The Continental Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 3, March, 1864

My last comparison will be that of our two smallest States—Rhode Island, a Free State, and Delaware, slaveholding.

In 1790 the population of Rhode Island was 69,110, and that of Delaware 59,096. In 1860, the former numbered 174,620, the latter 112,216. Thus, from 1790 to 1860, the ratio of increase of population of Rhode Island was 152.67 per cent., and of Delaware, 89.88. At the same relative rate of increase, for the next, as for the last seventy years, the population of Rhode Island in 1930, would be 441,212, and of Delaware, 213,074. Thus in 1790, Rhode Island numbered but 10,014 more than Delaware, 62,404 more in 1860, and, at the same ratio of increase, 228,138 more in 1930. Such has been and would be the effect of slavery in retarding the increase of Delaware, as compared with Rhode Island. (Census Table, 1860, No. 1.)

The population of Rhode Island per square mile in 1790, was 52.15, and in 1860, 133.71; that of Delaware, 27.87 in 1790, and 59.93 in 1860. The absolute increase of population of Rhode Island, per square mile, from 1790 to 1860, was 80.79, and from 1850 to 1860, 20.74; that of Delaware, from 1790 to 1860, was 25.05, and from 1850 to 1860, 9.76. (Ib.)

Area.—The area of Rhode Island is 1,306 square miles, and of Delaware, 2,120, being 38 per cent., or much more than one third larger than Rhode Island. Retaining their respective ratios of increase, per square mile, from 1790 to 1860, and reversing their areas, the population of Rhode Island in 1860, would have been 283,465, and of Delaware, 78,268.

In natural fertility of soil Delaware is far superior to Rhode Island, the seasons much more favorable for crops and stock, and with more than double the number of acres of arable land.

Progress of Wealth.—By Census Tables 33 and 36 (omitting commerce), it appears that the products of industry as given, viz., of agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries, were that year, in Rhode Island, of the value of $52,400,000, or $300 per capita, and in Delaware, $16,100,000, or $143 per capita. That is, the average annual value of the product of the labor of each person in Rhode Island is greatly more than double that of the labor of each person in Delaware, including slaves. This, we have seen, would make the value of the products of labor in Rhode Island in 1930, $132,368,600, and in Delaware, only $30,469,582, notwithstanding the far greater area and superior natural advantages of Delaware as compared with Rhode Island.

As to the rate of increase: the value of the products of Delaware in 1850 was $7,804,992, in 1860, $16,100,000; and in Rhode Island, in 1850, $24,288,088, and in 1860, $52,400,000. (Table 9, Treas. Rep., 1856), exhibiting a large difference in the ratio in favor of Rhode Island.

By Table 36, p. 196, Census of 1860, the cash value of the farm lands of Rhode Island in 1860 was $19,385,573, or $37.30 per acre (519,698 acres), and of Delaware, $31,426,357, or $31.39 per acre (1,004,295 acres). Thus, if the farm lands of Delaware were of the cash value of those of Rhode Island per acre, it would increase the value of those of Delaware $5,935,385, whereas the whole value of her slaves is but $539,400.

But by Table 35, Census of 1860, the total value of the real and personal property in Rhode Island in 1860, was $135,337,588, and of Delaware, $46,242,181, making a difference in favor of Rhode Island, $89,095,497, whereas, we have seen, in the absence of slavery, Delaware must have far exceeded Rhode Island in wealth and population.

The earnings of commerce are not given by the Census, but, to how vast an extent this would swell the difference in favor of Rhode Island, we may learn from the Census, Bank Table No. 34. The number of the banks of Rhode Island in 1860, was 91; capital, $20,865,569; loans, $26,719,877; circulation, $3,558,295; deposits, $3,553,104. In Delaware, number of banks, 12, capital, $1,640,675; loans, $3,150,215; circulation, $1,135,772; deposits, $976,223.

Having shown how much slavery has retarded the material progress of Delaware, let us now consider its effect upon her moral and intellectual development.

Newspapers and Periodicals.—The number of newspapers and periodicals in Rhode Island in 1860, was 26, of which 18 were political, 6 literary, and 2 miscellaneous. (Census, Table No. 37.) The number in Delaware was 14, of which 13 were political, and 1 literary. Of periodicals, Delaware had none; Rhode Island 1. The number of copies of newspapers and periodicals issued in Rhode Island in 1860 was 5,289,280, and in Delaware only 1,010,776, or largely more than five to one in favor of Rhode Island.

