The Continental Monthly , Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1862

'I thought,' he said, 'I would see you off. You will have a fine day, and reach New Haven in ample time for the boat.'

'I have left a brief note on your table,' responded Hiram, 'to ask for a power of attorney. I think it may be important.'

'You shall have it. Good luck to you. Write me how you get along. Good-by.'

He shook Hiram's hand with an enthusiasm which belonged to his nature. The latter extended his cold, dry palm to his employer, and said, 'Good morning, sir,' and got inside. He did not in the least enter into Mr. Burns's cheerful, sympathizing spirit. If the truth must be told, he had not the slightest sympathy for him; neither did any desire to extricate him from this awkward business induce the present adventure. He cared no more for Mr. Burns than he did for Mr. Joslin. But he did enjoy the idea of meeting that knave and circumventing him. It was the pleasantest 'duty' he ever had undertaken. On it his whole thoughts were centred. What did he care whether the day was fair or foul—whether the roads were good or bad? He longed to get to work at Joslin.

The stage door closed, and the vehicle rolled swiftly away. Mr. Burns stood a moment looking after it. He had felt the entire absence of responsive sympathy in his clerk, and his old feeling returned, as it invariably did at times. He walked slowly toward his house.

'Why is it that I so often wish I was rid of that fellow, when he serves me so effectually?'

Mr. Burns turned before entering, and cast his eyes over the horizon. Daylight was just streaking the sky from the east. Joel Burns paused, and directed his glance over the town—the town he had founded and made to flourish. Tears stood in his eyes. Wherefore? He was thinking of the time when, after Mr. Bellows's death, he had, step by step, carefully travelled over this locality, while laying plans for his future career. Here—just here—he had marked four trees to indicate the site for his house, and here he had built it.

'Oh, Sarah, why had you to leave me?'

The words, uttered audibly, recalled him to himself. He opened and passed through the gate, and stepped on the piazza.

'Is that you, father?' It was his daughter's voice. He looked up and saw her at the window. 'I heard you go out, and I have been watching for you ever since. Did Mr. Meeker get off?'

'Yes.'

'Wait, father, and I will come down and take a walk with you. Wouldn't you like it?'

'Yes, dear, very much.'

They walked on together in silence. Presently Sarah perceived they were going in the direction of the burying ground. Mr. Burns entered it with his daughter, and soon stood by his wife's grave.

'She left us early, my child. You do not forget her?'

'Oh no, father!'

'Do you remember all about her—all?'

'Yes, everything.'

'I know it—I know you do. Why is it, Sarah, that lately I feel more solitary than usual?'

'Do you, father?'

'Yes, since—' He paused, unwilling, it would seem, to finish the sentence.

'You know, father, I have not been quite so much with you since Mr. Meeker came. You are more in the office.'

'So I am. I wish—' He hesitated again. Evidently something oppressed him.

Just then the first slanting rays of the morning sun gleamed over the place—pleasant rays, which seemed to change the current of Mr. Burns's thoughts, lighting up his soul as they were lighting the universe.

He spoke cheerfully: "Let us run home, now. And, Sarah, won't you see that we have a very nice breakfast? Early rising has given me an appetite."

CHAPTER X

All this time the stage was conveying Hiram Meeker toward his goal—toward Elihu Joslin. He reached New Haven in time for the boat, and early the following morning was in New York. At this date the town had not assumed its present magnificent proportions. Broadway, above Canal street, was lined with private residences instead of stores, and Bleecker street was one of the most fashionable in the city. Nevertheless it was already imposing, especially to a young man from the country.

Hiram had visited New York on two several occasions when a boy, in company with his mother, but latterly had not found any opportunity to do so. Lauding from the boat, he made his way to the then leading hotel, 'The Franklin House,' and entered his name, and presently went in to breakfast. After he had finished, he stepped out on the sidewalk. He beheld a continuous stream of human beings pouring along this extraordinary thoroughfare. Omnibuses, carts, wagons, and vehicles of every description already filled the way.

