MORE OF PARISIAN FORTUNE-TELLERS—THE VISIONS OF THE WHITE MIST—REBELLION, GRIEF, HOPE, BRAVERY AND DESPAIR
MORE OF PARISIAN FORTUNE-TELLERS—THE VISIONS OF THE WHITE MIST—REBELLION, GRIEF, HOPE, BRAVERY AND DESPAIR
It was after a second bottle of green-seal had flashed out its sparkles into the crystal, that Ned Martin drew a long breath like that drawn by a man discharging a painful and necessary duty, and resumed his story:
'You may some time record this for the benefit of American men and women,' he went on, 'and if you are wise you will deal chiefly in the language to which they are accustomed. I speak the French, of course, nearly as well and as readily as the English; but Ithinkin my native tongue, as most men continue to do, I believe, no matter how many dialects they acquire; and I shall not interlard this little narrative with any French words that can just as well be translated into our vernacular.
'Well, as I was saying, there stood my horribly beautiful fiend, and there I sat spell-bound before her. As for Adolph, though he had told me nothing in advance of the peculiarities of her appearance, he had been fully aware of them, of course, and I had the horrible surprise all to myself. I think the sorceress saw the mingled feeling in my face, and that a smile blended of pride and contempt contorted the proud features and made the ghastly face yet more ghastly for one moment. If so, the expression soon passed away, and she stood, as before, the incarnation of all that was terrible and mysterious. At length, still retaining her place and fixing her eyes upon Von Berg, she spoke, sharply, brusquely, and decidedly:
''You are here again! What do you want?'
''I wish to introduce my friend, the Baron Charles Denmore, of England,' answered Von Berg, 'who wishes——'
''Nothing!' said the sorceress, the word coming from her lips with an unmistakably hissing sound. He wants nothing, and he isnotthe Baron Charles Denmore! He comes from far away, across the sea, and he would not have come here to-night but that you insisted upon it! Take him away—go away yourself—and never let me see you again unless you have something to ask or you wish me to do you an injury!'
''But——' began Yon Berg.
''Not another word!' said the sorceress, 'I have said. Go, before you repent having come at all!'
''Madame,' I began to say, awed out of the feeling at least of equality which I should have felt to be proper under such circumstances, and only aware that Adolph, and possibly myself, had incurred the enmity of a being so near to the supernatural as to be at least dangerous—'Madame, I hope that you will not think——'
'But here she cutmeshort, as she had done Von Berg the instant before.
''Hope nothing, young artist!' she said, her voice perceptibly less harsh and brusque than it had been when speaking to my companion. 'Hope nothing and ask nothing until you may have occasion; then come to me.'
''And then?'
''Then I will answer every question you may think proper to put to me. Stay! you may have occasion to visit me sooner than you suppose, or I may have occasion to force knowledge upon you that you will not have the boldness to seek. If so, I shall send for you. Now go, both of you!'
'The dark curtain suddenly fell, and the singular vision faded with the reflected light which had filled the room. The moment after, I heard the shuffling feet of the slattern girl coming to show us out of the room, but, singularly enough, as you will think, not out of thehouse! Without a word we followed her—Adolph, who knew the customs of the place, merely slipping a five-franc piece into her hand, and in a moment more we were out in the street and walking up the Rue Saint Denis. It is not worth while to detail the conversation which followed between us as we passed up to the Rue Marie Stuart, I to my lodgings and Adolph to his own, further on, close to the Rue Vivienne, and not far from the Boulevard Montmartre. Of course I asked him fifty questions, the replies to which left me quite as much in the dark as before. He knew, he said, and hundreds of other persons in Paris knew, the singularity of the personal appearance of the sorceress, and her apparent power of divination, but neither he nor they had any knowledge of her origin. He had been introduced at her house several months before, and had asked questions affecting his family in Prussia and the chances of descent of certain property, the replies to which had astounded him. He had heard of her using marvelous and fearful incantations, but had never himself witnessed any thing of them. In two or three instances, before the present, he had taken friends to the house and introduced them under any name which he chose to apply to them for the time, and the sorceress had never before chosen to call him to account for the deception, though, according to the assurances of his friends after leaving the house, she had never failed to arrive at the truth of their nationalities and positions in life. There must have been something in myself or my circumstances, he averred, which had produced so singular an effect upon the witch, (as he evidently believed her to be,) and he had the impression that at no distant day I should again hear from her. That was all, and so we parted, I in any other condition of mind than that promising sleep, and really without closing my eyes, except for a moment or two at a time, during the night which followed. When I did attempt to force myself into slumber, a red spectre stood continually before me, an unearthly light seemed to sear my covered eyeballs, andI awoke with a start. Days passed before I sufficiently wore away the impression to be comfortable, and at least two or three weeks before my rest became again entirely unbroken.
'You must be partially aware with what anxiety we Americans temporarily sojourning on the other side of the Atlantic, who loved the country we had left behind on this, watched the succession of events which preceded and accompanied the Presidential election of that year. Some suppose that a man loses his love for his native land, or finds it comparatively chilled within his bosom, after long residence abroad. The very opposite is the case, I think! I never knew what the old flag was, until I saw it waving from the top of an American consulate abroad, or floating from the gaff of one of our war-vessels, when I came down the mountains to some port on the Mediterranean. It had been merely red, white and blue bunting, at home, where the symbols of our national greatness were to be seen on every hand: it was theonlysymbol of our national greatness when we were looking at it from beyond the sea; and the man whose eyes will not fill with tears and whose throat will not choke a little with overpowering feeling, when catching sight of the Stars and Stripes where they only can be seen to remind him of the glory of the country of which he is a part, is unworthy the name of patriot or of man!
'But to return: Where was I? Oh! I was remarking with what interest we on the other side of the water watched the course of affairs at home during that year when the rumble of distant thunder was just heralding the storm. You are well aware that without extensive and long-continued connivance on the part of sympathizers among the leading people of Europe—England and France especially—secession could never have been accomplished so far as it has been; and there never could have been any hope of its eventual success if there had been no hope of one or both these two countries bearing it up on their strong and unscrupulous arms. The leaven of foreign aid to rebellion was working even then, both in London and Paris; and perhaps we had opportunities over the water for a nearer guess at the peril of the nation, than you could have had in the midst of your party political squabbles at home.
'During the months of September and October, when your Wide-Awakes on the one hand, and your conservative Democracy on the other, were parading the streets with banners and music, as they or their predecessors had done in so many previous contests, and believing that nothing worse could be involved than a possible party defeat and some bad feelings, we, who lived where revolutions were common, thought that we discovered the smoldering spark which would be blown to revolution here. The disruption of the Charleston Convention and through it of the Democracy; the bold language and firm resistance of the Republicans; the well-understood energy of the uncompromising Abolitionists, and the less defined but rabid energy of the Southern fire-eaters: all these were known abroad and watched with gathering apprehension. American newspapers, and the extracts made from them by the leading journals of France and Europe, commanded more attention among the Americo-French and English than all other excitements of the time put together.
'Then followed what you all know—the election, with its radical result and the threats which immediately succeeded, that 'Old Abe Lincoln' should never live to be inaugurated! 'He shall not!' cried the South. 'He shall!' replied the North. To us who knew something of the Spanish knife and the Italian stiletto, the probabilities seemed to be that he would never live to reach Washington. Then the mutterings of the thunder grew deeper and deeper, and some disruption seemed inevitable, evident to us far away, while you at home, it seemed, were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, holdinggala-days and enjoying yourselves generally, on the brink of an arousing volcano from which the sulphurous smoke already began to ascend to the heavens! So time passed on; autumn became winter, and December was rolling away.
'I was sitting with half-a-dozen friends in the chess-room at Very's, about eleven o'clock on the night of the twentieth of December, talking over some of the marvelous successes which had been won by Paul Morphy when in Paris, and the unenviable position in which Howard Staunton had placed himself by keeping out of the lists through evident fear of the New-Orleanian, when Adolph Von Berg came behind me and laid his hand on my shoulder.
''Come with me a moment,' he said, 'you are wanted!'
''Where?' I asked, getting up from my seat and following him to the door, before which stood a lightcoupé, with its red lights flashing, the horse smoking, and the driver in his seat.
''I have been to-night to the Rue la Reynie Ogniard!' he answered.
''And are you going there again?' I asked, my blood chilling a little with an indefinable sensation of terror, but a sense of satisfaction predominating at the opportunity of seeing something more of the mysterious woman.
''I am!' he answered, 'and so areyou! She has sent for you! Come!'
'Without another word I stepped into thecoupé, and we were rapidly whirled away. I asked Adolph how and why I had been summoned; but he knew nothing more than myself, except that he had visited the sorceress at between nine and ten that evening, that she had only spoken to him for an instant, but ordered him to go at once and find his friend,the American, whom he had falsely introduced some months before as the English baron. He had been irresistibly impressed with the necessity of obedience, though it would break in upon his own arrangements for the later evening, (which included an hour at the Chateau Rouge;) had picked up acoupé, looked in for me at two or three places where he thought me most likely to be at that hour in the evening, and had found me at Very's, as related. What the sorceress could possibly want of me, he had no idea more than myself; but he reminded me that she had hinted at the possible necessity of sending for me at no distant period, and I remembered the fact too well to need the reminder.
'It was nearly midnight when we drove down the Rue St. Denis, turned into La Reynie Ogniard, and drew up at the antiquated door I had once entered nearly three months earlier. We entered as before, rang the bell as before, and were admitted into the inner room by the same slattern girl. I remember at this moment one impression which this person made upon me—that she did not wash so often as four times a year, and that thesame old dirtwas upon her face that had been crusted there at the time of my previous visit. There seemed no change in the room, except thattwotapers, and each larger than the one I had previously seen, were burning upon the table. The curtain was down, as before, and when it suddenly rose, after a few minutes spent in waiting, and the blood-red woman stood in the vacant space, all seemed so exactly as it had done on the previous visit, that it would have been no difficult matter to believe the past three months a mere imagination, and this the same first visit renewed.
