel Burns? How did he do? Not what was the history of his physical malady. But what was his state morally, mentally, religiously before God! Recollect, the man had never had a check in his whole career before. The circumstances of his childhood served rather to give strength and firmness to his nature. The sudden failure and death of his benefactor only threw him the more on his own resources, with which he was amply provided. His plans had been successful. His friends were many. His hopes for the future were large, yet not unreasonable; while on all sides, as we have said, he was regarded astheman of the community in which he lived.
Joel had scarcely time for reflection, after the death of his wife, before his child was taken ill, and ere she was really out of danger, he himself was stricken down. All that long, weary time, during days and nights of fever and delirium, of exhaustion and weakness, of convalescence and recovery, the whisper of his dying wife was constantly heard:
'Joel, we have not lived right! Do you think we have lived right, Joel?'
'Lived right!' What did that mean? Was Joel Burns a dishonest man? Was he not kind-hearted, generous, loving toward his wife, affectionate to his child, charitable and public-spirited?
'Lived right.' Joel had answered his wife instantly, not daring then and there to soothe her by equivocation, but replying truthfully out of his soul: 'No, oh! no.' What did he mean by that? Of what did he stand convicted, and wherefore? These were the thoughts which occupied his mind, especially after the fever had left him, during the long weeks of his recovery. Joel was a man of extraordinary perceptive faculties. The situation in which he had been placed, the remarkable health which he had enjoyed, (for he had never been ill in his life,) and the success which had attended every plan and effort, served to still more develop all his practical talents, and were at the same time unfavorable to reflection or serious thought. Now he could do nothing else but reflect and think. He looked about him. His wife was gone, and his happiness wrecked. What was he to do? Should he make haste to push on the schemes which his sickness had brought to a stand? The idea was loathsome to him. He had seen how completely they were liable to interruption and blight. The thought of his daughter was the only comfort left, but she might be taken—thenwhat?
Ah! Joel Burns! how long and wide you searched to answer that question when the answer was so near at hand and so easy to discover. He did discover it at last. His wife, with her latest breath, had given him the clue. He examined himself more carefully. What are the relations between me and my Maker? Do I recognize any?... When Joel Burns rose from his sick-bed and could walk abroad, all things wore to him a new and pleased aspect. The current of his hopes were changed. He no longer revolved around himself as a centre. He was conscious of his error before God, and sought and found 'peace in believing.' He now regarded all things in the light of His providence and felt submissive to His will.
Joel was no longer indifferent to his affairs. There was so much he could do to benefit every body. What a happy feeling to try to be working out good for some body all the time! When, however, he was able actively to engage in business, there was very little difference between his course of action and in what he did and his old course and what he used to do. The fact is, Joeldidabout what was right before. We have already related that he was kind, charitable, generous, and public-spirited. The difference, however, was, that Joelhimselfwas changed. Thespringsof life and conduct were new: this is why he seemed to himself to be living so differently. And hewasliving differently. There was no similitude between the Joel Burns who, impelled by an active brain and an energetic purpose, was successfully prosecuting certain plans with reference solelytothose plans, and the Joel Burns who had learned to feel that the chiefobjectof existence lay above and beyond, and was centred in the Omnipotent.
Sarah recovered rapidly from the fever, and before her father was himself convalescent the bloom of health had returned to her cheeks. Joel's love for his child was increased ten-fold. She became, as she grew up, an inseparable companion. It was evident he had no thoughts of marrying. The people of the village decidedthatat the end of a year. The widower gave none of the ordinary tokens that he was seeking a new wife, that is, he did not 'brush up' any, and took no special pains with his personal appearance, but went about much as usual. It was a great pity, every body said, for a man as young as he—hardly three-and-thirty—to live without a wife. Sarah required a motherly care over her, her father was spoiling her. Yes, it was a great pity Mr. Burns did not marry. The fact was, strange as it will seem, Joel could not forget his wife, though she was dead. A sweet and solemn link bound him to her since the night he stood over her to catch her last words, and it would appear his affections were not to be diverted from her memory. He did not send Sarah away to school. He could not reconcile himself to her absence, but he supplied her abundantly with teachers, and personally took great pains with her education.
Two years after the death of Mrs. Burns, Joel and his daughter stood up together before the assembled church and congregation, and made a public profession of religion. It was a touching sight. And when after the services father and child took their way homeward, every eye followed them with looks of deepest interest and with feelings of almost universal kindness and regard. Joel had delayed presenting himself from a desire to test his feelings, having great fear of bringing reproach on the church by entering it unworthily. And now he had an increased joy that he could bring his darling into the fold with him.