As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must take the Census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged or published. The number of public schools in Rhode Island in 1850 was 426, teachers 518, pupils 23,130; attending school during the year, as returned by families, whites, 28,359; native adults of the State who cannot read or write, 1,248; public libraries, 96; volumes, 104,342; value of churches, $1,293,600; percentage of native free adults who cannot read or write, 149. Colleges and academies, pupils, 3,664. (Comp. Census of 1850.) The number of public schools in Delaware in 1850, was 194, teachers, 214, pupils, 8,970; attending school during the year, whites, as returned by families, 14,216; native free adults of the State who cannot read or write, 9,777; public libraries, 17; volumes, 17,950; value of churches, $340,345; percentage of native free adults who cannot read or write, 23.03; colleges and academies, pupils, 764. (Comp. Census, 1850.)

The subject will be continued in my next letter.

R. J. Walker.

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

PART THE LAST

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

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

CHAPTER VI

About two weeks after Hiram's interview with Dr. Ephraim Peters, he had occasion to spend a long evening in company with certain influential members (of which he, of course, was the most influential) of St. Jude's.

It was past eleven o'clock when the meeting broke up. It was a clear, cold, December night, and Hiram buttoned his coat quite to his chin as he descended the steps to commence his walk home. Some had carriages in waiting; but he, fully alive to his brother's advice, preferred to go on foot. One gentleman kept him company for a couple of blocks; after that, he proceeded alone.

As he passed the corner of a street which ran at right angles to the one he was pursuing, a man came suddenly upon him, and, standing square in his path, demanded in a savage tone, 'Do you want your wood split?'

Hiram turned quickly aside, to avoid the questioner; but he had time to observe that he was an athletic man, with a limping gait, and a fierce, demoniacal countenance. He carried in his hand something like a butcher's cleaver; and before Hiram could escape, he repeated the question: 'Do you want your wood split?'

Hiram uttered a hasty 'No,' in response, and walked swiftly forward.

The stranger was not to be so easily disposed of. He put himself before the millionnaire a second time, and repeated his question.

Hiram Meeker was not a coward—that is, so far as his brain served him; and we all know he had enough of that.

Finding he was not to get rid of the unknown so readily, he stopped and regarded him with careful scrutiny.

The other repeated his question still again: 'Do you want your wood split?'

Hiram was not slow to perceive that the man was insane, and he endeavored to humor him.

'Yes,' he said, 'I want my wood split very much indeed. It is too late to-night; but come to my house to-morrow, and you shall have the job.'

'Oh, no, no, no!' cried the other, 'I work only by night—only by night—and I cannot go to your house—you must come to mine!'

He laid hold of Hiram's arm with a tenacious grasp.

'I must first go home,' said Hiram, calmly, 'and send my wood round for you to split.'

'Not so, not so,' retorted the maniac. 'It has already been sent. Come and see!'—and he began pulling at Hiram's arm—not with ferocity, but with a doggedness almost worse.

Hiram looked up and down the street. Not a soul was visible. The creature who stopped his way was a powerful man—was armed with a deadly weapon—was mad.

Hiram came swiftly to a conclusion. He would appear to yield, and in the walk he was about to take it was almost a certainty that they would encounter some one. So he replied, in a good-natured manner: 'Well, if the wood has been sent to you, we had better go and have it split at once.'

'That's the talk—that's the talk! But we must hurry. Come on—come quick, and you will see how I will do it up.'

He did not relax his hold of Hiram's arm. The two walked rapidly forward—much more rapidly than Hiram desired; but the crazy man kept exclaiming: 'We must make haste, I promised him I would not leave the room. No more would I; but you see, if I can earn the money, I am all right—all right—all right!'

'How much have you got?' he asked, stopping abruptly, and turning suddenly on Hiram.

'I have got ever so much. Now I think of it, suppose I pay you on the spot, so that you can go ahead and split the wood? It is getting late, you see.'

'That won't do—that won't do. I want him to have the money! Come—come along, and give it to him.'

On they pressed, till at length the man exclaimed: 'Here we are! Don't you perceive?'

He had stopped before an old and very common-looking house. In the second story one could see a light burning. The madman motioned Hiram to enter. The millionnaire was glad to discover that he was so near the end of his journey, and in a perfectly respectable neighborhood. Not doubting that he would find the apartment occupied, and quite sure there were inhabitants in the other part of the house, he proceeded to mount the stairs with alacrity, his companion following close at his heels.

It was with a sense of quiet relief that Hiram opened the door into a well-lighted room. This feeling was suddenly changed to one of horror on ascertaining that there was no one in the apartment, but that on a bed at the farther end of it was extended the corpse of a woman, already laid out and ready for the coffin! He stepped quickly backward, but it was too late. The madman was close behind him, and egress was out of the question.

'Come,' he said, 'you need not be afraid; she won't hurt you.'

The poor creature walked to the bedside, and it seemed as if sanity was vainly struggling to regain its place.

'Come closer,' he exclaimed to Hiram, who was standing near him.

Hiram advanced at the word of command, and the other again took his arm; and both stood very still, looking at the dead woman.

'Had we better wake her, think you?'

Hiram shook his head.

'You are right. I must first earn the money—earn the money. Then—then I will wake her. Yes, then I will wake her.'

'Is it your wife?' demanded Hiram, timidly, impelled by an irresistible impulse to ask the question.

'Wife!' shouted the other, glaring on Hiram—'wife! who talks to me about wife? Do you? Say quick!—do you?'—and he raised the cleaver in a menacing manner.

'It was not I,' said Hiram, with as much calmness as he could command, while he looked at the other fixedly—'it was not I.'

'Glad to hear you say so. If it had been, I would have made kindling wood of you—yes, kindling wood of you!—That's all got along with,' he added, lowering the cleaver. 'Now take a seat.'

The madman sat down on one side of a small table, and motioned Hiram to occupy the chair opposite.

He did so.

'Now we are comfortable. Don't you think so? Shan't have to move, shall we? Old Meeker, d–n his soul!—don't own this house. Come, let's have a gay old time!'—and he commenced, half shouting, half singing:

 
'Ain't I glad to get out of the wilderness—
To get out of the wilderness,
To get out of the wilderness?—
Ain't I glad to get out of the wilderness?
Hip, hip, hurrah!'
 

Hiram sat pale, but not trembling. He knew his very life depended on his composure, and he believed that the noise which the madman was making would soon bring persons to the spot.

'You don't seem to like my little song,' he exclaimed, 'I will give you another.' And he shouted on:

 
'I wish I was a horse, as big as any elephant—
As big as any elephant,
As big as any elephant—
I wish I was a horse, as big as any elephant—
Hip, hip, hurrah!'
 

'That's better, ain't it?' Suddenly he turned and looked at the corpse.

'Wife—wife! who said 'wife' to me?—who said 'wife' to me?' And he burst forth more furiously than ever:

 
'My wife's dead, and I want another one—
And I want another one,
And I want another one—
My wife's dead, and I want another one—
Hip, hip, hurrah!'
 

The man had now become so much excited, that he commenced walking rapidly around the room, brandishing his weapon in a most reckless manner.

Hiram's situation was becoming critical. He did not lose his self-possession, but began to balance the chances of attempting to escape by moving swiftly to the door, against keeping his seat and closely watching the maniac.

As if divining what was passing in his mind, the madman suddenly placed his back to the door, as if to bar any egress, and commenced singing again.

Relief came at last.

Hiram, whose every sense was on the alert, thought he saw the knob of the door turn. He was not mistaken; for now it commenced partially to open.

The maniac, feeling the pressure, turned about, leaving the entrance free—and Dr. Ephraim Peters entered.

He seemed to take in matters at a glance. Addressing the madman in a calm but commanding tone, he said: 'How is it that you have disobeyed me? I shall not trust you again. Sit down.'

The effect was electrical. An entire change came over the countenance and bearing of the maniac; he dropped the cleaver, and, passing to the other side of the room, took a seat in close proximity to the corpse.

Then turning, the young doctor addressed Hiram: 'Is your presence here forced or voluntary?'

'Purely accidental.'

'I supposed so. A word with you outside.'

To Hiram this was a joyful summons, and he responded with alacrity.

As they went out, the doctor closed the door, and the two stood together in the gloomy hall at the top of the staircase.

'Mr. Meeker, you recognize me, doubtless?'

There was no reply.

'I am Dr. Peters, who called to see you about two weeks ago, on behalf of a poor woman whose dead body is now in that room. I told you, if she had to be moved, it would kill her. Your agent drove her out, and she lies here dead! It has made her husband crazy—a temporary lunacy, I trust—but, whatever it is, there you see the whole.

'I am expecting some persons every moment,' he continued, 'who will remain here all night, and I will detain you no longer.'

The doctor spoke in such a tone of quiet dignity, that it was impossible for Hiram to reply. He fumbled for a moment in his coat, and then drew out his pocket book. Producing several bills, he offered them to the doctor, muttering half inaudibly something about his desire to pay funeral expenses.

The young physician drew back, as if in danger of contamination.

'Your money perish with you!' he said, solemnly. 'Think you charity consists in bank notes?'

The doctor turned and reëntered the chamber; and Hiram Meeker proceeded slowly down the stairs and into the street.

His thoughts, as he walked homeward, were not of an enviable nature. I confess I have no desire to attempt to portray them.

CHAPTER VII

Hiram's slumbers that night were much disturbed.

His rest was broken by strange dreams, frightful or preposterous, which, running into each other, became blended in a confused mass of floating fancies.

At last he woke. He opened big eyes. It was perfectly dark.

Suddenly he realized just what he was. No business—no money—no earth—no foothold—nothing but a naked soul.

Hiram lay breathing with slow respirations. Even his piety was not present to support him. The world was swept from under him.

Then came a stern sense—a patent conviction—of all he had counted on: nothing—nothing!

He turned over, and fell asleep again. But still refreshing slumber was denied him; still were the night visions terrifying.

At last these appeared to take a definite shape. Heaving, working, revolving, the chaotic mass assumed form and grew luminous.

All of a sudden, IT changed to one great, bright, burning eye. Then he was the eye—all eye—nothing but eye! What sights were presented! The eye was gifted with a wonderful vision. It could discern true from false—real from counterfeit—what was genuine from sham and pretence.

More than this. The eye—which was Hiram—could discriminate between what men considered valuable and available and important, and also good and essential, and by all means to be secured: I say, the eye had the power to distinguish between these, and what was in truth and in very deed good and just and right, and truly to be desired and sought after.

How things changed places!

Some shrank into littleness and utter insignificance, which formerly had large proportions and a towering importance; others, which before seemed puny and of little worth, grew grandly into magnitude, and power, and might.

At a great distance could be observed the habitations of the children of men. They appeared like objects seen through an inverted telescope—far off and exceedingly diminished.

On the shore of the sea, Hiram Meeker was discovered.

He looked no larger than a man's thumb. He had fenced off a portion of the sands, so that no one except himself (and many attempted) could have access thereto. He was engaged transporting these sands in the most careful manner, one by one, into a large warehouse, for better security, as it would seem.

What is wonderful in all this is, that Hiram, the whole time, thought it gold he was storing, whereas the eye could perceive it to be sand only—glittering sand.

At length the vision faded away. Hiram started up in a mortal agony. The effort woke him, and he gazed wildly around. It was not yet light. Weary and exhausted by what he had passed through, he soon fell asleep, and this time slumbered peacefully.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was shining cheerfully into his room. The whole aspect of things was changed. The old scenes were shifted into place, the old machinery set in motion—Hiram was himself again!

CHAPTER VIII

Burnsville!

I hope the reader is willing to revisit this charming spot. For I confess that I myself feel impelled to do so. Indeed, I sometimes regret following the fortunes of Hiram Meeker to New York. Far more agreeable would it have been to have continued the story of Joel Burns, and showed what a good man may achieve, notwithstanding the workings of the 'ancient leaven,' and the divers contests which spring up daily within and around him.

But my task once undertaken, I did not feel at liberty to leave it.

I propose, therefore, only a brief visit to the place which the reader may recollect was commenced by Joel Burns in his youth, when his love for Ellen Bellows lent to his already energetic spirit a tenfold force and vigor and perseverance.

The twenty-five years which have told with such effect on New York, have also produced great changes and great improvements in Burnsville. It was a thriving village when we last knew it. Now it is a large town. The higher portion is covered with fine buildings. Churches, hotels, academies, and various institutions for which New England is remarkable, seem specially to flourish here.

There are some old landmarks which I am sure we shall recognize—Joel Burns's house, for example, and the little brick 'office' from which Hiram sallied one morning before daylight to take the stage for New York, to attack Joslin the paper dealer.

The improvements have been astonishing. Beautiful trees skirt the principal streets, and form an arch above. Everywhere you behold displayed signs of admirable taste.

Below, in the valley, is the railroad; and opposite the 'paper mill' has been erected one of the finest 'stations' in the State. Here has sprung up a large manufacturing place, rivalling in size and business importance the 'ridge,' as we used to call it, but leaving the latter free from the noise and bustle of the mills and factories and machinery of our now famous 'Slab City.'

Dr. Egerton married Sarah Burns, as you have long since guessed. He is one of the few men of talent who has no ambition to quit his happy home to adventure in a large city. He is celebrated far and near, but nothing can draw him away from the spot where a youth he came to watch over a young girl whose life was trembling in the balance.

And Sarah, think you she is not repaid for her fidelity to her father? By it she escaped the grasp of Hiram Meeker, and is now—she has been for years—a loving, trustful, joyous wife.

Happy Sarah Burns! I commenced this narrative by recounting an unhappy incident in your life. How grateful is the task of recording your triumph over the greatest danger which can threaten a maiden—the danger of loving unworthily!

Joel Burns! I confess that, of all at Burnsville, it is in you my feelings of interest centre—you, whose romantic fidelity to your wife's memory has thrown a charm over your whole existence. It is a great treasure—is it not?—a heart so true, so loyal, so pure and faithful, that not one, no, not one of all the young and fair and good and fascinating from out this world's fair creation can divert it for a moment, or change its even, constant, ever-loving pulsations. Such a heart you possess, Joel Burns!

Joel Burns was 'mated' as well as 'married;' and when his wife died, he did not really lose her. In spirit she attended him wherever he went—always near him—more actually present, Joel used sometimes to think, than she ever was before.

How could he wish to marry again, when his wife was all the time by his side—an ever-present, ever-abiding comfort and consolation?

I say, herein lay the charm and the glory of Joel's life. His influence on his place, after it grew beyond the proportions of a village, and became one of the largest towns in the State, was just as great as when it had but a dozen buildings.

Joel did not permit the desire to accumulate to become a passion. On the contrary, he diffused his wealth—not by direct gifts in charity, but by affording everybody around him opportunity to get on and prosper, just exactly as if the world was common to all, and as if all should be allowed a fair chance to live in it!

You have no idea how the attempt to practise this principle enriched the life and nature of Joel Burns.

[There are two Spirits—towering, gigantic Genii—who attend on man: one the Absorbing, the other the Imparting, Spirit. Both are active, energetic, untiring. The former, if it gains access to the soul, commences at once to narrow and impoverish it; while the latter enlarges and makes the soul rich. Herein is explained the old enigma which a dying man is said to have uttered:

 
'What I kept, I've not;
What I gave, I've got.']
 

I have remarked that Burnsville was one of the largest towns in the State. This was not only the case, but the immense manufactories in 'Slab City' made it much more prominent than any other, and brought it into more direct communication with New York.

Hiram Meeker heard, from time to time, of all that Joel was doing. In fact, impelled by a strong impulse, he took pains to ascertain what progress he made from year to year. But Hiram could not, with all his penetration, fathom a nature like that of Joel. It was always a puzzle to him. For it was not given to a man, who had all his life harbored the wicked Demon Absorption, to understand the excellency and happiness of such a life.

But he watched Burnsville. Indeed, he was tempted to make some heavy investments there when the railroad was constructed—of which event, as the leading capitalist of the country, he had the earliest information. He abandoned the idea, however, for he shrank from coming in contact with his old employer.

So Joel Burns lived on his noble, God-given existence.

But, reader, if you think I am endeavoring to depict a faultless person, you are much mistaken. Faultless is lifeless, when applied to human beings. It is in the contest with our faults that the glory of our humanity shines forth. It is this which binds our race together in one great brotherhood. Pray, tell me what we could do with a faultless man or woman. What have we in common with any such person? What sympathy have we with either, or either with us?

Joel Burns was constitutionally ardent and energetic, not to say impetuous. With such characteristics are always strong attending imperfections. He had his share of these. But his motives were honest, his principles right, his intents true; and I declare I think it to be a real felicity and blessing to observe the faults of such a man, and witness how he encounters and battles with, and conquers them—or if for a moment overcome, to behold his genuine regret and contrition.

I will pursue this no further. I have some work to do in the metropolis. If I linger at Burnsville, I shall be quite unfitted for it—I shall, indeed.

Joel—Joel Burns—farewell!

Ellen Bellows—Ellen Burns—don't you see that Joel has remembered your dying injunction, and has tried to 'live right?' Yes, you do. It was for this that you have never forsaken him.

Sarah Egerton smiles on me as I pass out of the gate. A group of children, half grown, and full grown, give me joyous greeting; and the Doctor waves his hand from his carriage, as he drives along on his errands of mercy and benevolence.

I must make haste. There is no stage to wait five minutes for me. The time table is a despot.

The train approaches. It has stopped. It is off again, and I am in it.

Burnsville, pleasant Burnsville, adieu!