'The illusion, such as it was, did not last long, however. The sorceress fixed her eyes full upon me, with the red flame seeming to play through the eyeballs as it had before done through her cheeks, and said, in a voice lower, more sad and broken, than it had been when addressing me on the previous occasion:
''Young American, I have sent for you, and you have done well to come. Do not fear——'
''I donotfear—you, or any one!' I answered, a little piqued that she should have drawn any such impression from my appearance. I may have been uttering a fib of magnificent proportions at the moment, but one has a right to denycowardice to the last gasp, whatever else he must admit.
''You do not? It is well, then!' she said in reply, and in the same low, sad voice. 'You will have courage, then, perhaps, to see what I will show you from the land of shadows.'
''Whom does it concern?' I asked. 'Myself, or some other?'
''Yourself, and many others—all the world!' uttered the lips of flame. 'It is of your country that I would show you.'
''My country? God of heaven! What has happened to my country?' broke from my lips almost before I knew what I was uttering. I suppose the words came almost like a groan, for I had been deeply anxious over the state of affairs known to exist at home, and perhaps I can be nearer to a weeping child when I think of any ill to my own beloved land, than I could be for any other evil threatened in the world.
''But a moment more and you shall see!' said the sorceress. Then she added: 'You have a friend here present. Shall he too look on what I have to reveal, or will you behold it alone?'
''Let him see!' I answered. 'My native land may fall into ruin, but she can never be ashamed!'
''So let it be, then!' said the sorceress, solemnly. 'Be silent, look, and learn what is at this moment transpiring in your own land!'
'Beneath that adjuration I was silent, and the same dread stillness fell upon my companion. Suddenly the sorceress, still standing in the same place, waved her right hand in the air, and a strain of low, sad music, such as the harps of angels may be continually making over the descent of lost spirits to the pit of suffering, broke upon my ears. Von Berg too heard it, I know, for I saw him look up in surprise, then apply his fingers to his ears and test whether his sense of hearing had suddenly become defective. Whence that strain of music could have sprung I did not know, nor do I know any better at this moment. I only know that, to my senses and those of my companion, it was definite as if the thunders of the sky had been ringing.
'Then came another change, quite as startling as the music and even more difficult to explain. The room began to fill with a whitish mist, transparent in its obscurity, that wrapped the form of the sybil and finally enveloped her until she appeared to be but a shade. Anon another and larger room seemed to grow in the midst, with columned galleries and a rostrum, and hundreds of forms in wild commotion, moving to and fro, though uttering no sound. At one moment it seemed that I could look through one of the windows of the phantom building, and I saw the branches of a palmetto-tree waving in the winter wind. Then amidst and apparently at the head of all, a white-haired man stood upon the rostrum, and as he turned down a long scroll from which he seemed to be reading to the assemblage, I read the words that appeared on the top of the scroll: 'An ordinance to dissolve the compact heretofore existing between the several States of the Federal Union, under the name of the United States of America.' My breath came thick, my eyes filled with tears of wonder and dismay, and I could see no more.
''Horror!' I cried. 'Roll away the vision, for it is false! It can not be that the man lives who could draw an ordinance to dissolve the Union of the United States of America!'
''It is so! That has this day been done!' spoke the voice of the sorceress from within the cloud of white mist.
''If this is indeed true,' I said, 'show me what is the result, for the heavens must bow if this work of ruin is accomplished!'
''Look again, then!' said the voice. The strain of music, which had partially ceased for a moment, grew louder and sadder again, and I saw the white mist rolling and changing as if a wind were stirring it. Gradually again it assumed shape and form; and in the moonlight, before the Capitol of the nation, its white proportions gleaming in the wintry ray,the form of Washington stood, the hands clasped, the head bare, and the eyes cast upward in the mute agony of supplication.
''All is not lost!' I shouted more than spoke, 'for the Father of his Country still watches his children, and while he lives in the heavens and prays for the erring and wandering, the nation may yet be reclaimed.'
''It may be so,' said the voice through the mist, 'for look!'
'Again the strain of music sounded, but now louder and clearer and without the tone of hopeless sadness. Again the white mists rolled by in changing forms, and when once more they assumed shape and consistency I saw great masses of men, apparently in the streets of a large city, throwing out the old flag from roof and steeple, lifting it to heaven in attitudes of devotion, and pressing it to their lips with those wild kisses which a mother gives to her darling child when it has been just rescued from a deadly peril.
''The nation lives!' I shouted. 'The old flag is not deserted and the patriotic heart yet beats in American bosoms! Show me yet more, for the next must be triumph!'
''Triumph indeed!' said the voice. 'Behold it and rejoice at it while there is time!' I shuddered at the closing words, but another change in the strain of music roused me. It was not sadness now, nor yet the rising voice of hope, for martial music rung loudly and clearly, and through it I heard the roar of cannon and the cries of combatants in battle. As the vision cleared, I saw the armies of the Union in tight with a host almost as numerous as themselves, but savage, ragged, and tumultuous, and bearing a mongrel flag that I had never seen before—one that seemed robbed from the banner of the nation's glory. For a moment the battle wavered and the forces of the Union seemed driven backward; then they rallied with a shout, and the flag of stars and stripes was rebaptized in glory. They pressed the traitors backward at every turn—they trod rebellion under their heels—they were every where, and every where triumphant.
''Three cheers for the Star-Spangled Banner!' I cried, forgetting place and time in the excitement of the scene. 'Let the world look on and wonder and admire! I knew the land that the Fathers founded and Washington guarded could not die! Three cheers—yes, nine—for the Star-Spangled Banner and the brave old land over which it floats!'
''Pause!' said the voice, coming out once more from the cloud of white mist, and chilling my very marrow with the sad solemnity of its tone. 'Look once again!' I looked, and the mists went rolling by as before, while the music changed to wild discord; and when the sight became clear again I saw the men of the nation struggling over bags of gold and quarreling for a black shadow that flitted about in their midst, while cries of want and wails of despair went up and sickened the heavens! I closed my eyes and tried to close my ears, but I could not shut out the voice of the sorceress, saying once more from her shroud of white mist:
''Look yet again, and for the last time! Behold the worm that gnaws away the bravery of a nation and makes it a prey for the spoiler!' Heart-brokenly sad was the music now, as the vision changed once more, and I saw a great crowd of men, each in the uniform of an officer of the United States army, clustered around one who seemed to be their chief. But while I looked I saw one by one totter and fall, and directly I perceived thatthe epaulette or shoulder-strap on the shoulder of each was a great hideous yellow worm, that gnawed away the shoulder and palsied the arm and ate into the vitals. Every second, one fell and died, making frantic efforts to tear away the reptile from its grasp, but in vain. Then the white mists rolled away, and I saw the strange woman standing where she had been when the first vision began. She was silent, the music was hushed, Adolph Von Berg had fallen hack asleep in his chair, and drawingout my watch, I discovered that only ten minutes had elapsed since the sorceress spoke her first word.
''You have seen all—go!' was her first and last interruption to the silence. The instant after, the curtain fell. I kicked Von Berg to awake him, and we left the house. Thecoupéwas waiting in the street and set me down at my lodgings, after which it conveyed my companion to his. Adolph did not seem to have a very clear idea of what had occurred, and my impression is, that he went to sleep the moment the first strain of music commenced.
'As for myself, I am not much clearer than Adolph as to how and why I saw and heard what I know that I did see and hear. I can only say that on that night of the twentieth December, 1860, the same on which, as it afterward appeared, the ordinance of secession was adopted at Charleston, I, in the little old two-story house in the Rue la Reynie Ogniard, witnessed what I have related. What may be the omens, you may judge as well as myself. How much of the sybil's prophecy is already history, you know already. That SHOULDER-STRAPS, which I take to bethe desire of military show without courage or patriotism, are destroying the armies of the republic, I am afraid there is no question. Perhaps you can imagine why at the moment of hearing that there was a worm on my shoulder for a shoulder-strap, I for the instant believed that it was one of the hideous yellow monsters that I saw devouring the best officers of the nation, and shrunk and shrieked like a whipped child. Is not that a long story?' Martin concluded, lighting a fresh cigar and throwing himself back from the table.
'Very long, and a little mad; but to me absorbingly interesting,' was my reply, 'And in the hope that it may prove so to others, I shall use it as a strange, rambling introduction to a recital of romantic events which have occurred in and about the great city since the breaking out of the rebellion, having to do with patriotism and cowardice, love, mischief, and secession, and bearing the title thus suggested.'
A part of which stipulation is hereby kept, with the promise of the writer that the remainder shall be faithfully fulfilled in forthcoming numbers.
Tell us—poor gray-haired children that we are—Tell us some story of the days afar,Down shining through the years like sun and star.The stories that, when we were very young,Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung,At fireside told or by the cradle sung.Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe,Nor Harsan's carpet that through distance flew,Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do.Not even the little lady of the Hood,But something sadder—easier understood—The ballad of the Children in the Wood.Poor babes! the cruel uncle lives again,To whom their little voices plead in vain—Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain.The hapless agent of the guilt is here—From whose seared heart their pleading brought a tear—Who could not strike, but fled away in fear.And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone,Through the dense forest make their feeble moan,Fed on the berries—pillowed on a stone.Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore,And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore;Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more.The stars shine down in pity from the sky;The night-bird marks their fate with plaintive cry;The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die.There clasped they lie—death's poor, unripened sheaves—Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves,And flutters down and covers them with leaves.'Tis an old legend, and a touching one:What then? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sunSome deed as heartless will be planned and done.Children of older years and sadder fateWill wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate,And ne'er return again, though long they wait.Through wildering labyrinths that round them close,In that heart-hunger disappointment knows,They long may wander ere the night's repose.Their feeble voices through the dusk may call,And on the ears of busy mortals fall,But who will hear, save God above us all?Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work,Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk,Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk?And when at last the torch of life grows dim,Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial-hymn,Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb?Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand,And they are left to wander hand in hand—Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand!If, long before the lonely night comes on—By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn—One does not look and find the other gone;If something more of shame, and grief, and wrongThan that so often told in nursery song,To their sad history does not belong!O lonely wanderers in the great world's wood!Finding the evil where you seek the good,Often deceived and seldom understood—Lay to your hearts the plaintive tale of old,When skies grow threatening or when loves grow cold,Or something dear is hid beneath the mold!For fates are hard, and hearts are very weak,And roses we have kissed soon leave the cheek,And what we are, we scarcely dare to speak.But something deeper, to reflective eyes,To-day beneath the sad old story lies,And all must read if they are truly wise.A nation wanders in the deep, dark night,By cruel hands despoiled of half its might,And half its truest spirits sick with fright.The world is step-dame—scoffing at the strife,And black assassins, armed with deadly knife,At every step lurk, striking at its life.Shall it be murdered in the gloomy wood?Tell us, O Parent of the True and Good,Whose hand for us the fate has yet withstood!Shall it lie down at last, all weak and faint,Its blood dried up with treason's fever-taint,And offer up its soul in said complaint?Or shall the omen fail, and, rooting outAll that has marked its life with fear and doubt,The child spring up to manhood with a shout?So that in other days, when far and wideOther lost children have for succor cried,The one now periled may be help and guide?Father of all the nations formed of men,So let it be! Hold us beneath thy ken,And bring the wanderers to thyself again!Pity us all, and give us strength to pray,And lead us gently down our destined way!And this is all the children's lips can say.
Tell us—poor gray-haired children that we are—Tell us some story of the days afar,Down shining through the years like sun and star.
The stories that, when we were very young,Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung,At fireside told or by the cradle sung.
Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe,Nor Harsan's carpet that through distance flew,Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do.
Not even the little lady of the Hood,But something sadder—easier understood—The ballad of the Children in the Wood.
Poor babes! the cruel uncle lives again,To whom their little voices plead in vain—Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain.
The hapless agent of the guilt is here—From whose seared heart their pleading brought a tear—Who could not strike, but fled away in fear.
And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone,Through the dense forest make their feeble moan,Fed on the berries—pillowed on a stone.
Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore,And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore;Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more.
The stars shine down in pity from the sky;The night-bird marks their fate with plaintive cry;The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die.
There clasped they lie—death's poor, unripened sheaves—Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves,And flutters down and covers them with leaves.
'Tis an old legend, and a touching one:What then? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sunSome deed as heartless will be planned and done.
Children of older years and sadder fateWill wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate,And ne'er return again, though long they wait.
Through wildering labyrinths that round them close,In that heart-hunger disappointment knows,They long may wander ere the night's repose.
Their feeble voices through the dusk may call,And on the ears of busy mortals fall,But who will hear, save God above us all?
Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work,Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk,Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk?
And when at last the torch of life grows dim,Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial-hymn,Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb?
Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand,And they are left to wander hand in hand—Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand!
If, long before the lonely night comes on—By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn—One does not look and find the other gone;
If something more of shame, and grief, and wrongThan that so often told in nursery song,To their sad history does not belong!
O lonely wanderers in the great world's wood!Finding the evil where you seek the good,Often deceived and seldom understood—
Lay to your hearts the plaintive tale of old,When skies grow threatening or when loves grow cold,Or something dear is hid beneath the mold!
For fates are hard, and hearts are very weak,And roses we have kissed soon leave the cheek,And what we are, we scarcely dare to speak.
But something deeper, to reflective eyes,To-day beneath the sad old story lies,And all must read if they are truly wise.
A nation wanders in the deep, dark night,By cruel hands despoiled of half its might,And half its truest spirits sick with fright.
The world is step-dame—scoffing at the strife,And black assassins, armed with deadly knife,At every step lurk, striking at its life.
Shall it be murdered in the gloomy wood?Tell us, O Parent of the True and Good,Whose hand for us the fate has yet withstood!
Shall it lie down at last, all weak and faint,Its blood dried up with treason's fever-taint,And offer up its soul in said complaint?
Or shall the omen fail, and, rooting outAll that has marked its life with fear and doubt,The child spring up to manhood with a shout?
So that in other days, when far and wideOther lost children have for succor cried,The one now periled may be help and guide?
Father of all the nations formed of men,So let it be! Hold us beneath thy ken,And bring the wanderers to thyself again!
Pity us all, and give us strength to pray,And lead us gently down our destined way!And this is all the children's lips can say.
Pride in the physical grandeur, the magnificent proportions of our country, has for generations been the master passion of Americans. Never has the popular voice or vote refused to sustain a policy which looked to the enlargement of the area or increase of the power of the Republic. To feel that so vast a river as the Mississippi, having such affluents as the Missouri and the Ohio, rolled its course entirely through our territory—that the twenty thousand miles of steamboat navigation on that river and its tributaries were wholly our own, without touching on any side our national boundaries—that the Pacific and the Atlantic, the great lakes and the Gulf of Mexico, were our natural and conceded frontiers, that their bays and harbors were the refuge of our commerce, and their rising cities our marts and depots—were incense to our vanity and stimulants to our love of country. No true American abroad ever regarded or characterized himself as a New-Yorker, a Virginian, a Louisianian: he dilated in the proud consciousness of his country's transcendent growth and wondrous greatness, and confidently anticipated the day when its flag should float unchallenged from Hudson's Bay to the Isthmus of Darien, if not to Cape Horn.
It was this strong instinct of Nationality which rendered the masses so long tolerant, if not complaisant, toward Slavery and the Slave Power. Merchants and bankers were bound to their footstool by other and ignobler ties; but the yeomanry of the land regarded slavery with a lenient if not absolutely favoring eye, because it existed in fifteen of our States, and was cherished as of vital moment by nearly all of them, so that any popular aversion to it evinced by the North, would tend to weaken the bonds of our Union. It mightseemhard to Pomp, or Sambo, or Cuffee, to toil all day in the rice-swamp, the cotton-field, to the music of the driver's lash, with no hope of remuneration or release, nor even of working out thereby a happier destiny for his children; but after all, what was the happiness or misery of three or four millions of stupid, brutish negroes, that it should be allowed to weigh down the greatness and glory of the Model Republic? Must there not always be a foundation to every grand and towering structure? Must not some grovel that others may soar? Is notalldrudgery repulsive? Yet must it not be performed? Are not negroes habitually enslaved by each other in Africa? Does not their enslavement here secure an aggregate of labor and production that would else be unattainable? Are we not enabled by it to supply the world with Cotton and Tobacco and ourselves with Rice and Sugar? In short, is not to toil on white men's plantations the negro's true destiny, and Slavery the condition wherein he contributes most sensibly, considerably, surely, to the general sustenance and comfort of mankind? If it is, away with all your rigmarole declarations of 'the inalienable Rights of Man'—the right of every one to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness! Let us have a reformed and rationalized political Bible, which shall affirm the equality of allwhitemen—theirinalienable right to liberty, etc., etc. Thus will our consistency be maintained, our institutions and usages stand justified, while we still luxuriate on our home-grown sugar and rice, and deluge the civilized world with our cheap cotton and tobacco!—And thus our country—which had claimed a place in the family of nations as the legitimate child and foremost champion of Human Freedom—was fast sinking into the loathsome attitude of foremost champion and most conspicuous exemplar of the vilest and most iniquitous form of Despotism—that which robs the laborer of thejust recompense of his sweat, and dooms him to a life of ignorance, squalor, and despair.
But
'The gods are just, and of our pleasant vicesMake whips to scourge us.'
'The gods are just, and of our pleasant vicesMake whips to scourge us.'
For two generations our people have cherished, justified, and pampered slavery, not that they really loved, or conscientiously approved the accursed 'institution,' but because they deemed its tolerance essential to our National Unity; and now we find Slavery desperately intent on and formidably armed for the destruction of that Unity: for two generations we have aided the master to trample on and rob his despised slave; and now we are about to call that slave to defend our National Unity against that master's malignant treason, or submit to see our country shattered and undone.
Who can longer fail to realize that 'there is a God who judgeth in the earth?' or, if the phraseology suit him better, that there is, in the constitution of the universe, provision made for the banishment of every injustice, the redress of every wrong?
'Well,' says a late convert to the fundamental truth, 'we must drive the negro race entirely from our country, or we shall never again have union and lasting peace.'
Ah! friend? it is not the negroper sewho distracts and threatens to destroy our country—far from it! Negroes did not wrest Texas from Mexico, nor force her into the Union, nor threaten rebellion because California was admitted as a Free State, nor pass the Nebraska bill, nor stuff the ballot-boxes and burn the habitations of Kansas, nor fire on Fort Sumter, nor do any thing else whereby our country has been convulsed and brought to the brink of ruin. It is not by the negro—it is by injustice to the negro—that our country has been brought to her present deplorable condition. Were Slavery and all its evil brood of wrongs and vices eradicated this day, the Rebellion would die out to-morrow and never have a successor. The centripetal tendency of our country is so intense—the attraction of every part for every other so overwhelming—that Disunion were impossible but for Slavery. What insanity in New-Orleans to seek a divorce from the upper waters of her superb river! What a melancholy future must confront St. Louis, separated by national barriers from Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, and all the vast, undeveloped sources of her present as well as prospective commerce and greatness! Ponder the madness of Baltimore, seeking separation from that active and teeming West to which she has laid an iron track over the Alleghanies at so heavy a cost! But for Slavery, the Southron who should gravely propose disunion, would at once be immured in a receptacle for lunatics. He would find no sympathy elsewhere.
But a nobler idea, a truer conception, of National Unity, is rapidly gaining possession of the American mind. It is that dimly foreshadowed by our President when, in his discussions with Senator Douglas, he said: 'I do not think our country can endure half slave and half free. I do not think it will be divided, but I think it will become all one or the other.'
'A union of lakes, a union of lands,' is well; but a true 'union of hearts' must be based on a substantial identity of social habitudes and moral convictions. If Islamism or Mormonism were the accepted religion of the South, and we were expected to bow to and render at least outward deference to it, there would doubtless be thousands of Northern-born men who, for the sake of office, or trade, or in the hope of marrying Southern plantations, would profess the most unbounded faith in the creed of the planters, and would crowd their favorite temples located on our own soil. But this would not be a real bond of union between us, but merely an exhibition of servility and fawning hypocrisy. And so the Northern complaisance toward slavery has in no degree tended to avert the disaster which has overtaken us, but only to breed self-reproach on the one side, and hauteur with ineffable loathing on the other.
Hereafter National Unity is to be no roseate fiction, no gainful pretense, but a living reality. The United States of the future will be no constrained alliance of discordant and mutually repellent commonwealths, but a true exemplification of 'many in one'—many stars blended in one common flag—many States combined in one homogeneous Nation. Our Union will be one of bodies not merely, but of souls. The merchant of Boston or New-York will visit Richmond or Louisville for tobacco, Charleston for rice, Mobile for cotton, New-Orleans for sugar, without being required at every hospitable board, in every friendly circle, to repudiate the fundamental laws of right and wrong as he learned them from his mother's lips, his father's Bible, and pronounce the abject enslavement of a race to the interests and caprices of another essentially just and universally beneficent. That a Northern man visiting the South commercially should suppress his convictions adverse to 'the peculiar institution,' and profess to regard it with approval and satisfaction, was a part of the common law of trade—if one were hostile to Slavery, what right had he to be currying favor with planters and their factors, and seeking gain from the products of slave-labor? So queried 'the South;' and, if any answer were possible, that answer would not be heard. 'Love slavery or quit the South,' was the inexorable rule; and the resulting hypocrisy has wrought deep injury to the Northern character. As manufacturers, as traders, as teachers, as clerks, as political aspirants, most of our active, enterprising, leading classes have been suitors in some form for Southern favor, and the consequence has been a prevalent deference to Southern ideas and a constant sacrifice of moral convictions to hopes of material advantage.
It has pleased God to bring this demoralizing commerce to a sudden and sanguinary close. Henceforth North and South will meet as equals, neither finding or fancying in their intimate relations any reason for imposing a profession of faith on the other. The Southron visiting the North and finding here any law, usage, or institution revolting to his sense of justice, will never dream of offending by frankly avowing and justifying the impression it has made upon him: and so with the Northman visiting the South. It is conscious wrong alone that shrinks from impartial observation and repels unfavorable criticism as hostility. We freely proffer our farms, our factories, our warehouses, common-schools, alms-houses, inns, and whatever else may be deemed peculiar among us, to our visitors' scrutiny and comment: we know they are not perfect, and welcome any hint that may conduce to their improvement. So in the broad, free West. The South alone resents any criticism on her peculiarities, and repels as enmity any attempt to convince her that her forced labor is her vital weakness and her greatest peril.
This is about to pass away. Slavery, having appealed to the sword for justification, is to be condemned at her chosen tribunal and to fall on the weapon she has aimed at the heart of the Republic. A new relation of North to South, based on equality, governed by justice, and conceding the fullest liberty, is to replace fawning servility by manly candor, and to lay the foundations of a sincere, mutual, and lasting esteem. We already know that valor is an American quality; we shall yet realize that Truth is every man's interest, and that whatever repels scrutiny confesses itself unfit to live. The Union of the future, being based on eternal verities, will be cemented by every year's duration, until we shall come in truth to 'know no North, no South, no East, no West,' but one vast and glorious country, wherein sectional jealousies and hatreds shall be unknown, and every one shall rejoice in the consciousness that he is a son and citizen of the first of Republics, the land of Washington and Jefferson, of Adams, Hamilton, and Jay, wherein the inalienable Rights of Man as Man, at first propounded as the logical justification of a struggle for Independence, became in the next century, and through the influence of another great convulsion, the practical basis of the entire political and social fabric—the accepted, axiomatic root of the National life.
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Everyonelivesit—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! Everyonelivesit—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.
Mr. Burns had finished his breakfast.
A horse and wagon, as was customary at that hour, stood outside the gate. He himself was on the portico where his daughter had followed him to give her father his usual kiss. At that moment Mr. Burns saw some one crossing the street toward his place. As he was anxious not to be detained, he hastened down the walk, so that if he could not escape the stranger, the person might at least understand that he had prior engagements. Besides, Mr. Burns never transacted business at home, and a visitor at so early an hour must have business for an excuse. The new-comer evidently was as anxious to reach the house before Mr. Burns left it, as the latter was to make his escape, for pausing a moment across the way, as if to make certain, the sight of the young lady appeared to reassure him, and he walked over and had laid his hand upon the gate just as Mr. Burns was attempting to pass out.
Standing on opposite sides, each with a hand upon the paling, the two met. It would have made a good picture. Mr. Burns was at this time a little past forty, but his habit of invariable cheerfulness, his energetic manner, and his fine fresh complexion gave him the looks of one between thirty and thirty-five. On the contrary, although Hiram Meeker was scarcely twenty, and had never had a care nor a thought to perplex him, he at the same time possessed a certain experienced look which made you doubtful of his age. If one had said he was twenty, you would assent to the proposition; if pronounced to be thirty, you would consider it near the mark. So, standing as they did, you would perceive no great disparity in their ages.
We are apt to fancy individuals whom we have never seen, but of whom we hear as accomplishing much, older than they really are. In this instance Hiram had pictured a person at least twenty years older than Mr. Burns appeared to be. He was quite sure there could be no mistake in the identity of the man whom he beheld descending the portico. When he saw him at such close quarters he was staggered for a moment, but for a moment only. 'It must be he,' so he said to himself.
Now Hiram had planned his visit with special reference to meeting Mr. Burns in his own house. He had two reasons for this. He knew that there he should find him more at his ease, more off his guard, and in a state of mind better adapted to considering his case socially and in a friendly manner than in the counting-room.
Again: Sarah Burns. He would have an opportunity to renew the acquaintance already begun.
Well, there they stood. Both felt a little chagrined—Mr. Burns that an appointment was threatened to be interrupted, and Hiram that his plan was in danger of being foiled.
This was for an instant only.
Mr. Burns opened the gate passing almost rapidly through, bowing at the same time to Hiram.
'Do you wish to see me?' he said, as he proceeded to untie the horse and get into the wagon.
'Mr. Joel Burns, I presume?'
'Yes.'
'I did wish to see you, sir, on matters of no consequence to you, but personal to myself. I can call again.'
'I am going down to the paper-mill to be absent for an hour. If you will come to my office in that time, I shall be at liberty.'
Hiram had a faint hope he would be invited to step into the house and wait. Disappointed in this, he replied very modestly: 'Perhaps you will permit me to ride with you—that is, unless some one else is going. I would like much to look about the factories.'
'Certainly. Jump in.' And away they drove to Slab City.
Hiram was careful to make no allusion to the subject of his mission to Burnsville. He remained modestly silent while Mr. Burns occasionally pointed out an important building and explained its use or object. Arriving at the paper-mill, he gave Hiram a brief direction where he might spend his time most agreeably.
'I shall be ready to return in three quarters of an hour,' he said, and disappeared inside.
'I must be careful, and make no mistakes with such a man,' soliloquized Hiram, as he turned to pursue his walk. 'He is quick and rapid—a word and a blow—too rapid to achieve a GREAT success. It takes a man, though, to originate and carry through all this. Every thing flourishes here, that is evident. Joel Burns ought to be a richer man than they say he is. He has sold too freely, and on too easy terms, I dare say. No doubt, come to get into his affairs, there will be ever so much to look after. Too much a man of action. Does not think enough. Just the place for me for two or three years.'
Hiram had no time for special examination, but strolled about from point to point, so as to gain a general impression of what was going on. Five minutes before the time mentioned by Mr. Burns had elapsed, Hiram was at his post waiting for him to come out. This little circumstance did not pass unnoticed. It elicited a single observation, 'You are punctual;' to which Hiram made no reply. The drive back to the village was passed nearly in silence. Mr. Burns's mind was occupied with his affairs, and Hiram thought best not to open his own business till he could have a fair opportunity.
Mr. Burns's place for the transaction of general business was a small one-story brick building, erected expressly for the purpose, and conveniently located. There was no name on the door, but over it a pretty large sign displayed in gilt letters the word 'Office,' simply. Mr. Burns had some time before discovered this establishment to be a necessity, in consequence of the multitude of matters with which he was connected. He was the principal partner in the leading store in the village, where a large trade was carried on. The lumber business was still good. He had always two or three buildings in course of erection. He owned one half the paper-mill. In short, his interests were extensive and various, but all snug and well-regulated, and under his control. For general purposes, he spent a certain time in his office. Beyond that, he could be found at the store, at the mill, in some of the factories, or elsewhere, as the occasion called him.
Driving up to the 'office,' he entered with Hiram, and pointing the latter to a seat, took one himself and waited to hear what our hero had to say.
Hiram opened his case, coming directly to the point. He gave a brief account of his previous education and business experience. At the mention of Benjamin Jessup's name, an ominous 'humph!' escaped Mr. Burns's lips, which Hiram was not slow to notice. He saw it would prove a disadvantage to have come from his establishment. Without attempting immediately to modify the unfavorable impression, he was careful, before he finished, to take pains to do so.
'I have thus explained to you,' concluded Hiram,'that my object is to gain a full, thorough knowledge of business, with the hope of becoming, in time, a well-informed and, I trust, successful merchant.'
'And for that purpose—'
'For that purpose, I am very desirous to enter your service.'
'Really, I do not think there is a place vacant which would suit you, Mr. Meeker.'
'It is of little consequence whether or not the place would suit me, sir; only let me have the opportunity, and I will endeavor to adapt myself to it.'
'Oh! what I mean is, we have at present no situation fitted for a young man as old and as competent as you appear to be.'
'But if I were willing to undertake it?'
'You see there would be no propriety in placing you in a situation properly filled by a boy, or at least a youth. Still, I will not forget your request; and if occasion should require, you shall have the first hearing.'
'I had hoped,' continued Hiram, no way daunted, 'that possibly you might have been disposed to take me in your private employ.'
'How?'
'You have large, varied, and increasing interests. You must be severely tasked, at least at times, to properly manage all. Could I not serve you as an assistant? You would find me, I think, industrious and persevering. I bring certificates of character from the Rev. Mr. Goddard, our clergyman, and from both the deacons in our church.'
This was said with a naïve earnestness, coupled with a diffidence apparentlysogenuine, 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 ofyou.'
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 withmuch 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 thelieslipped 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 youdoappear 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 myoffice, 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 pullherdown!' 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 playingoffat 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 itisan 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 hisfirst 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. 'Whatcanyou 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 againsuccessful. He had resolved to enter the service of Mr. Burns and hehadentered 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.