It was very natural, as she was situated, that Sarah should acquire an accurate knowledge of her father's affairs. She enjoyed listening to the story of his early life, the rise and progress of Burnsville, with explanations of his many undertakings. As she grew older, this interest took a more practical turn. She would copy letters and arrange confidential papers, and perform various services of a like nature.
Two or three years more passed. Things went on as usual, at Burnsville. It is true that Joel Burns did not display that sharp faculty of acquisition which he formerly did, though he was never more active or energetic; but it was noticeable that those in his employ got on better than before, while the general prosperity of the village exceeded that of any former period.
Sarah was almost a young lady. She was growing up a beautiful girl. She had her father's brilliant complexion and her mother's fine form and regular features. Of course, with so much youth and beauty, and such 'brilliant prospects,' (by which, I suppose, was meant her father's death and a large fortune to the child,) Sarah already became an object of much attention. I will not say that her peculiar position did not produce something of an independent manner which some called hauteur, and others exclusiveness. Part of this was owing to her education, part to the necessity of repelling sometimes the advances of conceited coxcombs. But she was really a most interesting girl, with much of her father's spirit, resolution, and ability. Her affection for him was only exceeded by his for her. True, their lives were centred in each other too much. But it was very beautiful to behold.
Such was the condition of Burnsville, and such the situation of Joel Burns, when Hiram Meeker sought to remove to that place and enter his service.
'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'
It is a dingy old sign. It has hung there in sun and rain till its letters are faint and its face is furrowed. It has looked down on a generation that has passed away, and seen those who placed it there go out of that doorway never to return; still it clings to that dingy old warehouse, and still Russell, Rollins & Co. is signed in that dingy old counting-room at the head of the stairway. It is known the world over. It is heard of on the cotton-fields of Texas, in the cane-brakes of Cuba, and amid the rice-swamps of Carolina. The Chinaman speaks of it as he sips his tea and handles his chop-sticks in the streets of Canton, and the half-naked negro rattles its gold as he gathers palm-oil and the copal-gum on the western coast of Africa. Its plain initials, painted in black on a white ground, float from tall masts over many seas, and its simple 'promise to pay,' scrawled in a bad hand on a narrow strip of paper, unlocks the vaults of the best bankers in Europe. And yet, it is a dingy old sign! Men look up to it as they pass by, and wonder that a cracked, weather-beaten board that would not sell for a dollar, should be counted 'good for a million.'
It is a dingy old warehouse, with narrow, dark, cobwebbed windows, and wide, rusty iron shutters, which, as the bleak November wind sweeps up old Long Wharf, swing slowly on their hinges with a sharp, grating creak. I heard them in my boyhood. Perched on a tall stool at that old desk, I used to listen, in the long winter-nights, to those strange, wild cries, till I fancied they were voices of the uneasy dead, come back to take the vacant seats beside me, and to pace again, with ghostly tread, the floor of that dark old counting-room. They were ever a mystery and a terror to me; but they never creaked so harshly, or cried so wildly, as on a bleak November night, not many years ago, when I turned my steps, for the last time, up the trembling old stairway.
It was just after nightfall. A single gas-burner threw a dim, uncertain light over the old desk, and lit up the figure of a tall, gray-headed man, who was bending over it. He had round, stooping shoulders, and long, spindling limbs. One of his large feet, encased in a thick, square-toed shoe, rested on the round of the desk, the other, which was planted squarely on the floor, upheld his spare, gaunt frame. His face was thin and long, and two deep, black lines under his eyes contrasted strangely with the pallid whiteness of his features. His clothes were of the fashion of some years ago, and had, no doubt, served long as his 'Sunday best,' before being degraded to daily duty. They were of plain black, and though not shabby, were worn and threadbare, and of decidedly economical appearance. Every thing about him, indeed, wore an economical look. His scant coat-tails, narrow pants, and short waistcoat, showed that the cost of each inch of material had been counted, while his thin hair, brushed carefully over his bald head, had not a lock to spare; and even his large, sharp bones were covered with only just enough flesh to hold them comfortably together. He had stood there till his eye was dim and his step feeble, and though he had, for twenty years—when handing in his semi-annual trial-balances to the head of the house—declared that each one was his last, every body said he would continue to stand there till his own trial-balance was struck, and his earthly accounts were closed forever.