Hiram stood and regarded the scene. 'What a field here!' he said to himself. 'Look at this mass of people. Every other man an idiot—and of the rest, not one in a thousand has more than a medium share of brains. What a field, indeed, to undertake to manage and direct and control these fellows! What machinery though! Not too fast. This is the place for me. Burnsville-pho! Now, friend Joslin, * * * *

Hiram made his way to the store of H. Bennett & Co., in Pearl street. Mr. Bennett was in; glad to see Hiram, but wonderfully busy. He invited his relative to dinner—indeed, asked him why he had not come direct to his house. Then he turned away to business.

All this did not fluster Hiram in the slightest. He waited a few minutes; then took occasion to interrupt Mr. Bennett, and say he wished to speak with him on something of importance.

'Certainly,' replied the other. 'What can I do for you?'

'I come to New York on special business,' said Hiram. 'It is necessary I should know just what kind of a person Elihu Joslin is—the large paper dealer in Nassau street. I have not your facilities for ascertaining, and I ask you, as a particular favor, to find out for me.'

'Joslin!' exclaimed Mr. Bennett. 'I hope none of your people are in his clutches. He is a very hard case to deal with, so they say.'

'Is he rich?'

'Yes, worth a couple of hundred thousand, easy.'

'How does he stand with the trade?'

'Oh, unpopular enough, I should imagine. Can't tell you particularly—is not in my line, you know; but if the matter is really pressing, you shall learn all you wish to in an hour.'

'Thank you. I must know all about him prior to a personal interview, which I am to have.'

'I see. Call in at twelve o'clock, and the information will be ready for you.'

'One word more. Do you know the house of Orris & Tweed, auctioneers?'

'Orris & Tweed? Never heard their name before.'

'It is in the directory.'

'I dare say. That don't amount to anything.'

'Please let me know something of them, too. I am sorry to give you this trouble; but I am a greenhorn in New York, and have a difficult matter on my hands.'

'No trouble—at least, I don't count it such to help a friend in the way of business. Besides, if you are a greenhorn, you act as if you know what you are about.'

H. Bennett, of the prosperous house of Bennett & Co., would not have devoted five minutes extra to his namesake in the way of social chat; regarding such conduct in business hours, and in the busy season, as worse than superfluous; but as a matter of business, though purely incidental and profitless, he would have given the whole day to Hiram's affair, if absolutely necessary.

Mr. Bennett here gave some special directions to one of his numerous clerks, a sharp, active-looking fellow, with a keen eye and an air like a game cock, who vanished as soon as they were received.

Hiram left the store, and turning into Wall street, walked on till he reached Nassau street, in which was the establishment of Elihu Joslin. He strolled on without any special purpose, till his attention was arrested by an obstruction on the sidewalk. It was simply the ordinary circumstance of the delivery of goods. In this instance a dray was backed up to the curbstone, with paper. Hiram looked at it carefully. It was of Mr. Burns's manufacture. He glanced up to see the name of the house. It was not Joslin.

A new thought flashed on him. Actuated by it, he commenced to speak with the carman, but checked himself, and walked boldly into the store, and back to the counting room.

'I see you have Burns's paper. I want to purchase a small quantity of it.'

'We couldn't supply you, to-day—have just got this in to fill an order. His paper stands so high that it is scarce in the market. How much do you want? We may get some more in by Thursday.'

'Only a few reams to make out an assortment. I suppose I can buy of you on as good terms as of Joslin.'

'For a small lot, I am sure, better; indeed, I have this direct from him, which is the same thing as if sent from the mill. You know the manufacturers will sell only to jobbers. You are in the retail line, I presume?'

'I am; and I wish you would spare me a couple of reams out of this lot, and send them round to H. Bennett & Co.'s, Pearl street.'

The merchant recognized in Hiram a young country storekeeper, and, desirous as all merchants are to make new acquaintances, was willing to accommodate him. H. Bennett & Co. was a first-class name, and this decided him to break into the lot, which was already sold to somebody else.

Hiram paid for his purchase, called up a carman instanter, and never took his eye off the paper till it was delivered at Mr. Bennett's store.

That gentleman was standing at the door, saying good-by to a first-rate customer, when Hiram came up with his cart, and directed his two reams of paper to be deposited inside.

'Well, youngster, what's all this? said Mr. Bennett, good humoredly.

'A little speculation of mine,' quoth Hiram, quietly.

'Well, men do sometimes buy their own paper, I know—that is, when there is a promise to pay written on it; but this is a blank lot.'

'It will prove a prize to me, unless I am mistaken.'

Mr. Bennett caught the general idea on the instant. The two exchanged looks, such as are only current between very 'cute, knowing, sharp-witted men. Hiram was betrayed into returning Mr. Bennett's leer before he was aware of it. It was a spontaneous recognition, and he felt ashamed at being thus thrown off his guard. He colored slightly, and said something about his duty to his employer.

'There's where you're right,' replied Mr. Bennett. 'A man who does not serve his employer well will not serve himself well in the long run; that you may be sure of.'

The conversation ended here. Hiram strolled out again for half an hour; and when he returned, Mr. Bennett was able to give him a daguerreotype of Elihu Joslin's character, which agreed with that with which we have already favored the reader. As to 'Orris & Tweed, auctioneers,' they were not much better than Peter Funks—lived by acting as stool pigeons, and cheating generally.

Hiram left the store rejoicing at this intelligence, and took his way direct to Joslin's place. Inquiring if that personage was in, he was told yes, but specially engaged. Hiram sat for a full hour, waiting patiently: then he was told to go into the private counting room.

Entering, he beheld a large, overgrown, rough-looking man, about five and thirty, with black hair and eyes, and a coarse, florid complexion, who looked up and nodded carelessly on his entering.

'This is Mr. Joslin, I presume?'

Yes.'

'My name is Meeker, I come from Burnsville—am in the employ of Mr. Burns.'

'Well?'

'I have come down to take a look at York, and knowing you owned half the paper mill, guessed you was a friend of Mr. Burns, and might not object to let some of your folks show me about a little.'

'You don't belong in the mill, then?'

'No; but I've been all over it. It's curious work—paper making.'

'How long are you going to stay here?'

'Well, I want to make a little visit and see the place. In fact, I've a notion to come here by-and-by, and I would like to look about first. Don't you want a clerk yourself?'

'What can you do?'

'I can tend store first rate.'

'What do you want to leave Burns for?'

'I didn't say I wanted to leave him. He's a first-rate man, if he was only a little sharper—got too many soft spots: that's what I hear folks say. But I think I should like New York.'

'Well, Nicker—'

'Meeker, if you please.'

'All right, I say, Meeker; we are pretty busy now, but if you want to see the elephant—and I suppose you do—I will introduce you to one of my boys, who will give you a chance.'

He stepped out, beckoning Hiram to follow.

'Hill! Tell Hill to come here, some of you. Hill, this is Mr. Meeker, in the employ of our particular friend, Mr. Burns, of Burnsville. He wants to see something of the city. You must do what you can for him. I would not wish to slight any one, you know, who belongs with Mr. Burns.'

'All right, sir,' said Hill, a jaunty, devil-may-care looking fellow, with a sallow, sickly face, evidently the result of excess and dissipation.' If the young gentleman will tell me where he stops. I will call for him this evening.'

'At the Franklin House,' responded Hiram.

'The devil!' exclaimed Joslin. 'Tall quarters, I should say.'

'Ain't it a good place, sir? I was told it was a good house on board the boat.'

'Good! I should think it was. The best in New York. A dollar and a half a day: did you understand that?'

'No, sir; I did not ask the price.'

'Green, that's a fact,' said Joslin to himself.' Never mind,' he continued, 'Hill will recommend you to his boarding place, if you like. Good day;' and Hiram took his leave.

'I say, Hill, I want to find out how matters stand with Burns. You've got just the chance now. Put this chap through generally. His mother don't seem to know he's out. Don't mind a few dollars: you understand? And recollect, pump him dry.'

'Dry as a sandbank,' said Hill, who was already chuckling over the sport in prospect.

Mr. Joslin continued his instructions, which, as they were of a strictly private nature, we should be violating confidence to record.

Hiram occupied himself the remainder of the day in looking about the town. He took one of Brower's omnibuses and rode to the end of the route in Broadway, opposite Bond street. Here he descended and retraced his steps. Broadway was then the general promenade. Hiram's pulse beat quick as he gazed on the beauty and fashion of the metropolis moving magnificently along. Susceptible as he was, he had never before been so impressed with female charms. He thought of the belles of Hampton and Burnsville with a species of disgust. His own costume, which he regarded as so perfect, he perceived had a provincial, country look, when contrasted with that of the gentlemen he encountered. Now in business matters, Hiram was as much at home and as self-possessed in New York as in Connecticut. But when it came to the display he now beheld, he felt and acknowledged his inferiority.

Here Hiram was green. He did not stop to reflect that fine feathers make fine birds, so suddenly was he confronted with the glittering panorama. He continued to mingle with the crowd which swept along, and sometimes the blood would rush swiftly to his brain, causing him to reel, as dark eyes would be turned languidly on him, exhibiting, as he was ready to believe, an incipient interest in his destiny.

Below Canal street the character of the current began to change, till gradually Hiram was freed from the exciting trial he had been subjected to. He collected his thoughts and brought his mind back to his work—and his work Hiram Meeker never neglected. Slowly the old current drove out the new. Gradually his mind returned to its even tenor. He walked through the custom house. He entered the exchange. He visited the shipping; and when he got back to the hotel, he was tired and hungry enough. But, tired and hungry as he was, he proceeded at once to open his valise and take out a bundle of papers. Glancing over certain account sales, his eye fell on the name of Hill as purchaser. A peculiar gleam of satisfaction passed over his face as he replaced the papers in his valise and went down to dinner.

CHAPTER XI

At the appointed hour, the young gentleman whom Mr. Joslin had addressed as 'Hill' waited on Hiram at the Franklin House. He sent up his card, and Hiram descended to meet him. He could scarcely recognize the young man before him, dressed in a ridiculous extreme of fashion, and covered with rings, pins, and gold chains, as the clerk hard at work with coat off, superintending the stowing away of a lot of merchandise. But Hiram was in no way deceived or taken in by the imposing manner in which Mr. Hill had got himself up. He saw quickly the difference between the real and the flash fashionable. But he did not betray this by word or sign, and continued to maintain the character he had assumed of an unsophisticated, verdant country youth.

Mr. Hill at the outset proposed they should take a drink, to which Hiram readily assented. They proceeded to the bar, when the young man asked his companion what he would have.

'A glass of lemonade,' replied Hiram.

'Lemonade!' exclaimed the other. 'You don't call that drinking with a fellow, do you?'

'I can't take anything stronger,' answered Hiram. 'I belong to the temperance society.'

'Temperance society!' retorted Hill, a good deal chapfallen that he was to lose his chief weapon of attack. 'I thought the pledge didn't hold when you were away from home?'

'Oh, yes it does; our minister says it holds everywhere. Still, I wouldn't mind taking some soda and sarsaparilla, though Dr. Stevens says there's alcohol in the sarsaparilla.'

Hiram was impracticable. Hill could not induce him even to take a little wine. He was so much chagrined that he poured out for himself a double portion of brandy, and, before he had finished it, regained his good humor.

'Well, what do you say to another glass? I think I can stand the brandy, if you can the lemonade.'

Hiram had no objections.

Hill lighted a segar. Hiram did not smoke.

'I hope you are not going to refuse my next invitation,' said Hill. 'I have got tickets for the theatre: what do you say?'

Hiram had often discussed the theatre question, both at the lyceum and on other occasions. It was to be condemned—no doubt about it. But the Rev. Mr. Goddard had once remarked in his hearing that he thought if a good opportunity was presented for a young man to visit the theatre, he had perhaps better do so, than feel an irritating curiosity all his life about it.

Seeing Hiram hesitate, Hill proceeded to urge him. 'You had better go,' he said. 'Lots to be seen. You don't know what you are losing, I tell you.'

Hiram was not influenced by his companion's importunity, but he decided to go, nevertheless. The elder Kean was then in New York, and the old Park Theatre in all its glory. That evening Kean was to play Shylock in the 'Merchant of Venice.' Hill, greatly pleased that at last he had made some headway, took another glass of brandy and water, and the young men proceeded to the theatre. The house was crowded from galleries to pit. The orchestra was playing when they entered.

Hiram was blinded by the brilliancy of the gaslights. His heart beat fast in spite of his effort to be composed.

The play began with some second-rate actors, who went through the first scene with the usual affected stage strut and tone. Hiram thought he never witnessed anything more unnatural and ridiculous. Even in the second, where Portia and Nerissa hold a dialogue, he was rather disgusted than otherwise. The machinery had scarcely been adjusted for the third scene, when a storm of applause burst from all parts of the house; clapping of hands, stamping of feet, bravos, and various noises of welcome commingled, and Hiram beheld an old man enter, somewhat bent, dressed in a Hebrew cap and tunic, having a short cane, which would serve either for support or as a means of defence. As he advanced, he cast sidelong, suspicious, and sinister glances from beneath bushy, beetling eyebrows.

At first Hiram was inclined to believe it was a real personage, so natural was his entrance—so destitute of all trick, or of anything got up.

'That's Kean,' whispered Hill.

Hiram held his breath as the words of the Jew broke distinctly on the house:

'Three thousand ducats—well.'

He entered at once with the deepest interest into the play. With head leaning forward, eyes open wide and fixed on the speaker, he drank in every word. From the first he sympathized with the main character. When Shylock went on to say: 'Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tipolis, another to the Indies. I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England; and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men. There be land rats and water rats, land thieves and water thieves—I mean pirates; and there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is notwithstanding sufficient:'—Hiram unconsciously shook his head, as if he doubted it.

His whole soul was now centred in the performance. When it came to the trial, in the fourth act, he turned and twisted his body, as if he could with difficulty abstain from advising Shylock to accept the offer of Bassanio: 'For the three thousand ducats here is six.'

It does not appear that Hiram felt any sympathy for the merchant who was to lose the pound of flesh; but for Shylock, when turned out of court stripped of all he had, it was intense. When at last he exclaims:

'Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:You take my house when you do take the propThat doth sustain my house; you take my lifeWhen you do take the means whereby I live:'

Hiram leaned back, and exclaimed audibly: 'It's too bad, I declare!'

All this time, Hill sat as quietly as he could. He laughed whenever Launcelot Gobbo appeared; and tried hard to get Hiram to go out and take more lemonade between the acts. Hiram would not move. He offered to introduce him to lots of pretty girls whom he pointed out in the distance; but it was useless. Hill began to think he would not make much of Hiram, after all. The evening was past, and he had as yet accomplished just nothing.

The play was over. The farce had been performed. It did not interest Hiram. He thought everything over-strained and unnatural. It was now late, Hiram had declined various seductive invitations of Hill, when the latter finally insisted they should have some oysters. Hiram assented, and the two descended into Windust's.

'Well, old fellow, what are you doing here?' was Hill's exclamation to a young man with notebook and pencil, seated at one of the small tables, on which already smoked an oyster stew and some brandy toddy.

'Hallo, Hill, is that you? Sit down. What will you have?' was the reply.

Hiram regarded the speaker curiously. He was twenty-two or three years old—serious looking, with black hair, dark eyes, and pale, bony features. He had the easy, indifferent air of one careless of opinion, or independent of it.

'My friend, Mr. Meeker, from Connecticut.'

'Mr. Meeker, Mr. Innis.'

After these salutations, the parties sat down, and orders were given.

'Excuse me,' said Innis; 'I am not quite through my work.'

'Go ahead,' replied Hill; whereat the other proceeded with his pencil and notebook, scratching away in a most rapid manner.

Seeing Hiram look as if he did not exactly comprehend the employment, Hill remarked, 'Innis is item man and reporter for the Clarion, and you will see his notice of Kean's performance, which he is just finishing, in to-morrow morning's paper.'

This struck Hiram as rapid work, considerably increasing his respect for the stranger, and led him to regard Innis still more critically. His appearance had impressed him favorably from the first.

Suddenly he exclaimed, 'Wern't you at Newton Academy?'

'Yes; and so were you. I remember now. You were a little fellow. You took the first prize in bookkeeping.'

'And you learned shorthand of Chellis.'

'Which counts now, at any rate. I should starve without it.'

During this colloquy Hill sat in utter amazement.

'You a Newton boy?' he exclaimed at last.

'Yes,' said Hiram.

'And you know him, and no mistake?' to Innis.

Innis nodded.

'Then old Joslin may go to the devil. I—'

'He'll go soon enough, and without your permission; and if you are not careful, you'll go with him,' interrupted Innis, rising. 'I am all right now,' he continued. 'I've but to step a block and a half and back. I will be with you again in three minutes;' and he darted off to hand in his evening's report.