As I entered, he turned his mild blue eye upon me, and taking my hand warmly in his, exclaimed:
'My dear boy'—I was nearly forty—'I am glad to see you.'
'I am glad to seeyou, David.'
'Why, bless me, Mr. Kirke, is that you?' exclaimed a much younger man, springing from his seat near the other, and grasping me by both hands. 'What has brought you to Boston?'
'Business, Frank. I've just arrived, and go back to-morrow. Come! my wife is in the carriage at the door, and wants you to spend the evening with us.'
'I can't—I'm very sorry,' and he added, in a lower tone, 'shehas just heard of her father's death, and goes home to-morrow. I have engaged to pass the evening with her.'
'Her father dead! how was it?'
'He was thrown from his horse, and died the same day. She knew nothing of it till yesterday. I can not neglect her now. I will spend to-morrow with mother.'
He always called hermother, though he was not her son. He had done it when a child, and now that he was a man, hers was the dearest name he knew. He loved her as his mother, and she loved him as her son. But any woman might have loved him. His straight, closely-knit, sinewy frame, dark, deep-set eyes, and broad, open forehead, overhung with thick, brown hair, were only the outshadowing of a beautiful mind, of an open, upright, manly nature, whose firm and steady integrity nothing could shake.
'I'm sorry to hear it,' I replied; 'but go down and see her, while I speak to Mr. Hallet.'
Rapping at the door of an inner office, separated from the outer one by a ground-glass partition, I was admitted by a tall, dark man, who, with a stiff and slightly embarrassed manner, said to me:
'I am glad to see you, Mr. Kirke. Pray, be seated.'
As he pointed to a chair, a shorter and younger gentleman, who was writing at another desk, rose, and slapping me familiarly on the back, exclaimed:
'My dear fellow, how are you?'
'Very well, Cragin, how are you?'
'Good as new—never better in my life—how goes the world with you?'
The last speaker was not more than thirty-three, but a bald spot on the top of his head, and a slight falling-in of his mouth, caused by premature decay of the teeth, made him seem several years older. He had marked but not regular features, and a restless, dark eye, which opened and shut with a peculiar wink that kept time with the motion of his lips in speaking. His clothes were cut in a loose, jaunty style, and his manner, though brusque and abrupt, betokened, like his face, a free, frank, manly character. He was ten or twelve years the junior of the other, and as unlike him as one man can be unlike another.
The older gentleman, as I have said, was tall and dark. He had a high, bold forehead, and wore heavy gray whiskers, trimmed with the utmost nicety, and meeting under a sharp, narrow chin. His face was large and full, and his nose pointed and prominent, but his mouth was small, and gathered in at the corners like a rat's; and, as if to add to the rat-resemblance, its small, white teeth seemed borrowed from the jaws of that animal. There was a stately precision in his manner, and a stealthy softness in his tread, that would have impressed a stranger unfavorably; butIknew him. We had been boys together, and he loved me as he loved his own son. How well he lovedhim, the reader will learn, if he follows the course of my story.
These two gentlemen—Mr. Hallet and Mr. Cragin—were the senior partners in the great house of Russell, Rollins & Co.
Replying satisfactorily to the inquiry of Mr. Cragin, I turned to the older partner, and said:
'Well, Mr. Hallet, how does Frank get on?'
'Oh! very well—knows a little too much, like most young men of his age, but he does very well.'
''Very well,' Mr. Ballet! d—d if he don't—he's the smartest boy living—made a clean forty thousand for us not two months ago—forced it on Hallet against his better judgment!' And Mr. Cragin laughed till he showed all that was left of two rows of tobacco-stained teeth.
'How was it Cragin?' I asked, greatly pleased.
A short rap came at the office-door, and Frank entered, his hat in his hand.
'Mother insists on my taking supper with her—will you go now, sir?' he said, addressing me.
Before I could reply, Mr. Hallet, rather sharply, asked:
'Have you finished your letters for the steamer?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What have you said to Maclean, Maris & Co., about the gum-copal?'
'I will show you, sir.'
And going into the other room, Frank returned in a moment with an open letter, still wet from the copying-press. Mr. Hallet took it and read it over slowly and carefully, then handing it back, he said, in the slightly pompous tone which was natural to him:
'That will do—you can go.'
I was rising to bid them 'good-evening,' when the senior said to me: