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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1846], The redskins, or, Indian and Injin. Being the conclusion of the Littlepage manuscripts, volume 1 (Burgess, Stringer & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf077v1].
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Front matter Covers, Edges and Spine

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Preliminaries

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Title Page THE
REDSKINS;
OR,
INDIAN AND INJIN:
BEING THE CONCLUSION OF THE
LITTLEPAGE MANUSCRIPTS.


In every work regard the writer's end;
None e'er can compass more than they intend.
Pope.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY BURGESS & STRINGER.
1846.

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Acknowledgment

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42451

Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
J. FENIMORE COOPER,
in the clerk's office of the District Court for the Northern District
of New York.

STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN, PHILADELPHIA.

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PREFACE.

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This book closes the series of the Littlepage Manuscripts,
which have been given to the world, as
containing a fair account of the comparative sacrifices
of time, money and labour, made respectively by
the landlord and the tenants, on a New York estate;
together with the manner in which usages and opinions
are changing among us; as well as certain of
the reasons of these changes. The discriminating
reader will probably be able to trace in these narratives
the progress of those innovations on the great
laws of morals which are becoming so very manifest
in connection with this interest, setting at naught
the plainest principles that God has transmitted to
man for the government of his conduct, and all under
the extraordinary pretence of favouring liberty! In
this downward course, our picture embraces some
of the proofs of that looseness of views on the subject
of certain species of property which is, in a degree
perhaps, inseparable from the semi-barbarous condition
of a new settlement; the gradation of the squatter,
from him who merely makes his pitch to crop a
few fields in passing, to him who carries on the business
by wholesale; and last, though not least in this
catalogue of marauders, the anti-renter.

It would be idle to deny that the great principle
which lies at the bottom of anti-rentism, if principle

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it can be called, is the assumption of a claim that the
interests and wishes of numbers are to be respected,
though done at a sacrifice of the clearest rights of the
few. That this is not liberty, but tyranny in its worst
form, every right-thinking and right-feeling man must
be fully aware. Every one who knows much of the
history of the past, and of the influence of classes,
must understand, that whenever the educated, the
affluent and the practised, choose to unite their means
of combination and money to control the political
destiny of a country, they become irresistible; making
the most subservient tools of those very masses who
vainly imagine they are the true guardians of their
own liberties. The well-known election of 1840 is a
memorable instance of the power of such a combination;
though that was a combination formed mostly
for the mere purposes of faction, sustained perhaps
by the desperate designs of the insolvents of the
country. Such a combination was necessarily wanting
in union among the affluent; it had not the high
support of principles to give it sanctity, and it affords
little more than the proof of the power of money and
leisure, when applied in a very doubtful cause, in
wielding the masses of a great nation, to be the instruments
of their own subjection. No well-intentioned
American legislator, consequently, ought ever
to lose sight of the fact, that each invasion of the
right which he sanctions is a blow struck against
liberty itself, which, in a country like this, has no
auxiliary so certain or so powerful as justice.

The State of New York contains about 43,000
square miles of land; or something like 27,000,000
of acres. In 1783, its population must have been

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about 200,000 souls. With such a proportion between
people and surface it is unnecessary to prove
that the husbandman was not quite as dependent on
the landholder, as the landholder was dependent on
the husbandman. This would have been true, had
the State been an island; but we all know it was
surrounded by many other communities similarly
situated, and that nothing else was so abundant as
land. All notions of exactions and monopolies, therefore,
must be untrue, as applied to those two interests
at that day.

In 1786-7, the State of New York, then in possession
of all powers on the subject, abolished entails,
and otherwise brought its law of real estate in harmony
with the institutions. At that time, hundreds,
perhaps thousands, of the leases which have since
become so obnoxious, were in existence. With the
attention of the State drawn directly to the main
subject, no one saw anything incompatible with the
institutions in them. It was felt that the landlords
had bought the tenants to occupy their lands by the
liberality of their concessions
, and that the latter were
the obliged parties. Had the landlords of that day
endeavoured to lease for one year, or for ten years,
no tenants could have been found for wild lands; but
it became a different thing, when the owner of the
soil agreed to part with it for ever, in consideration
of a very low rent, granting six or eight years free
from any charge whatever, and consenting to receive
the product of the soil itself in lieu of money. Then,
indeed, men were not only willing to come into the
terms, but eager; the best evidence of which is the
fact, that the same tenants might have bought land,

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out and out, in every direction around them, had
they not preferred the easier terms of the leases.
Now, that these same men, or their successors, have
become rich enough to care more to be rid of the
encumbrance of the rent than to keep their money,
the rights of the parties certainly are not altered.

In 1789, the Constitution of the United States went
into operation; New York being a party to its creation
and conditions. By that Constitution, the State deliberately
deprived itself of the power to touch the
covenants of these leases, without conceding the
power to any other government; unless it might be
through a change of the Constitution itself. As a
necessary consequence, these leases, in a legal sense,
belong to the institutions of New York, instead of
being opposed to them. Not only is the spirit of the
institutions in harmony with these leases, but so is
the letter also. Men must draw a distinction between
the “spirit of the institutions” and their own “spirits;”
the latter being often nothing more than a
stomach that is not easily satisfied. It would be just
as true to affirm that domestic slavery is opposed to
the institutions of the United States, as to say the
same of these leases. It would be just as rational to
maintain, because A. does not choose to make an associate
of B., that he is acting in opposition to the
“spirit of the institutions,” inasmuch as the Declaration
of Independence advances the dogmas that men
are born equal, as it is to say it is opposed to the
same spirit, for B. to pay rent to A. according to his
covenant.

It is pretended that the durable leases are feudal
in their nature. We do not conceive this to be true;

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but, admitting it to be so, it would only prove that
feudality, to this extent, is a part of the institutions
of the State. What is more, it would become a part
over which the State itself has conceded all power
of control, beyond that which it may remotely possess
as one, out of twenty-eight communities. As
respects this feudal feature, it is not easy to say
where it must be looked for. It is not to be found in
the simple fact of paying rent, for that is so general
as to render the whole country feudal, could it be
true; it cannot be in the circumstance that the rent
is to be paid “in kind,” as it is called, and in labour,
for that is an advantage to the tenant, by affording
him the option, since the penalty of a failure leaves
the alternative of paying in money. It must be, therefore,
that these leases are feudal because they run for
ever! Now the length of the lease is clearly a concession
to the tenant, and was so regarded when received;
and there is not probably a single tenant,
under lives, who would not gladly exchange his term
of possession for that of one of these detestable durable
leases!

Among the absurdities that have been circulated
on this subject of feudality, it has been pretended
that the well-known English statute of “quia emptores
has prohibited fines for alienation; or that the
quarter-sales, fifth-sales, sixth-sales, &c. of our own
leases were contrary to the law of the realm, when
made. Under the common law, in certain cases of
feudal tenures, the fines for alienation were an incident
of the tenure. The statute of quia emptores
abolished that general principle, but it in no manner
forbade parties to enter into covenants of the nature

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of quarter-sales, did they see fit. The common law
gives all the real estate to the eldest son. Our statute
divides the real estate among the nearest of kin, without
regard even to sex. It might just as well be
pretended that the father cannot devise all his lands
to his eldest son, under our statute, as to say that
the law of Edward I. prevents parties from bargaining
for quarter-sales. Altering a provision of the
common law does not preclude parties from making
covenants similar to its ancient provisions.

Feudal tenures were originally divided into two
great classes; those which were called the military
tenures, or knight's service, and soccage. The first
tenure was that which became oppressive in the progress
of society. Soccage was of two kinds; free and
villian. The first has an affinity to our own system,
as connected with these leases; the last never existed
among us at all. When the knight's service, or military
tenures of England were converted into free
soccage, in the reign of Charles II., the concession
was considered of a character so favourable to liberty
as to be classed among the great measures of the
time; one of which was the habeas corpus act!

The only feature of our own leases, in the least
approaching “villian soccage,” is that of the “day's
works.” But every one acquainted with the habits
of American life, will understand that husbandmen,
in general, throughout the northern States, would
regard it as an advantage to be able to pay their
debts in this way; and the law gives them an option,
since a failure to pay “in kind,” or in “work,” merely
incurs the forfeiture of paying what the particular
thing is worth, in money. In point of fact, money

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has always been received for these “day's works,”
and at a stipulated price.

But, it is pretended, whatever may be the equity
of these leasehold contracts, they are offensive to the
tenants, and ought to be abrogated, for the peace of
the State. The State is bound to make all classes of
men respect its laws, and in nothing more so than in
the fulfilment of their legal contracts. The greater
the number of the offenders, the higher the obligation
to act with decision and efficiency. To say that these
disorganizers ought not to be put down, is to say that
crime is to obtain impunity by its own extent; and
to say that they cannot be put down “under our form
of government,” is a direct admission that the government
is unequal to the discharge of one of the plainest
and commonest obligations of all civilized society.
If this be really so, the sooner we get rid of the present
form of government the better. The notion of
remedying such an evil by concession, is as puerile
as it is dishonest. The larger the concessions become,
the greater will be the exactions of a cormorant
cupidity. As soon as quiet is obtained by these
means, in reference to the leasehold tenures, it will
be demanded by some fresh combination to attain
some other end.

When Lee told Washington, at Monmouth, “Sir,
your troops will not stand against British grenadiers,”
Washington is said to have answered, “Sir,
you have never tried them.” The same reply might
be given to those miserable traducers of this republic,
who, in order to obtain votes, affect to think there is
not sufficient energy in its government to put down
so bare-faced an attempt as this of the anti-renters

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to alter the conditions of their own leases to suit their
own convenience. The county of Delaware has, of
itself, nobly given the lie to the assertion, the honest
portion of its inhabitants scattering the knaves to the
four winds, the moment there was a fair occasion made
for them to act. A single, energetic proclamation
from Albany, calling a “spade a spade,” and not
affecting to gloss over the disguised robbery of these
anti-renters, and laying just principles fairly before
the public mind, would of itself have crushed the
evil in its germ. The people of New York, in their
general capacity, are not the knaves their servants
evidently suppose.

The assembly of New York, in its memorable session
of 1846, has taxed the rents on long leases; thus,
not only taxing the same property twice, but imposing
the worst sort of income-tax, or one aimed at a few
individuals. It has “thimble-rigged” in its legislation,
as Mr. Hugh Littlepage not unaptly terms it;
endeavouring to do that indirectly, which the Constitution
will not permit it to do directly. In other
words, as it can pass no direct law “impairing the
obligation of contracts,” while it can regulate descents,
it has enacted, so far as one body of the legislature
has power to enact anything, that on the death
of a landlord the tenant may convert his lease into a
mortgage, on discharging which he shall hold his
land in fee!

We deem the first of these measures far more
tyrannical than the attempt of Great Britain to tax
her colonies, which brought about the revolution. It
is of the same general character, that of unjust taxation;
while it is attended by circumstances of

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aggravation that were altogether wanting in the policy of
the mother country. This is not a tax for revenue,
which is not needed; but a tax to “choke off” the
landlords, to use a common American phrase. It is
clearly taxing nothing, or it is taxing the same property
twice. It is done to conciliate three or four
thousand voters, who are now in the market, at the
expense of three or four hundred who, it is known,
are not to be bought. It is unjust in its motives, its
means and its end. The measure is discreditable to
civilization, and an outrage on liberty.

But, the other law mentioned is an atrocity so
grave, as to alarm every man of common principle
in the State, were it not so feeble in its devices to
cheat the Constitution, as to excite contempt. This
extraordinary power is exercised because the legislature
can control the law of descents, though it
cannot “impair the obligation of contracts!” Had
the law said at once that on the death of a landlord
each of his tenants should own his farm in fee, the
ensemble of the fraud would have been preserved,
since the “law of descents” would have been so far
regulated as to substitute one heir for another; but
changing the nature of a contract, with a party who
has nothing to do with the succession at all, is not so
very clearly altering, or amending, the law of descents!
It is scarcely necessary to say that every
reputable court in the country, whether State or
Federal, would brand such a law with the disgrace
it merits.

But the worst feature of this law, or attempted
law, remains to be noticed. It would have been a
premium on murder. Murder has already been

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committed by these anti-renters, and that obviously
to effect their ends; and they were to be told that
whenever you shoot a landlord, as some have already
often shot at them, you can convert your leasehold
tenures into tenures in fee! The mode of valuation
is so obvious, too, as to deserve a remark. A master
was to settle the valuation on testimony. The witnesses
of course would be “the neighbours,” and a
whole patent could swear for each other!

As democrats we protest most solemnly against
such bare-faced frauds, such palpable cupidity and
covetousness being termed anything but what they
are. If they come of any party at all, it is the party
of the devil. Democracy is a lofty and noble sentiment.
It does not rob the poor to make the rich
richer, nor the rich to favour the poor. It is just, and
treats all men alike. It does not “impair the obligations
of contracts.” It is not the friend of a canting
legislation, but, meaning right, dare act directly.
There is no greater delusion than to suppose that
true democracy has anything in common with injustice
or roguery.

Nor is it an apology for anti-rentism, in any of
its aspects, to say that leasehold tenures are inexpedient.
The most expedient thing in existence is to
do right. Were there no other objection to this anti-rent
movement than its corrupting influence, that
alone should set every wise man in the community
firmly against it. We have seen too much of this
earth, to be so easily convinced that there is any
disadvantage, nay that there is not a positive advantage
in the existence of large leasehold estates, when
they carry with them no political power, as is the

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fact here. The common-place argument against them,
that they defeat the civilization of a country, is not
sustained by fact. The most civilized countries on
earth are under this system; and this system, too,
not entirely free from grave objections which do not
exist among ourselves. That a poorer class of citizens
have originally leased than have purchased lands in
New York, is probably true; and it is equally probable
that the effects of this poverty, and even of the
tenure in the infancy of a country, are to be traced
on the estates. But this is taking a very one-sided
view of the matter. The men who became tenants
in moderate but comfortable circumstances, would
have been mostly labourers on the farms of others,
but for these leasehold tenures. That is the benefit
of the system in a new country, and the ultra friend
of humanity, who decries the condition of a tenant,
should remember that if he had not been in this very
condition, he might have been in a worse. It is, indeed,
one of the proofs of the insincerity of those who
are decrying leases, on account of their aristocratic
tendencies, that their destruction will necessarily
condemn a numerous class of agriculturists, either
to fall back into the ranks of the peasant or day-labourer,
or to migrate, as is the case with so many
of the same class in New England. In point of fact,
the relation of landlord and tenant is one entirely
natural and salutary, in a wealthy community, and
one that is so much in accordance with the necessities
of men, that no legislation can long prevent it.
A state of things which will not encourage the rich
to hold real estate would not be desirable, since it
would be diverting their money, knowledge,

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liberality, feelings and leisure, from the improvement of
the soil, to objects neither so useful nor so praise-worthy.

The notion that every husbandman is to be a free-holder,
is as Utopian in practice, as it would be to
expect that all men were to be on the same level in
fortune, condition, education and habits. As such a
state of things as the last never yet did exist, it was
probably never designed by divine wisdom that it
should exist. The whole structure of society must
be changed, even in this country, ere it could exist
among ourselves, and the change would not have
been made a month before the utter impracticability
of such a social fusion would make itself felt by all.

We have elsewhere imputed much of the anti-rent
feeling to provincial education and habits. This term
has given the deepest offence to those who were most
obnoxious to the charge. Nevertheless, our opinion
is unchanged. We know that the distance between
the cataract of Niagara and the Massachusetts line
is a large hundred leagues, and that it is as great
between Sandy Hook and the 45th parallel of latitude.
Many excellent things, moral and physical,
are to be found within these limits, beyond a question;
but we happen to know by an experience that
has extended to other quarters of the world, for a
term now exceeding forty years, that more are to be
found beyond them. If “honourable gentlemen” at
Albany fancy the reverse, they must still permit us
to believe they are too much under the influence of
provincial notions.

Main text

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CHAPTER I.

“Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said—Thou wert my daughter; and thy father
Was duke of Milan; and his only heir
A princess;—no worse issued.”
Tempest.

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My uncle Ro and myself had been travelling together in
the East, and had been absent from home fully five years,
when we reached Paris. For eighteen months neither of us
had seen a line from America, when we drove through the
barriers, on our way from Egypt, via Algiers, Marseilles,
and Lyons. Not once, in all that time, had we crossed our
own track, in a way to enable us to pick up a straggling
letter; and all our previous precautions to have the epistles
meet us at different bankers in Italy, Turkey, and Malta,
were thrown away.

My uncle was an old traveller—I might almost say, an
old resident—in Europe; for he had passed no less than
twenty years of his fifty-nine off the American continent.
A bachelor, with nothing to do but to take care of a very
ample estate, which was rapidly increasing in value by
the enormous growth of the town of New York, and with
tastes early formed by travelling, it was natural he should
seek those regions where he most enjoyed himself. Hugh
Roger Littlepage was born in 1786—the second son of my
grandfather, Mordaunt Littlepage, and of Ursula Malbone,
his wife. My own father, Malbone Littlepage, was the eldest
child of that connexion; and he would have inherited
the property of Ravensnest, in virtue of his birthright, had

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he survived his own parents; but, dying young, I stepped
into what would otherwise have been his succession, in my
eighteenth year. My uncle Ro, however, had got both
Satanstoe and Lilacsbush; two country-houses and farms,
which, while they did not aspire to the dignity of being
estates, were likely to prove more valuable, in the long run,
than the broad acres which were intended for the patrimony
of the elder brother. My grandfather was affluent; for not
only had the fortune of the Littlepages centred in him, but
so did that of the Mordaunts, the wealthier family of the
two, together with some exceedingly liberal bequests from
a certain Col. Dirck Follock, or Van Valkenburgh; who,
though only a very distant connexion, chose to make my
great-grandmother's, or Anneke Mordaunt's, descendants
his heirs. We all had enough; my aunts having handsome
legacies, in the way of bonds and mortgages, on an estate
called Mooseridge, in addition to some lots in town; while
my own sister, Martha, had a clear fifty thousand dollars in
money. I had town-lots, also, which were becoming productive;
and a special minority of seven years had made
an accumulation of cash that was well vested in New York
State stock, and which promised well for the future. I say
a “special” minority; for both my father and grandfather,
in placing, the one, myself and a portion of the property,
and the other the remainder of my estate, under the guardianship
and ward of my uncle, had made a provision that
I was not to come into possession until I had completed my
twenty-fifth year.

I left college at twenty; and my uncle Ro, for so Martha
and myself always called him, and so he was always
called by some twenty cousins, the offspring of our three
aunts;—but my uncle Ro, when I was done with college,
proposed to finish my education by travelling. As this was
only too agreeable to a young man, away we went, just
after the pressure of the great panic of 1836-7 was over,
and our “lots” were in tolerable security, and our stocks
safe. In America it requires almost as much vigilance to
take care of property, as it does industry to acquire it.

Mr. Hugh Roger Littlepage—by the way, I bore the same
name, though I was always called Hugh, while my uncle
went by the different appellations of Roger, Ro, and Hodge,

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among his familiars, as circumstances had rendered the
associations sentimental, affectionate, or manly—Mr. Hugh
Roger Littlepage, Senior, then, had a system of his own, in
the way of aiding the scales to fall from American eyes, by
means of seeing more clearly than one does, or can, at
home, let him belong where he may, and in clearing the
specks of provincialism from off the diamond of republican
water. He had already seen enough to ascertain that while
“our country,” as this blessed nation is very apt on all
occasions, appropriate or not, to be called by all who belong
to it, as well as by a good many who do not, could teach a
great deal to the old world, there was a possibility—just a
possibility, remark, is my word—that it might also learn a
little. With a view, therefore, of acquiring knowledge seriatim,
as it might be, he was for beginning with the hornbook,
and going on regularly up to the belles-lettres and
mathematics. The manner in which this was effected deserves
a notice.

Most American travellers land in England, the country
farthest advanced in material civilization; then proceed to
Italy, and perhaps to Greece, leaving Germany, and the less
attractive regions of the north, to come in at the end of the
chapter. My uncle's theory was to follow the order of time,
and to begin with the ancients and end with the moderns;
though, in adopting such a rule, he admitted he somewhat
lessened the pleasure of the novice; since an American,
fresh from the fresher fields of the western continent, might
very well find delight in memorials of the past, more especially
in England, which pall on his taste, and appear insignificant,
after he has become familiar with the Temple of
Neptune, the Parthenon, or what is left of it, and the Coliseum.
I make no doubt that I lost a great deal of passing
happiness in this way, by beginning at the beginning, or by
beginning in Italy, and travelling north.

Such was our course, however; and, landing at Leghorn,
we did the peninsula effectually in a twelvemonth; thence
passed through Spain up to Paris, and proceeded on to Moscow
and the Baltic, reaching England from Hamburg.
When we had got through with the British isles, the antiquities
of which seemed flat and uninteresting to me, after
having seen those that were so much more antique, we

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returned to Paris, in order that I might become a man of the
world, if possible, by rubbing off the provincial specks that
had unavoidably adhered to the American diamond while in
its obscurity.

My uncle Ro was fond of Paris, and he had actually
become the owner of a small hotel in the faubourg, in which
he retained a handsome furnished apartment for his own
use. The remainder of the house was let to permanent
tenants; but the whole of the first floor, and of the entresol,
remained in his hands. As a special favour, he would allow
some American family to occupy even his own apartment—
or rather appartement, for the words are not exactly synonymous—
when he intended to be absent for a term exceeding
six months, using the money thus obtained in keeping
the furniture in repair, and his handsome suite of rooms,
including a salon, salle à manger, ante-chambre, cabinet,
several chambres à coucher, and a boudoir—yes, a male
boudoir! for so he affected to call it—in a condition to
please even his fastidiousness.

On our arrival from England, we remained an entire season
at Paris, all that time rubbing the specks off the diamond,
when my uncle suddenly took it into his head that we ought
to see the East. He had never been further than Greece,
himself; and he now took a fancy to be my companion in
such an excursion. We were gone two years and a half,
visiting Greece, Constantinople, Asia Minor, the Holy Land,
Petra, the Red Sea, Egypt quite to the second cataracts, and
nearly the whole of Barbary. The latter region we threw
in, by way of seeing something out of the common track.
But so many hats and travelling-caps are to be met with,
now-a-days, among the turbans, that a well-mannered Christian
may get along almost anywhere without being spit
upon. This is a great inducement for travelling generally,
and ought to be so especially to an American, who, on the
whole, incurs rather more risk now of suffering this humiliation
at home, than he would even in Algiers. But the
animus is everything in morals.

We had, then, been absent two years and a half from
Paris, and had not seen a paper or received a letter from
America in eighteen months, when we drove through the
barrier. Even the letters and papers received or seen

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previously to this last term, were of a private nature, and contained
nothing of a general character. The “twenty millions” —
it was only the other day they were called the
“twelve millions” — but, the “twenty millions,” we knew,
had been looking up amazingly after the temporary depression
of the moneyed crisis it had gone through; and the
bankers had paid our drafts with confidence, and without
extra charges, during the whole time we had been absent.
It is true, Uncle Ro, as an experienced traveller, went well
fortified in the way of credit—a precaution by no means
unnecessary with Americans, after the cry that had been
raised against us in the old world.

And here I wish to say one thing plainly, before I write
another line. As for falling into the narrow, self-adulatory,
provincial feeling of the American who has never left his
mother's apron-string, and which causes him to swallow,
open-mouthed, all the nonsense that is uttered to the world
in the columns of newspapers, or in the pages of your yearling
travellers, who go on “excursions” before they are
half instructed in the social usages and the distinctive features
of their own country, I hope I shall be just as far
removed from such a weakness, in any passing remark that
may flow from my pen, as from the crime of confounding
principles and denying facts in a way to do discredit to the
land of my birth and that of my ancestors. I have lived
long enough in the “world,” not meaning thereby the southeast
corner of the north-west township of Connecticut, to
understand that we are a vast way behind older nations, in
thought as well as deed, in many things; while, on the opposite
hand, they are a vast way behind us in others. I see no
patriotism in concealing a wholesome truth; and least of all
shall I be influenced by the puerility of a desire to hide
anything of this nature, because I cannot communicate it
to my countrymen without communicating it to the rest of
the world. If England or France had acted on this narrow
principle, where would have been their Shakspeares, their
Sheridans, their Beaumonts and Fletchers, and their Molieres!
No, no! great national truths are not to be treated
as the gossiping surmises of village crones. He who reads
what I write, therefore, must expect to find what I think of
matters and things, and not exactly what he may happen to

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think on the same subjects. Any one is at liberty to compare
opinions with me; but I ask the privilege of possessing
some small liberty of conscience in what is, far and near,
proclaimed to be the only free country on the earth. By
“far and near,” I mean from the St. Croix to the Rio
Grande, and from Cape Cod to the entrance of St. Juan de
Fuca; and a pretty farm it makes, the “interval” that lies
between these limits! One may call it “far and near”
without the imputation of obscurity, or that of vanity.

Our tour was completed, in spite of all annoyances; and
here we were again, within the walls of magnificent Paris!
The postilions had been told to drive to the hotel, in the rue
St. Dominique; and we sat down to dinner, an hour after
our arrival, under our own roof. My uncle's tenant had
left the apartment a month before, according to agreement;
and the porter and his wife had engaged a cook, set the
rooms in order, and prepared everything for our arrival.

“It must be owned, Hugh,” said my uncle, as he finished
his soup that day, “one may live quite comfortably in Paris,
if he possess the savoir vivre. Nevertheless, I have a
strong desire to get a taste of native air. One may say and
think what he pleases about the Paris pleasures, and the
Paris cuisine, and all that sort of things; but “home is
home, be it ever so homely.” A `d'Inde aux truffes' is capital
eating; so is a turkey with cranberry sauce. I sometimes
think I could fancy even a pumpkin pie, though there
is not a fragment of the rock of Plymouth in the granite of
my frame.”

“I have always told you, sir, that America is a capital
eating and drinking country, let it want civilization in
other matters, as much as it may.”

“Capital for eating and drinking, Hugh, if you can keep
clear of the grease, in the first place, and find a real cook,
in the second. There is as much difference between the
cookery of New England, for instance, and that of the
Middle States, barring the Dutch, as there is between that
of England and Germany. The cookery of the Middle
States, and of the Southern States, too, though that savours
a little of the West Indies—but the cookery of the Middle
States is English, in its best sense; meaning the hearty,
substantial, savoury dishes of the English in their true

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domestic life, with their roast-beef underdone, their beefsteaks
done to a turn, their chops full of gravy, their mutton-broth,
legs-of-mutton, et id omne genus. We have some capital
things of our own, too; such as canvass-backs, reedbirds,
sheepshead, shad, and blackfish. The difference between
New England and the Middle States is still quite observable,
though in my younger days it was patent. I suppose
the cause has been the more provincial origin, and the more
provincial habits, of our neighbours. By George! Hugh,
one could fancy clam-soup just now, eh!”

“Clam-soup, sir, well made, is one of the most delicious
soups in the world. If the cooks of Paris could get hold
of the dish, it would set them up for a whole season.”

“What is `crême de Bavière,' and all such nick-nacks,
boy, to a good plateful of clam-soup? Well made, as you
say—made as a cook of Jennings' used to make it, thirty
years since. Did I ever mention that fellow's soup to you
before, Hugh?”

“Often, sir. I have tested very excellent clam-soup,
however, that he never saw. Of course you mean soup just
flavoured by the little hard-clam—none of your vulgar potage
à la soft-clam?”

“Soft-clams be hanged! they are not made for gentlemen
to eat. Of course I mean the hard-clam, and the small
clam, too—


Here 's your fine clams,
As white as snow;
On Rockaway
These clams do grow.
The cries of New York are quite going out, like everything
else at home that is twenty years old. Shall I send you
some of this eternal poulet à la Marengo? I wish it were
honest American boiled fowl, with a delicate bit of shoatpork
alongside of it. I feel amazingly homeish this evening,
Hugh!”

“It is quite natural, my dear uncle Ro; and I own to the
`soft impeachment' myself. Here have we both been absent
from our native land five years, and half that time
almost without hearing from it. We know that Jacob”—
this was a free negro who served my uncle, a relic of the

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old domestic system of the colonies, whose name would
have been Jaaf, or Yop, thirty years before—“has gone to
our banker's for letters and papers; and that naturally
draws our thoughts to the other side of the Atlantic. I dare
say we shall both feel relieved at breakfast to-morrow, when
we shall have read our respective despatches.”

“Come, let us take a glass of wine together, in the good
old York fashion, Hugh. Your father and I, when boys,
never thought of wetting our lips with the half-glass of Madeira
that fell to our share, without saying, `Good health,
Mall!' `Good health, Hodge!”'

“With all my heart, uncle Ro. The custom was getting
to be a little obsolete even before I left home; but it is
almost an American custom, by sticking to us longer than
to most people.”

“Henri!”

This was my uncle's maitre d'hotel, whom he had kept
at board-wages the whole time of our absence, in order to
make sure of his ease, quiet, taste, skill, and honesty, on
his return.

“Monsieur!”

“I dare say”—my uncle spoke French exceedingly well
for a foreigner; but it is better to translate what he said as
we go—“I dare say this glass of vin de Bourgogne is very
good; it looks good, and it came from a wine-merchant on
whom I can rely; but Mons. Hugh and I are going to drink
together, à l'Amèricaine, and I dare say you will let us
have a glass of Madeira, though it is somewhat late in the
dinner to take it.”

“Tres volontiers, Messieurs—it is my happiness to oblige
you.”

Uncle Ro and I took the Madeira together; but I cannot
say much in favour of its quality.

“What a capital thing is a good Newtown pippin!” exclaimed
my uncle, after eating a while in silence. “They
talk a great deal about their poire beurrée, here at Paris;
but, to my fancy, it will not compare with the Newtowners
we grow at Satanstoe, where, by the way, the fruit is rather
better, I think, than that one finds across the river, at Newtown
itself.”

“They are capital apples, sir; and your orchard at

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Satanstoe is one of the best I know, or rather what is left of
it; for I believe a portion of your trees are in what is now
a suburb of Dibbletonborough?”

“Yes, blast that place! I wish I had never parted with
a foot of the old neck, though I did rather make money by
the sale. But money is no compensation for the affections.”

Rather make money, my dear sir! Pray, may I ask
what Satanstoe was valued at, when you got it from my
grandfather?”

“Pretty well up, Hugh; for it was, and indeed is, a first-rate
farm. Including sedges and salt-meadows, you will
remember that there are quite five hundred acres of it, altogether.”

“Which you inherited in 1829?”

“Of course; that was the year of my father's death.
Why, the place was thought to be worth about thirty thousand
dollars at that time; but land was rather low in Westchester
in 1829.”

“And you sold two hundred acres, including the point,
the harbour, and a good deal of the sedges, for the moderate
modicum of one hundred and ten thousand, cash. A tolerable
sale, sir!”

“No, not cash. I got only eighty thousand down, while
thirty thousand were secured by mortgage.”

“Which mortgage you hold yet, I dare say, if the truth
were told, covering the whole city of Dibbletonborough.
A city ought to be good security for thirty thousand dollars?”

“It is not, nevertheless, in this case. The speculators
who bought of me in 1835 laid out their town, built a hotel,
a wharf, and a warehouse, and then had an auction. They
sold four hundred lots, each twenty-five feet by a hundred,
regulation size, you see, at an average of two hundred and
fifty dollars, receiving one-half, or fifty thousand dollars,
down, and leaving the balance on mortgage. Soon after
this, the bubble burst, and the best lot at Dibbletonborough
would not bring, under the hammer, twenty dollars. The
hotel and the warehouse stand alone in their glory, and will
thus stand until they fall, which will not be a thousand years
hence, I rather think.”

“And what is the condition of the town-plot?”

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“Bad enough. The landmarks are disappearing; and it
would cost any man who should attempt it, the value of his
lot, to hire a surveyor to find his twenty-five by a hundred.”

“But your mortgage is good?”

“Ay, good in one sense; but it would puzzle a Philadelphia
lawyer to foreclose it. Why, the equitable interests in
that town-plot, people the place of themselves. I ordered
my agent to commence buying up the rights, as the shortest
process of getting rid of them; and he told me in the very
last letter I received, that he had succeeded in purchasing
the titles to three hundred and seventeen of the lots, at an
average price of ten dollars. The remainder, I suppose,
will have to be absorbed.”

“Absorbed! That is a process I never heard of, as applied
to land.”

“There is a good deal of it done, notwithstanding, in
America. It is merely including within your own possession,
adjacent land for which no claimant appears. What
can I do? No owners are to be found; and then my mortgage
is always a title. A possession of twenty years under
a mortgage is as good as a deed in fee-simple, with full
covenants of warranty, barring minors and femmes covert.”

“You did better by Lilacsbush?”

“Ah, that was a clean transaction, and has left no draw-backs.
Lilacsbush being on the island of Manhattan, one
is sure there will be a town there, some day or other. It
is true, the property lies quite eight miles from the City
Hall; nevertheless, it has a value, and can always be sold
at something near it. Then the plan of New York is made
and recorded, and one can find his lots. Nor can any man
say when the town will not reach Kingsbridge.”

“You got a round price for the Bush, too, I have heard,
sir?”

“I got three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, in
hard cash. I would give no credit, and have every dollar
of the money, at this moment, in good six per cent. stock
of the States of New York and Ohio.”

“Which some persons in this part of the world would
fancy to be no very secure investment.”

“More fools they. America is a glorious country, after
all, Hugh; and it is a pride and a satisfaction to belong to

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it. Look back at it, as I can remember it, a nation spit
upon by all the rest of Christendom—”

“You must at least own, my dear sir,” I put in, somewhat
pertly, perhaps, “the example might tempt other people;
for, if ever there was a nation that is assiduously spitting
on itself, it is our own beloved land.”

“True, it has that nasty custom in excess, and it grows
worse instead of better, as the influence of the better mannered
and better educated diminishes; but this is a spot on
the sun—a mere flaw in the diamond, that friction will take
out. But what a country—what a glorious country, in
truth, it is! You have now done the civilized parts of the
old world pretty thoroughly, my dear boy, and must be persuaded,
yourself, of the superiority of your native land.”

“I remember you have always used this language, uncle
Ro; yet have you passed nearly one-half of your time out
of that glorious country, since you have reached man's
estate.”

“The mere consequence of accidents and tastes. I do
not mean that America is a country for a bachelor, to begin
with; the means of amusement for those who have no domestic
hearths, are too limited for the bachelor. Nor do I
mean that society in America, in its ordinary meaning, is
in any way as well-ordered, as tasteful, as well-mannered,
as agreeable, or as instructive and useful, as society in
almost any European country I know. I have never supposed
that the man of leisure, apart from the affections,
could ever enjoy himself half as much at home, as he may
enjoy himself in this part of the world; and I am willing
to admit that, intellectually, most gentlemen in a great European
capital live as much in one day, as they would live
in a week in such places as New York, and Philadelphia,
and Baltimore.”

“You do not include Boston, I perceive, sir.”

“Of Boston I say nothing. They take the mind hard,
there, and we had better let such a state of things alone. But
as respects a man or woman of leisure, a man or woman
of taste, a man or woman of refinement generally, I am
willing enough to admit that, cœteris paribus, each can find
far more enjoyment in Europe than in America. But the
philosopher, the philanthropist, the political economist—in

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a word, the patriot, may well exult in such elements of profound
national superiority as may be found in America.”

“I hope these elements are not so profound but they can
be due up at need, uncle Ro?”

“There will be little difficulty in doing that, my boy.
Look at the equality of the laws, to begin with. They are
made on the principles of natural justice, and are intended
for the benefit of society—for the poor as well as the rich.”

“Are they also intended for the rich as well as the poor?”

“Well, I will grant you a slight blemish is beginning to
appear, in that particular. It is a failing incidental to humanity,
and we must not expect perfection. There is certainly
a slight disposition to legislate for numbers, in order
to obtain support at the polls, which has made the relation
of debtor and creditor a little insecure, possibly; but prudence
can easily get along with that. It is erring on the
right side, is it not, to favour the poor instead of the rich,
if either is to be preferred?”

“Justice would favour neither, but treat all alike. I have
always heard that the tyranny of numbers was the worst
tyranny in the world.”

“Perhaps it is, where there is actually tyranny, and for
a very obvious reason. One tyrant is sooner satisfied than
a million, and has even a greater sense of responsibility. I
can easily conceive that the Czar himself, if disposed to be
a tyrant, which I am far from thinking to be the case with
Nicholas, might hesitate about doing that, under his undivided
responsibility, which one of our majorities would do,
without even being conscious of the oppression it exercised,
or caring at all about it. But, on the whole, we do little of
the last, and not in the least enough to counterbalance the
immense advantages of the system.”

“I have heard very discreet men say that the worst symptom
of our system is the gradual decay of justice among
us. The judges have lost most of their influence, and the
jurors are getting to be law-makers, as well as law-breakers.”

“There is a good deal of truth in that, I will acknowledge,
also; and you hear it asked constantly, in a case of
any interest, not which party is in the right, but who is on
the jury. But I contend for no perfection; all I say is, that

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the country is a glorious country, and that you and I have
every reason to be proud that old Hugh Roger, our predecessor
and namesake, saw fit to transplant himself into it, a
century and a half since.”

“I dare say now, uncle Ro, it would strike most Europeans
as singular that a man should be proud of having
been born an American—Manhattanese, as you and I both
were.”

“All that may be true, for there have been calculated
attempts to bring us into discredit of late, by harping on the
failure of certain States to pay the interest on their debts.
But all that is easily answered, and more so by you and me
as New Yorkers. There is not a nation in Europe that
would pay its interest, if those who are taxed to do so had
the control of these taxes, and the power to say whether
they were to be levied or not.”

“I do not see how that mends the matter. These countries
tell us that such is the effect of your system there,
while we are too honest to allow such a system to exist in
this part of the world.”

“Pooh! all gammon, that. They prevent the existence
of our system for very different reasons, and they coerce
the payment of the interest on their debts that they may
borrow more. This business of repudiation, as it is called,
however, has been miserably misrepresented; and there is
no answering a falsehood by an argument. No American
State has repudiated its debt, that I know of, though several
have been unable to meet their engagements as they have
fallen due.”

Unable, uncle Ro?”

“Yes, unable—that is the precise word. Take Pennsylvania,
for instance; that is one of the richest communities
in the civilized world; its coal and iron alone would make
any country affluent, and a portion of its agricultural population
is one of the most affluent I know of. Nevertheless,
Pennsylvania, owing to a concurrence of events, could not
pay the interest on her debt for two years and a half, though
she is doing it now, and will doubtless continue to do it.
The sudden breaking down of that colossal moneyed institution,
the soi-disant Bank of the United States, after it ceased
to be in reality a bank of the government, brought about

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such a state of the circulation as rendered payment, by any
of the ordinary means known to government, impossible.
I know what I say, and repeat impossible. It is well known
that many persons, accustomed to affluence, had to carry
their plate to the mint, in order to obtain money to go to
market. Then something may be attributed to the institutions,
without disparaging a people's honesty. Our institutions
are popular, just as those of France are the reverse;
and the people, they who were on the spot—the home creditor,
with his account unpaid, and with his friends and
relatives in the legislature, and present to aid him, contended
for his own money, before any should be sent abroad.”

“Was that exactly right, sir?”

“Certainly not; it was exactly wrong, but very particularly
natural. Do you suppose the King of France would
not take the money for his civil list, if circumstances should
compel the country to suspend on the debt for a year or
two, or the ministers their salaries? My word for it, each
and all of them would prefer themselves as creditors, and
act accordingly. Every one of these countries has suspended
in some form or other, and in many instances balanced
the account with the sponge. Their clamour against
us is altogether calculated with a view to political effect.”

“Still, I wish Pennsylvania, for instance, had continued
to pay, at every hazard.”

“It is well enough to wish, Hugh; but it is wishing for
an impossibility. Then you and I, as New Yorkers, have
nothing to do with the debt of Pennsylvania, no more than
London would have to do with the debt of Dublin or Quebec.
We have always paid our interest, and, what is more,
paid it more honestly, if honesty be the point, than even
England has paid hers. When our banks suspended, the
State paid its interest in as much paper as would buy the
specie in open market; whereas England made paper legal
tender, and paid the interest on her debt in it for something
like five-and-twenty years, and, that, too, when her paper
was at a large discount. I knew of one American who
held near a million of dollars in the English debt, on which
he had to take unconvertible paper for the interest for a long
series of years. No, no! this is all gammon, Hugh, and
is not to be regarded as making us a whit worse than our

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neighbours. The equality of our laws is the fact in which
I glory!”

“If the rich stood as fair a chance as the poor, untle
Ro.”

“There is a screw loose there, I must confess; but it
amounts to no great matter.”

“Then the late bankrupt law?”

“Ay, that was an infernal procedure—that much I will
acknowledge, too. It was special legislation enacted to pay
particular debts, and the law was repealed as soon as it had
done its duty. That is a much darker spot in our history
than what is called repudiation, though perfectly honest men
voted for it.”

“Did you ever hear of a farce they got up about it at
New York, just after we sailed?”

“Never; what was it, Hugh? though American plays
are pretty much all farces.”

“This was a little better than common, and, on the
whole, really clever. It is the old story of Faust, in which
a young spendthrift sells himself, soul and body, to the
devil. On a certain evening, as he is making merry with
a set of wild companions, his creditor arrives, and, insisting
on seeing the master, is admitted by the servant. He
comes on, club-footed and behorned, as usual, and betailed,
too, I believe; but Tom is not to be scared by trifles. He
insists on his guest's being seated, on his taking a glass of
wine, and then on Dick's finishing his song. But, though
the rest of the company had signed no bonds to Satan, they
had certain outstanding book-debts, which made them excessively
uncomfortable; and the odour of brimstone being
rather strong, Tom arose, approached his guest, and desired
to know the nature of the particular business he had mentioned
to his servant. `This bond, sir,' said Satan, significantly.
`This bond? what of it, pray? It seems all right.'
`Is not that your signature?' `I admit it.' `Signed in
your blood?' `A conceit of your own; I told you at the
time that ink was just as good in law.' `It is past due,
seven minutes and fourteen seconds.' `So it is, I declare!
but what of that?' `I demand payment.' `Nonsense!
no one thinks of paying now-a-days. Why, even Pennsylvania
and Maryland don't pay.' `I insist on payment.'

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`Oh! you do, do you?' Tom draws a paper from his
pocket, and adds, magnificently, `There, then, if you 're so
urgent—there is a discharge under the new bankrupt law,
signed Smith Thompson.' This knocked the devil into a
cocked-hat at once.”

My uncle laughed heartily at my story; but, instead of
taking the matter as I had fancied he might, it made him
think better of the country than ever.

“Well, Hugh, we have wit among us, it must be confessed,”
he cried, with the tears running down his cheeks,
“if we have some rascally laws, and some rascals to administer
them. But here comes Jacob with his letters and
papers—I declare, the fellow has a large basket-full.”

Jacob, a highly respectable black, and the great-grandson
of an old negro named Jaaf, or Yop, who was then living
on my own estate at Ravensnest, had just then entered, with
the porter and himself lugging in the basket in question.
There were several hundred newspapers, and quite a hundred
letters. The sight brought home and America clearly
and vividly before us; and, having nearly finished the dessert,
we rose to look at the packages. It was no small task
to sort our mail, there being so many letters and packages
to be divided.

“Here are some newspapers I never saw before,” said
my uncle, as he tumbled over the pile; “`The Guardian
of the Soil'—that must have something to do with Oregon.”

“I dare say it has, sir. Here are at least a dozen letters
from my sister.”

“Ay, your sister is single, and can still think of her brother;
but mine are married, and one letter a-year would be
a great deal. This is my dear old mother's hand, however;
that is something. Ursula Malbone would never forget her
child. Well, bon soir, Hugh. Each of us has enough to
do for one evening.”

Au revoir, sir. We shall meet at ten to-morrow, when
we can compare our news, and exchange gossip.”

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CHAPTER II.

“Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn,
Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load?”
King Henry VI.

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I did not get into my bed that night until two, nor was I
out of it until half-past nine. It was near eleven when
Jacob came to tell me his master was in the salle à manger, and ready to eat his breakfast. I hastened up stairs, sleeping
in the entresol, and was at table with my uncle in three
minutes. I observed, on entering, that he was very grave,
and I now perceived that a couple of letters, and several
American newspapers, lay near him. His “Good morrow,
Hugh,” was kind and affectionate as usual, but I fancied it
sad.

“No bad news from home, I hope, sir!” I exclaimed,
under the first impulse of feeling. “Martha's last letter is
of quite recent date, and she writes very cheerfully. I know
that my grandmother was perfectly well, six weeks since.”

“I know the same, Hugh, for I have a letter from herself,
written with her own blessed hand. My mother is in
excellent health for a woman of fourscore; but she naturally
wishes to see us, and you in particular. Grandchildren
are ever the pets with grandmothers.”

“I am glad to hear all this, sir; for I was really afraid,
on entering the room, that you had received some unpleasant
news.”

“And is all your news pleasant, after so long a silence?”

“Nothing that is disagreeable, I do assure you. Patt
writes in charming spirits, and I dare say is in blooming
beauty by this time, though she tells me that she is generally
thought rather plain. That is impossible; for you
know when we left her, at fifteen, she had every promise of
great beauty.”

“As you say, it is impossible that Martha Littlepage
should be anything but handsome; for fifteen is an age
when, in America, one may safely predict the woman's

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appearance. Your sister is preparing for you an agreeable
surprise. I have heard old persons say that she was very
like my mother at the same time of life; and Dus Malbone
was a sort of toast once in the forest.”

“I dare say it is all as you think; more especially as
there are several allusions to a certain Harry Beekman in
ner letters, at which I should feel flattered, were I in Mr.
Harry's place. Do you happen to know anything of such
a family as the Beekmans, sir?”

My uncle looked up in a little surprise at this question.
A thorough New Yorker by birth, associations, alliances
and feelings, he held all the old names of the colony and
State in profound respect; and I had often heard him sneer
at the manner in which the new-comers of my day, who
had appeared among us to blossom like the rose, scattered
their odours through the land. It was but a natural thing
that a community which had grown in population, in half a
century, from half a million to two millions and a half, and
that as much by immigration from adjoining communities
as by natural increase, should undergo some change of feeling
in this respect; but, on the other hand, it was just as
natural that the true New Yorker should not.

“Of course you know, Hugh, that it is an ancient and
respected name among us,” answered my uncle, after he
had given me the look of surprise I have already mentioned.
“There is a branch of the Beekmans, or Bakemans, as we
used to call them, settled near Satanstoe; and I dare say
that your sister, in her frequent visits to my mother, has
met with them. The association would be but natural; and
the other feeling to which you allude is, I dare say, but
natural to the association, though I cannot say I ever experienced
it.”

“You will still adhere to your asseverations of never
having been the victim of Cupid, I find, sir.”

“Hugh, Hugh! let us trifle no more. There is news
from home that has almost broken my heart.”

I sat gazing at my uncle in wonder and alarm, while he
placed both his hands on his face, as if to exclude this
wicked world, and all it contained, from his sight. I did
not speak, for I saw that the old gentleman was really
affected, but waited his pleasure to communicate more. My

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impatience was soon relieved, however, as the hands were
removed, and I once more caught a view of my uncle's
handsome, but clouded countenance.

“May I ask the nature of this news?” I then ventured to
inquire.

“You may, and I shall now tell you. It is proper, indeed,
that you should hear all, and understand it all; for
you have a direct interest in the matter, and a large portion
of your property is dependent on the result. Had not the
manor troubles, as they were called, been spoken of before
we left home?”

“Certainly, though not to any great extent. We saw
something of it in the papers, I remember, just before we
went to Russia; and I recollect you mentioned it as a discreditable
affair to the State, though likely to lead to no very
important result.”

“So I then thought; but that hope has been delusive.
There were some reasons why a population like ours should
chafe under the situation of the estate of the late Patroon,
that I thought natural, though unjustifiable; for it is unhappily
too much a law of humanity to do that which is wrong,
more especially in matters connected with the pocket.”

“I do not exactly understand your allusion, sir.”

“It is easily explained. The Van Rensselaer property
is, in the first place, of great extent—the manor, as it is
still called and once was, spreading east and west eight-and-forty
miles, and north and south twenty-four. With a few
immaterial exceptions, including the sites of three or four
towns, three of which are cities containing respectively six,
twenty and forty thousand souls, this large surface was the
property of a single individual. Since his death, it has
become the property of two, subject to the conditions of the
leases, of which by far the greater portion are what are
called durable.”

“I have heard all this, of course, sir, and know something
of it myself. But what is a durable lease? for I believe
we have none of that nature at Ravensnest.”

“No; your leases are all for three lives, and most of
them renewals at that. There are two sorts of `durable
leases,' as we term them, in use among the landlords of
New York. Both give the tenant a permanent interest

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being leases for ever, reserving an annual rent, with the
right to distrain, and covenants of re-entry. But one class
of these leases gives the tenant a right at any time to demand
a deed in fee-simple, on the payment of a stipulated
sum; while the other gives him no such privilege. Thus
one class of these leases is called `a durable lease with a
clause of redemption;' while the other is a simple `durable
lease.”'

“And are there any new difficulties in relation to the
manor rents?”

“Far worse than that; the contagion has spread, until
the greatest ills that have been predicted from democratic
institutions, by their worst enemies, seriously menace the
country. I am afraid, Hugh, I shall not be able to call
New York, any longer, an exception to the evil example of
a neighbourhood, or the country itself a glorious country.”

“This is so serious, sir, that, were it not that your looks
denote the contrary, I might be disposed to doubt your
words.”

“I fear my words are only too true. Dunning has written
me a long account of his own, made out with the precision
of a lawyer; and, in addition, he has sent me divers
papers, some of which openly contend for what is substantially
a new division of property, and what in effect would
be agrarian laws.”

“Surely, my dear uncle, you cannot seriously apprehend
anything of that nature from our order-loving, law-loving,
property-loving Americans!”

“Your last description may contain the secret of the
whole movement. The love of property may be so strong
as to induce them to do a great many things they ought not
to do. I certainly do not apprehend that any direct attempt
is about to be made, in New York, to divide its property;
nor do I fear any open, declared agrarian statute; for what
I apprehend is to come through indirect and gradual innovations
on the right, that will be made to assume the delusive
aspect of justice and equal rights, and thus undermine
the principles of the people, before they are aware of the
danger themselves. In order that you may not only understand
me, but may understand facts that are of the last
importance to your own pocket, I will first tell you what

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has been done, and then tell you what I fear is to follow.
The first difficulty—or, rather, the first difficulty of recent
occurrence—arose at the death of the late Patroon. I say
of recent occurrence, since Dunning writes me that, during
the administration of John Jay, an attempt to resist the
payment of rent was made on the manor of the Livingstons;
but he put it down instanter.”

“Yes, I should rather think that roguery would not be
apt to prosper, while the execution of the laws was entrusted
to such a man. The age of such politicians, however,
seems to have ended among us.”

“It did not prosper. Governor Jay met the pretension
as we all know such a man would meet it; and the matter
died away, and has been nearly forgotten. It is worthy of
remark, that he PUT THE EVIL DOWN. But this is not the
age of John Jays. To proceed to my narrative: When the
late Patroon died, there was due to him a sum of something
like two hundred thousand dollars of back-rents, and of
which he had made a special disposition in his will, vesting
the money in trustees for a certain purpose. It was the
attempt to collect this money which first gave rise to dissatisfaction.
Those who had been debtors so long, were
reluctant to pay. In casting round for the means to escape
from the payment of their just debts, these men, feeling the
power that numbers ever give over right in America, combined
to resist with others who again had in view a project
to get rid of the rents altogether. Out of this combination
grew what have been called the `manor troubles.' Men
appeared in a sort of mock-Indian dress, calico shirts
thrown over their other clothes, and with a species of calico
masks on their faces, who resisted the bailiffs' processes,
and completely prevented the collection of rents. These
men were armed, mostly with rifles; and it was finally
found necessary to call out a strong body of the militia, in
order to protect the civil officers in the execution of their
duties.”

“All this occurred before we went to the East. I had
supposed those anti-renters, as they were called, had been
effectually put down.”

“In appearance they were. But the very governor who
called the militia into the field, referred the subject of the

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`griefs' of the tenants to the legislature, as if they were
actually aggrieved citizens, when in truth it was the landlords,
or the Rensselaers, for at that time the `troubles' were
confined to their property, who were the aggrieved parties.
This false step has done an incalculable amount of mischief,
if it do not prove the entering wedge to rive asunder the
institutions of the State.”

“It is extraordinary, when such things occur, that any
man can mistake his duty. Why were the tenants thus
spoken of, while nothing was said beyond what the law
compelled in favour of the landlords?”

“I can see no reason but the fact that the Rensselaers
were only two, and that the disaffected tenants were probably
two thousand. With all the cry of aristocracy, and
feudality, and nobility, neither of the Rensselaers, by the
letter of the law, has one particle more of political power,
or political right, than his own coachman or footman, if the
last be a white man; while, in practice, he is in many things
getting to be less protected.”

“Then you think, sir, that this matter has gained force
from the circumstance that so many votes depend on it?”

“Out of all question. Its success depends on the violations
of principles that we have been so long taught to hold
sacred, that nothing short of the over-ruling and corrupting
influence of politics would dare to assail them. If there
were a landlord to each farm, as well as a tenant, universal
indifference would prevail as to the griefs of the tenants;
and if two to one tenant, universal indignation at their
impudence.”

“Of what particular griefs do the tenants complain?”

“You mean the Rensselaer tenants, I suppose? Why,
they complain of such covenants as they can, though their
deepest affliction is to be found in the fact that they do not
own other men's lands. The Patroon had quarter sales on
many of his farms—those that were let in the last century.”

“Well, what of that? A bargain to allow of quarter
sales is just as fair as any other bargain.”

“It is fairer, in fact, than most bargains, when you come
to analyze it, since there is a very good reason why it should
accompany a perpetual lease. Is it to be supposed that a
landlord has no interest in the character and habits of his

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tenants? He has the closest interest in it possible, and no
prudent man should let his lands without holding some sort
of control over the assignment of leases. Now, there are
but two modes of doing this; either by holding over the
tenant a power through his interests, or a direct veto dependent
solely on the landlord's will.”

“The last would be apt to raise a pretty cry of tyranny
and feudality in America!”

“Pretty cries on such subjects are very easily raised in
America. More people join in them than understand what
they mean. Nevertheless, it is quite as just, when two men
bargain, that he who owns every right in the land before
the bargain is made, should retain this right over his property,
which he consents to part with only with limitations,
as that he should grant it to another. These men, in their
clamour, forget that, until their leases were obtained, they
had no right in their lands at all, and that what they have
got is through those very leases of which they complain;
take away the leases, and they would have no rights remaining.
Now, on what principle can honest men pretend
that they have rights beyond the leases? On the supposition,
even, that the bargains are hard, what have governors
and legislators to do with thrusting themselves in between
parties so situated, as special umpires? I should object to
such umpires, moreover, on the general and controlling
principle that must govern all righteous arbitration—your
governors and legislators are not impartial; they are political
or party men, one may say, without exception; and
such umpires, when votes are in the question, are to be
sorely distrusted. I would as soon trust my interests to the
decision of feed counsel, as trust them to such judges.”

“I wonder the really impartial and upright portion of the
community do not rise in their might, and put this thing
down—rip it up, root and branch, and cast it away, at
once.”

“That is the weak point of our system, which has a hundred
strong points, while it has this besetting vice. Our
laws are not only made, but they are administered, on the
supposition that there are both honesty and intelligence
enough in the body of the community to see them well
made, and well administered. But the sad reality shows

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that good men are commonly passive, until abuses become
intolerable; it being the designing rogue and manager who
is usually the most active. Vigilant philanthropists do exist,
I will allow; but it is in such small numbers as to effect
little on the whole, and nothing at all when opposed by the
zeal of a mercenary opposition. No, no—little is ever to
be expected, in a political sense, from the activity of virtue;
while a great deal may be looked for from the activity of
vice.”

“You do not take a very favourable view of humanity,
sir.”

“I speak of the world as I have found it in both hemispheres,
or, as your neighbour the magistrate 'Squire New-come
has it, the `four hemispheres.' Our representation is,
at the best, but an average of the qualities of the whole
community, somewhat lessened by the fact that men of real
merit have taken a disgust at a state of things that is not
very tempting to their habits or tastes. As for a quarter
sale, I can see no more hardship in it than there is in paying
the rent itself; and, by giving the landlord this check
on the transfer of his lands, he compels a compromise that
maintains what is just. The tenant is not obliged to sell,
and he makes his conditions accordingly, when he has a
good tenant to offer in his stead. When he offers a bad
tenant, he ought to pay for it.”

“Many persons with us would think it very aristocratic,”
I cried, laughingly, “that a landlord should have it in his
power to say, I will not accept this or that substitute for
yourself.”

“It is just as aristocratic, and no more so, than it would
be to put it in the power of the tenant to say to the landlord,
you shall accept this or that tenant at my hands. The
covenant of the quarter sale gives each party a control in
the matter; and the result has ever been a compromise that
is perfectly fair, as it is hardly possible that the circumstance
should have been overlooked in making the bargain;
and he who knows anything of such matters, knows that
every exaction of this sort is always considered in the
rent. As for feudality, so long as the power to alienate
exists at all in the tenant, he does not hold by a feudal
tenure. He has bought himself from all such tenures by

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his covenant of quarter sale; and it only remains to say
whether, having agreed to such a bargain in order to obtain
this advantage, he should pay the stipulated price or not.”

“I understand you, sir. It is easy to come at the equity
of this matter, if one will only go back to the original facts
which colour it. The tenant had no rights at all until he
got his lease, and can have no rights which that lease does
not confer.”

“Then the cry is raised of feudal privileges, because
some of the Rensselaer tenants are obliged to find so many
days' work with their teams, or substitutes, to the landlord,
and even because they have to pay annually a pair of fat
fowls! We have seen enough of America, Hugh, to know
that most husbandmen would be delighted to have the privilege
of paying their debts in chickens and work, instead of
in money, which renders the cry only so much the more
wicked. But what is there more feudal in a tenant's thus
paying his landlord, than in a butcher's contracting to furnish
so much meat for a series of years, or a mail contractor's
agreeing to carry the mail in a four-horse coach
for a term of years, eh? No one objects to the rent in
wheat, and why should they object to the rent in chickens?
Is it because our republican farmers have got to be so aristocratic
themselves, that they do not like to be thought
poulterers? This is being aristocratic on the other side.
These dignitaries should remember that if it be plebeian to
furnish fowls, it is plebeian to receive them; and if the
tenant has to find an individual who has to submit to the
degradation of tendering a pair of fat fowls, the landlord
has to find an individual who has to submit to the degradation
of taking them, and of putting them away in the larder.
It seems to me that one is an offset to the other.”

“But, if I remember rightly, uncle Ro, these little matters
were always commuted for in money.”

“They always must lie at the option of the tenant, unless
the covenants went to forfeiture, which I never heard
that they did; for the failure to pay in kind at the time
stipulated, would only involve a payment in money afterwards.
The most surprising part of this whole transaction
is, that men among us hold the doctrine that these leasehold
estates are opposed to our institutions, when, being

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guarantied by the institutions, they in truth form a part of them.
Were it not for these very institutions, to which they are
said to be opposed, and of which they virtually form a part,
we should soon have a pretty kettle of fish between landlord
and tenant.”

“How do you make it out that they form a part of the
institutions, sir?”

“Simply because the institutions have a solemn profession
of protecting property. There is such a parade of this,
that all our constitutions declare that property shall never
be taken without due form of law; and to read one of them,
you would think the property of the citizen is held quite as
sacred as his person. Now, some of these very tenures
existed when the State institutions were framed; and, not
satisfied with this, we of New York, in common with our
sister States, solemnly prohibited ourselves, in the constitution
of the United States, from ever meddling with them!
Nevertheless, men are found hardy enough to assert that a
thing which in fact belongs to the institutions, is opposed to
them.”

“Perhaps they mean, sir, to their spirit, or to their tendency.”

“Ah! there may be some sense in that, though much
less than the declaimers fancy. The spirit of institutions
is their legitimate object; and it would be hard to prove
that a leasehold tenure, with any conditions of mere pecuniary
indebtedness whatever, is opposed to any institutions
that recognise the full rights of property. The obligation
to pay rent no more creates political dependency, than to
give credit from an ordinary shop; not so much, indeed,
more especially under such leases as those of the Rensselaers;
for the debtor on a book-debt can be sued at any
moment, whereas the tenant knows precisely when he has
to pay. There is the great absurdity of those who decry
the system as feudal and aristocratic; for they do not see
that those very leases are more favourable to the tenant than
any other.”

“I shall have to ask you to explain this to me, sir, being
too ignorant to comprehend it.”

“Why, these leases are perpetual, and the tenant cannot
be dispossessed. The longer a lease is, other things being

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equal, the better it is for the tenant, all the world over. Let
us suppose two farms, the one leased for five years, and the
other for ever: Which tenant is most independent of the
political influence of his landlord, to say nothing of the impossibility
of controlling votes in this way in America, from
a variety of causes? Certainly he who has a lease for ever.
He is just as independent of his landlord, as his landlord
can be of him, with the exception that he has rent to pay.
In the latter case, he is precisely like any other debtor—
like the poor man who contracts debts with the same storekeeper
for a series of years. As for the possession of the
farm, which we are to suppose is a desirable thing for the
tenant, he of the long lease is clearly most independent,
since the other may be ejected at the end of each five years.
Nor is there the least difference as to acquiring the property
in fee, since the landlord may sell equally in either case, if
so disposed; and if NOT DISPOSED, NO HONEST MAN, UNDER
ANY SYSTEM, OUGHT TO DO ANYTHING TO COMPEL HIM SO
TO DO, either directly or indirectly; AND NO TRULY HONEST
MAN WOULD.”

I put some of the words of my uncle Ro in small capitals,
as the spirit of the times, not of the institutions, renders
such hints necessary. But, to continue our dialogue:

“I understand you now, sir, though the distinction you
make between the spirit of the institutions and their tendencies
is what I do not exactly comprehend.”

“It is very easily explained. The spirit of the institutions
is their intention; their tendencies is the natural direction
they take under the impulses of human motives, which
are always corrupt and corrupting. The `spirit' refers to
what things ought to be; the `tendencies,' to what they are,
or are becoming. The `spirit' of all political institutions is
to place a check on the natural propensities of men, to restrain
them, and keep them within due bounds; while the
tendencies follow those propensities, and are quite often in
direct opposition to the spirit. That this outcry against
leasehold tenures in America is following the tendencies of
our institutions, I am afraid is only too true; but that it is
in any manner in compliance with their spirit, I utterly
deny.”

“You will allow that institutions have their spirit, which

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ought always to be respected, in order to preserve harmony?”

“Out of all question. The first great requisite of a political
system is the means of protecting itself; the second, to
check its tendencies at the point required by justice, wisdom
and good faith. In a despotism, for instance, the spirit of
the system is to maintain that one man, who is elevated
above the necessities and temptations of a nation—who is
solemnly set apart for the sole purpose of government, fortified
by dignity, and rendered impartial by position—will
rule in the manner most conducive to the true interests of
his subjects. It is just as much the theory of Russia and
Prussia that their monarchs reign not for their own good,
but for the good of those over whom they are placed, as it
is the theory in regard to the President of the United States.
We all know that the tendencies of a despotism are to abuses
of a particular character; and it is just as certain that the
tendencies of a republic, or rather of a democratic republic—
for republic of itself means but little, many republics having
had kings—but it is just as certain that the tendencies
of a democracy are to abuses of another character. Whatever
man touches, he infallibly abuses; and this more in
connection with the exercise of political power, perhaps, than
in the management of any one interest of life, though he
abuses all, even to religion. Less depends on the nominal
character of institutions, perhaps, than on their ability to
arrest their own tendencies at the point required by everything
that is just and right. Hitherto, surprisingly few
grave abuses have followed from our institutions; but this
matter looks frightfully serious; for I have not told you
half, Hugh.”

“Indeed, sir! I beg you will believe me quite equal to
hearing the worst.”

“It is true, anti-rentism did commence on the estate of
the Rensselaers, and with complaints of feudal tenures, and
of days' works, and fat fowls, backed by the extravagantly
aristocratic pretension that a `manor' tenant was so much
a privileged being, that it was beneath his dignity, as a free
man, to do that which is daily done by mail-contractors,
stage-coach owners, victuallers, and even by themselves in
their passing bargains to deliver potatoes, onions, turkeys

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and pork, although they had solemnly covenanted with their
landlords to pay the fat fowls, and to give the days' works.
The feudal system has been found to extend much further,
and `troubles,' as they are called, have broken out in other
parts of the State. Resistance to process, and a cessation
of the payment of rents, has occurred on the Livingston
property, in Hardenberg—in short, in eight or ten counties
of the State. Even among the bonâ fide purchasers, on the
Holland Purchase, this resistance has been organized, and
a species of troops raised, who appear disguised and armed
wherever a levy is to be made. Several men have already
been murdered, and there is the strong probability of a civil
war.”

“In the name of what is sacred and right, what has the
government of the State been doing all this time?”

“In my poor judgment, a great deal that it ought not to
have done, and very little that it ought. You know the
state of politics at home, Hugh; how important New York
is in all national questions, and how nearly tied is her vote—
less than ten thousand majority in a canvass of near half
a million of votes. When this is the case, the least-principled
part of the voters attain an undue importance—a truth
that has been abundantly illustrated in this question. The
natural course would have been to raise an armed constabulary
force, and to have kept it in motion, as the anti-renters
have kept their `Injins' in motion, which would have
soon tired out the rebels, for rebels they are, who would thus
have had to support one army in part, and the other altogether.
Such a movement on the part of the State, well and
energetically managed, would have drawn half the `Injins'
at once from the ranks of disaffection to those of authority;
for all that most of these men want is to live easy, and to
have a parade of military movements. Instead of that, the
legislature substantially did nothing, until blood was spilt,
and the grievance had got to be not only profoundly disgraceful
for such a State and such a country, but utterly
intolerable to the well-affected of the revolted counties, as
well as to those who were kept out of the enjoyment of their
property. Then, indeed, it passed the law which ought to
have been passed the first year of the `Injin' system—a law
which renders it felony to appear armed and disguised; but

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Dunning writes me this law is openly disregarded in Delaware
and Schoharie, in particular, and that bodies of `Injins,
' in full costume and armed, of a thousand men, have
appeared to prevent levies or sales. Where it will end,
Heaven knows!”

“Do you apprehend any serious civil war?”

“It is impossible to say where false principles may lead,
when they are permitted to make head and to become widely
disseminated, in a country like ours. Still, the disturbances,
as such, are utterly contemptible, and could and would be put
down by an energetic executive in ten days after he had time
to collect a force to do it with. In some particulars, the present
incumbent has behaved perfectly well; while in others,
in my judgment, he has inflicted injuries on the right that
it will require years to repair, if, indeed, they are ever repaired.”

“You surprise me, sir; and this the more especially, as
I know you are generally of the same way of thinking, on
political subjects, with the party that is now in power.”

“Did you ever know me to support what I conceived to
be wrong, Hugh, on account of my political affinities?”
asked my uncle, a little reproachfully as to manner. “But,
let me tell you the harm that I conceive has been done by
all the governors who have had anything to do with the
subject; and that includes one of a party to which I am
opposed, and two that are not. In the first place, they have
all treated the matter as if the tenants had really some cause
of complaint; when in truth all their griefs arise from the
fact that other men will not let them have their property
just as they may want it, and in some respects on their own
terms.”

“That is certainly a grief not to be maintained by reason
in a civilized country, and in a christian community.”

“Umph! Christianity, like liberty, suffers fearfully in
human hands; one is sometimes at a loss to recognise either.
I have seen ministers of the gospel just as dogged, just as
regardless of general morality, and just as indifferent to the
right, in upholding their parties, as I ever saw laymen;
and I have seen laymen manifesting tempers, in this respect,
that properly belong to devils. But our governors have
certainly treated this matter as if the tenants actually had

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griefs; when in truth their sole oppression is in being
obliged to pay rents that are merely nominal, and in not
being able to buy other men's property contrary to their
wishes, and very much at their own prices. One governor
has even been so generous as to volunteer a mode of settling
disputes with which, by the way, he has no concern,
there being courts to discharge that office, that is singularly
presuming on his part, to say the least, and which looks a
confounded sight more like aristocracy, or monarchy, than
anything connected with leasehold tenure.”

“Why, what can the man have done?”

“He has kindly taken on himself the office of doing that
for which I fancy he can find no authority in the institutions,
or in their spirit—no less than advising citizens how they
may conveniently manage their own affairs so as to get
over difficulties that he himself substantially admits, while
giving this very advice, are difficulties that the law sanctions!”

“This is a very extraordinary interference in a public
functionary; because one of the parties to a contract that is
solemnly guarantied by the law, chooses to complain of its
nature, rather than of its conditions, to pretend to throw the
weight of his even assumed authority into the scales on
either side of the question!”

“And that in a popular government, Hugh, in which it
tells so strongly against a man to render him unpopular,
that not one man in a million has the moral courage to resist
public opinion, even when he is right. You have hit the
nail on the head, boy; it is in the last degree presuming,
and what would be denounced as tyrannical in any monarch
in Europe. But he has lived in vain who has not learned
that they who make the loudest professions of a love of
liberty, have little knowledge of the quality, beyond submission
to the demands of numbers. Our executive has carried
his fatherly care even beyond this; he has actually suggested
the terms of a bargain by which he thinks the difficulty
can be settled, which, in addition to the gross assumption
of having a voice in a matter that in no manner belongs
to him, has the palpable demerit of recommending a pecuniary
compromise that is flagrantly wrong as a mere pecuniary
compromise.”

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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

“You astonish me, sir! What is the precise nature of
his recommendation?”

“That the Rensselaers should receive such a sum from
each tenant as would produce an interest equal to the value
of the present rent. Now, in the first place, here is a citizen
who has got as much property as he wants, and who
wishes to live for other purposes than to accumulate. This
property is not only invested to his entire satisfaction, as
regards convenience, security and returns, but also in a way
that is connected with some of the best sentiments of his
nature. It is property that has descended to him through
ancestors for two centuries; property that is historically
connected with his name—on which he was born, on which
he has lived, and on which he has hoped to die; property,
in a word, that is associated with all the higher feelings of
humanity. Because some interloper, perhaps, who has purchased
an interest in one of his farms six months before,
feels an aristocratic desire not to have a landlord, and
wishes to own a farm in fee, that in fact he has no other
right to than he gets through his lease, the governor of the
great State of New York throws the weight of his official
position against the old hereditary owner of the soil, by
solemnly suggesting, in an official document that is intended
to produce an effect on public opinion, that he should sell
that which he does not wish to sell, but wishes to keep, and
that at a price which I conceive is much below its true pecuniary
value. We have liberty with a vengeance, if these
are some of its antics!”

“What makes the matter worse, is the fact that each of
the Rensselaers has a house on his estate, so placed as to be
convenient to look after his interests; which interests he is
to be at the trouble of changing, leaving him his house on
his hands, because, forsooth, one of the parties to a plain
and equitable bargain wishes to make better conditions than
he covenanted for. I wonder what his Excellency proposes
that the landlords shall do with their money when they get
it? Buy new estates, and build new houses, of which to be
dispossessed when a new set of tenants may choose to cry
out against aristocracy, and demonstrate their own love for
democracy by wishing to pull others down in order to shove
themselves into their places?”

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“You are right again, Hugh; but it is a besetting vice
of America to regard life as all means, and as having no
end, in a worldly point of view. I dare say men may be
found among us who regard it as highly presuming in any
man to build himself an ample residence, and to announce
by his mode of living that he is content with his present
means, and does not wish to increase them, at the very moment
they view the suggestions of the governor as the pink
of modesty, and excessively favourable to equal rights! I
like that thought of yours about the house, too; in order to
suit the `spirit' of the New York institutions, it would seem
that a New York landlord should build on wheels, that he
may move his abode to some new estate, when it suits the
pleasure of his tenants to buy him out.”

“Do you suppose the Rensselaers would take their money,
the principal of the rent at seven per cent., and buy land
with it, after their experience of the uncertainty of such
possessions among us?”

“Not they,” said my uncle Ro, laughing. “No, no!
they would sell the Manor-House, and Beverwyck, for taverns;
and then any one might live in them who would pay
the principal sum of the cost of a dinner; bag their dollars,
and proceed forthwith to Wall street, and commence the
shaving of notes—that occupation having been decided, as
I see by the late arrivals, to be highly honourable and
praiseworthy. Hitherto they have been nothing but drones;
but, by the time they can go to the quick with their dollars,
they will become useful members of society, and be honoured
and esteemed accordingly.”

What next might have been said I do not know, for just
then we were interrupted by a visit from our common
banker, and the discourse was necessarily changed.

-- 040 --

CHAPTER III.

“O, when shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?”
Montgomery.

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

It was truly news for an American, who had been so
long cut off from intelligence from home, thus suddenly to
be told that some of the scenes of the middle ages—scenes
connected with real wrongs and gross abuses of human
rights—were about to be enacted in his own land; that
country which boasted itself, not only to be the asylum
of the oppressed, but the conservator of the right. I was
grieved at what I had heard, for, during my travels, I had
cherished a much-loved image of justice and political excellence,
that I now began to fear must be abandoned. My
uncle and myself decided at once to return home, a step
that indeed was required by prudence. I was now of an
age to enter into the full possession of my own property (so
far as “new laws and new lords” would permit); and the
letters received by my late guardian, as well as certain
newspapers, communicated the unpleasant fact that a great
many of the tenants of Ravensnest had joined the association,
paid tribute for the support of “Injins,” and were getting
to be as bad as any of the rest of them, so far as
designs and schemes to plunder were concerned, though
they still paid their rents. The latter circumstance was
ascribed by our agent to the fact that many leases were
about to fall in, and it would be in my power to substitute
more honest and better disposed successors for the present
occupants of the several farms. Measures were taken accordingly
for quitting Paris as soon as possible, so that we
might reach home late in the month of May.

“If we had time, I would certainly throw in a memorial
or two to the legislature,” observed my uncle, a day or two

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before we proceeded to Havre to join the packet. “I have
a strong desire to protest against the invasion of my rights
as a freeman that is connected with some of their contemplated
laws. I do not at all like the idea of being abridged
of the power of hiring a farm for the longest time I can
obtain it, which is one of the projects of some of the ultra
reformers of free and equal New York. It is wonderful,
Hugh, into what follies men precipitate themselves as soon
as they begin to run into exaggerations, whether of politics,
religion, or tastes. Here are half of the exquisite philanthropists
who see a great evil affecting the rights of human
nature in one man's hiring a farm from another for as long
a term as he can obtain it, who are at the very extreme in
their opinions on free trade! So free-trade are some of the
journals which think it a capital thing to prevent landlords
and tenants from making their own bargains, that they have
actually derided the idea of having established fares for
hackney-coaches, but that it would be better to let the parties
stand in the rain and higgle about the price, on the free-trade
principle. Some of these men are either active agents
in stimulating the legislature to rob the citizen of this very
simple control of his property, or passive lookers-on while
others do it.”

“Votes, sir, votes.”

“It is, indeed, votes, sir, votes; nothing short of votes
could reconcile these men to their own inconsistencies. As
for yourself, Hugh, it might be well to get rid of that canopied
pew—”

“Of what canopied pew? I am sure I do not understand
you.”

“Do you forget that the family-pew in St. Andrew's
Church, at Ravensnest, has a wooden canopy over it—a
relic of our colonial opinions and usages?”

“Now you mention it, I do remember a very clumsy,
and, to own the truth, a very ugly thing, that I have always
supposed was placed there, by those who built the church,
by way of ornament.”

“That ugly thing, by way of ornament, was intended for
a sort of canopy, and was by no means an uncommon distinction
in the State and colony, as recently as the close of
the last century. The church was built at the expense of

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my grandfather, Gen. Littlepage, and his bosom friend and
kinsman, Col. Dirck Follock, both good Whigs and gallant
defenders of the liberty of their country. They thought it
proper that the Littlepages should have a canopied pew, and
that is the state in which they caused the building to be presented
to my father. The old work still stands; and Dunning
writes me that, among the other arguments used against
your interests, is the fact that your pew is thus distinguished
from those of the rest of the congregation.”

“It is a distinction no man would envy me, could it be
known that I have ever thought the clumsy, ill-shaped thing
a nuisance, and detestable as an ornament. I have never
even associated it in my mind with personal distinction, but
have always supposed it was erected with a view to embellish
the building, and placed over our pew as the spot where
such an excrescence would excite the least envy.”

“In all that, with one exception, you have judged quite
naturally. Forty years ago, such a thing might have been
done, and a majority of the parishioners would have seen
in it nothing out of place. But that day has gone by; and
you will discover that, on your own estate, and in the very
things created by your family and yourself, you will actually
have fewer rights of any sort, beyond those your money
will purchase, than any man around you. The simple fact
that St. Andrew's Church was built by your great-grandfather,
and by him presented to the congregation, will diminish
your claim to have a voice in its affairs with many
of the congregation.”

“This is so extraordinary, that I musk ask the reason.”

“The reason is connected with a principle so obviously
belonging to human nature generally, and to American
nature in particular, that I wonder you ask it. It is envy.
Did that pew belong to the Newcomes, for instance, no one
would think anything of it.”

“Nevertheless, the Newcomes would make themselves
ridiculous by sitting in a pew that was distinguished from
those of their neighbours. The absurdity of the contrast
would strike every one.”

“And it is precisely because the absurdity does not exist
in your case, that your seat is envied. No one envies absurdity.
However, you will readily admit, Hugh, that a

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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

church, and a church-yard, are the two last places in which
human distinctions ought to be exhibited. All are equal in
the eyes of Him we go to the one to worship, and all are
equal in the grave. I have ever been averse to everything
like worldly distinction in a congregation, and admire the
usage of the Romish Church in even dispensing with pews
altogether. Monuments speak to the world, and have a
general connexion with history, so that they may be tolerated
to a certain point, though notorious liars.”

“I agree with you, sir, as to the unfitness of a church for
all distinctions, and shall be happy on every account to get
rid of my canopy, though that has an historical connexion,
also. I am quite innocent of any feeling of pride while sitting
under it, though I will confess to some of shame at its
quizzical shape, when I see it has attracted the eyes of intelligent
strangers.”

“It is but natural that you should feel thus; for, while
we may miss distinctions and luxuries to which we have
ever been accustomed, they rarely excite pride in the possessor,
even while they awaken envy in the looker-on.”

“Nevertheless, I cannot see what the old pew has to do
with the rents, or my legal rights.”

“When a cause is bad, everything is pressed into it that
it is believed may serve a turn. No man who had a good
legal claim for property, would ever think of urging any
other; nor would any legislator who had sound and sufficient
reasons for his measures—reasons that could properly
justify him before God and man for his laws—have recourse
to slang to sustain him. If these anti-renters were right,
they would have no need of secret combinations, of disguises,
blood-and-thunder names, and special agents in the
legislature of the land. The right requires no false aid to
make it appear the right; but the wrong must get such support
as it can press into its service. Your pew is called
aristocratic, though it confers no political power; it is called
a patent of nobility, though it neither gives nor takes away;
and it is hated, and you with it, for the very reason that you
can sit in it and not make yourself ridiculous. I suppose
you have not examined very closely the papers I gave you
to read?”

“Enough so to ascertain that they are filled with trash.”

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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

“Worse than trash, Hugh; with some of the loosest
principles, and most atrocious feelings, that degrade poor
human nature. Some of the reformers propose that no man
shall hold more than a thousand acres of land, while others
lay down the very intelligible and distinct principle that no
man ought to hold more than he can use. Even petitions
to that effect, I have been told, have been sent to the legislature.”

“Which has taken care not to allude to their purport,
either in debate or otherwise, as I see nothing to that effect
in the reports.”

“Ay, I dare say the slang-whangers of those honourable
bodies will studiously keep all such enormities out of sight,
as some of them doubtless hope to step into the shoes of the
present landlords, as soon as they can get the feet out of
them which are now in. But these are the projects and the
petitions in the columns of the journals, and they speak for
themselves. Among other things, they say it is nobility to
be a landlord.”

“I see by the letter of Mr. Dunning, that they have petitioned the legislature to order an inquiry into my title.
Now, we hold from the crown—”

“So much the worse, Hugh. Faugh! hold from a crown
in a republican country! I am amazed you are not ashamed
to own it. Do you not know, boy, that it has been gravely
contended in a court of justice that, in obtaining our national
independence from the King of Great Britain, the
people conquered all his previous grants, which ought to be
declared void and of none effect?”

“That is an absurdity of which I had not heard,” I answered,
laughing; “why, the people of New York, who
held all their lands under the crown, would in that case
have been conquering them for other persons! My good
grandfather and great-grandfather, both of whom actually
fought and bled in the revolution, must have been very silly
thus to expose themselves to take away their own estates, in
order to give them to a set of immigrants from New England
and other parts of the world!”

“Quite justly said, Hugh,” added my uncle, joining in
the laugh. “Nor is this half of the argument. The State,
too, in its corporate character, has been playing swindler all

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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

this time. You may not know the fact, but I as your guardian
do know, that the quit-rents reserved by the crown
when it granted the lands of Mooseridge and Ravensnest,
were claimed by the State; and that, wanting money to
save the people from taxes, it commuted with us, receiving
a certain gross sum in satisfaction of all future claims.”

“Ay, that I did not know. Can the fact be shown?”

“Certainly—it is well known to all old fellows like myself,
for it was a very general measure, and very generally
entered into by all the landholders. In our case, the
receipts are still to be found among the family-papers. In
the cases of the older estates, such as those of the Van
Rensselaers, the equity is still stronger in their favour, since
the conditions to hold the land included an obligation to
bring so many settlers from Europe within a given time;
conditions that were fulfilled at great cost, as you may suppose,
and on which, in truth, the colony had its foundation.”

“How much it tells against a people's honesty to wish
to forget such facts, in a case like this!”

“There is nothing forgotten, for the facts were probably
never known to those who prate about the conquered rights
from the crown. As you say, however, the civilization of
a community is to be measured by its consciousness of the
existence of all principles of justice, and a familiarity with
its own history. The great bulk of the population of New
York have no active desire to invade what is right in this
anti-rent struggle, having no direct interests at stake; their
crime is a passive inactivity, which allows those who are
either working for political advancement, or those who are
working to obtain other men's property, to make use of
them, through their own laws.”

“But is it not an embarrassment to such a region as that
directly around Albany, to have such tenures to the land,
and for so large a body of people to be compelled to pay
rent, in the very heart of the State, as it might be, and in
situations that render it desirable to leave enterprise as unshackled
as possible?”

“I am not prepared to admit this much, even, as a general
principle. One argument used by these anti-renters is,
for instance, that the patroons, in their leases, reserved the

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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

mill-seats. Now, what if they did? Some one must own
the mill-seats; and why not the Patroon as well as another?
To give the argument any weight, not as law, not as morals,
but as mere expediency, it must be shown that the patroons
would not let these mill-seats at as low rents as any one
else; and my opinion is that they would let them at rents
of not half the amount that would be asked, were they the
property of so many individuals, scattered up and down the
country. But, admitting that so large an estate of this particular
sort has some inconveniences in that particular spot,
can there be two opinions among men of integrity about the
mode of getting rid of it? Everything has its price, and,
in a business sense, everything is entitled to its price. No
people acknowledge this more than the Americans, or
practise on it so extensively. Let the Rensselaers be tempted
by such offers as will induce them to sell, but do not let
them be invaded by that most infernal of all acts of oppression,
special legislation, in order to bully or frighten them
from the enjoyment of what is rightfully their own. If the
State think such a description of property injurious in its
heart, let the State imitate England in her conduct towards
the slave-holders—buy them out; not tax them out, and
wrong them out, and annoy them out. But, Hugh, enough
of this at present; we shall have much more than we want
of it when we get home. Among my letters, I have one
from each of my other wards.”

“`Still harping on my daughter,' sir!” I answered, laughing.
“I hope that the vivacious Miss Henrietta Coldbrooke,
and the meek Miss Anne Marston, are both perfectly well?”

“Both in excellent health, and both write charmingly. I
must really let you see the letter of Henrietta, as I do think
it is quite creditable to her: I will step into my room and
get it.”

I ought to let the reader into a secret here that will have
some connexion with what is to follow. A dead-set had
been made at me, previously to leaving home, to induce me
to marry either of three young ladies—Miss Henrietta Coldbrooke,
Miss Anne Marston, and Miss Opportunity New-come.
The advances in the cases of Miss Henrietta Coldbrooke
and Miss Anne Marston came from my uncle Ro,
who, as their guardian, had a natural interest in their making

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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

what he was pleased to think might be a good connexion for
either; while the advances on account of Miss Opportunity
Newcome came from herself. Under such circumstances,
it may be well to say who these young ladies actually
were.

Miss Henrietta Coldbrooke was the daughter of an Englishman
of good family, and some estate, who had emigrated
to America and married, under the impulse of certain theories
in politics which induced him to imagine that this was
the promised land. I remember him as a disappointed and
dissatisfied widower, who was thought to be daily growing
poorer under the consequences of indiscreet investments,
and who at last got to be so very English in his wishes and
longings, as to assert that the common Muscovy was a better
bird than the canvas-back! He died, however, in time
to leave his only child an estate which, under my uncle's
excellent management, was known by me to be rather more
than one hundred and seventy-nine thousand dollars, and
which produced a nett eight thousand a-year. This made
Miss Henrietta a belle at once; but, having a prudent friend
in my grandmother, as yet she had not married a beggar.
I knew that uncle Ro went quite as far as was proper, in
his letters, in the way of hints touching myself; and my
dear, excellent, honest-hearted, straightforward old grandmother
had once let fall an expression, in one of her letters
to myself, which induced me to think that these hints had
actually awakened as much interest in the young lady's
bosom, as could well be connected with what was necessarily
nothing but curiosity.

Miss Anne Marston was also an heiress, but on a very
diminished scale. She had rather more than three thousand
a-year in buildings in town, and a pretty little sum of about
sixteen thousand dollars laid by out of its savings. She
was not an only child, however, having two brothers, each
of whom had already received as much as the sister, and
each of whom, as is very apt to be the case with the heirs of
New York merchants, was already in a fair way of getting
rid of his portion in riotous living. Nothing does a young
American so much good, under such circumstances, as to
induce him to travel. It makes or breaks at once. If a
downright fool, he is plucked by European adventurers in

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[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

so short a time, that the agony is soon over. If only vain
and frivolous, because young and ill-educated, the latter
being a New York endemic, but with some foundation of
native mind, he lets his whiskers grow, becomes fuzzy about
the chin, dresses better, gets to be much better mannered,
soon loses his taste for the low and vulgar indulgences of
his youth, and comes out such a gentleman as one can only
make who has entirely thrown away the precious moments
of youth. If tolerably educated in boyhood, with capacity
to build on, the chances are that the scales will fall from his
eyes very fast on landing in the old world—that his ideas
and tastes will take a new turn—that he will become what
nature intended him for, an intellectual man; and that he
will finally return home, conscious alike of the evils and
blessings, the advantages and disadvantages, of his own
system and country—a wiser, and it is to be hoped a better
man. How the experiment had succeeded with the Marstons,
neither myself nor my uncle knew; for they had paid
their visit while we were in the East, and had already returned
to America. As for Miss Anne, she had a mother
to take care of her mind and person, though I had learned
she was pretty, sensible and discreet.

Miss Opportunity Newcome was a belle of Ravensnest,
a village on my own property; a rural beauty, and of rural
education, virtues, manners and habits. As Ravensnest was
not particularly advanced in civilization, or, to make use of
the common language of the country, was not a very “aristocratic
place,” I shall not dwell on her accomplishments,
which did well enough for Ravensnest, but would not essentially
ornament my manuscript.

Opportunity was the daughter of Ovid, who was the son
of Jason, of the house of Newcome. In using the term
“house,” I adopt it understandingly; for the family had
dwelt in the same tenement, a leasehold property of which
the fee was in myself, and the dwelling had been associated
with the name of Newcome from time immemorial; that is,
for about eighty years. All that time had a Newcome been
the tenant of the mill, tavern, store and farm, that lay nearest
the village of Ravensnest, or Little Nest, as it was commonly
called; and it may not be impertinent to the moral
of my narrative if I add that, for all that time, and for

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something longer, had I and my ancestors been the landlords.
I beg the reader to bear this last fact in mind, as
there will soon be occasion to show that there was a strong
disposition in certain persons to forget it.

As I have said, Opportunity was the daughter of Ovid.
There was also a brother, who was named Seneca, or
Seneky, as he always pronounced it himself, the son of
Ovid, the son of Jason, the first of the name at Ravensnest.
This Seneca was a lawyer, in the sense of a license granted
by the Justices of the Supreme Court, as well as by the
Court of Common Pleas, in and for the county of Washington.
As there had been a sort of hereditary education
among the Newcomes for three generations, beginning with
Jason, and ending with Seneca; and, as the latter was at
the bar, I had occasionally been thrown into the society of
both brother and sister. The latter, indeed, used to be fond
of visiting the Nest, as my house was familiarly called,
Ravensnest being its true name, whence those of the “patent”
and village; and as Opportunity had early manifested
a partiality for my dear old grandmother, and not less dear
young sister, who occasionally passed a few weeks with me
during the vacations, more especially in the autumns, I had
many occasions of being brought within the influence of her
charms—opportunities that, I feel bound to state, Opportunity
did not neglect. I have understood that her mother,
who bore the same name, had taught Ovid the art of love
by a very similar demonstration, and had triumphed. That
lady was still living, and may be termed Opportunity the
Great, while the daughter can be styled Opportunity the
Less. There was very little difference between my own
years and those of the young lady; and, as I had last
passed through the fiery ordeal at the sinister age of twenty,
there was not much danger in encountering the risk anew,
now I was five years older. But I must return to my uncle
and the letter of Miss Henrietta Coldbrooke.

“Here it is, Hugh,” cried my guardian, gaily; “and a
capital letter it is! I wish I could read the whole of it to
you; but the two girls made me promise never to show their
letters to any one, which could mean only you, before they
would promise to write anything to me beyond commonplaces.
Now, I get their sentiments freely and naturally

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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

and the correspondence is a source of much pleasure to me.
I think, however, I might venture just to give you one
extract.”

“You had better not, sir; there would be a sort of
treachery in it, that I confess I would rather not be accessary
to. If Miss Coldbrooke do not wish me to read what
she writes, she can hardly wish that you should read any
of it to me.”

Uncle Ro glanced at me, and I fancied he seemed dissatisfied
with my nonchalance. He read the letter through to
himself, however, laughing here, smiling there, then muttering
“capital!” “good!” “charming girl!” “worthy of
Hannah More!” &c. &c., as if just to provoke my curiosity.
But I had no desire to read “Hannah More,” as any young
fellow of five-and-twenty can very well imagine, and I stood
it all with the indifference of a stoic. My guardian had to
knock under, and put the letters in his writing-desk.

“Well, the giris will be glad to see us,” he said, after a
moment of reflection, “and not a little surprised. In my
very last letter to my mother, I sent them word that we
should not be home until October; and now we shall see
them as early as June, at least.”

“Patt will be delighted, I make no doubt. As for the
other two young ladies, they have so many friends and
relations to care for, that I fancy our movements give them
no great concern.”

“Then you do both injustice, as their letters would prove.
They take the liveliest interest in our proceedings, and
speak of my return as if they look for it with the greatest
expectation and joy.”

I made my uncle Ro a somewhat saucy answer; but fairdealing
compels me to record it.

“I dare say they do, sir,” was my reply; “but what
young lady does not look with `expectation and joy' for the
return of a friend, who is known to have a long purse,
from Paris!”

“Well, Hugh, you deserve neither of those dear girls;
and, if I can help it, you shall have neither.”

“Thank 'ee, sir!”

“Poh! this is worse than silly—it is rude. I dare say
neither would accept you, were you to offer to-morrow.”

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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

“I trust not, sir, for her own sake. It would be a singularly
palpable demonstration were either to accept a man
she barely knew, and whom she had not seen since she was
fifteen.”

Uncle Ro laughed, but I could see he was confoundedly
vexed; and, as I loved him with all my heart, though I did
not love match-making, I turned the discourse, in a pleasant
way, on our approaching departure.

“I 'll tell you what I 'll do, Hugh,” cried my uncle, who
was a good deal of a boy in some things, for the reason, I
suppose, that he was an old bachelor; “I 'll just have wrong
names entered on board the packet, and we 'll surprise all
our friends. Neither Jacob nor your man will betray us,
we know; and, for that matter, we can send them both
home by the way of England. Each of us has trunks in
London to be looked after, and let the two fellows go by the
way of Liverpool. That is a good thought, and occurred
most happily.”

“With all my heart, sir. My fellow is of no more use to
me at sea than an automaton would be, and I shall be glad
to get rid of his rueful countenance. He is a capital servant
on terrâ firma, but a perfect Niobe on the briny main.”

The thing was agreed on; and, a day or two afterwards,
both our body-servants, that is to say, Jacob the black and
Hubert the German, were on their way to England. My
uncle let his apartment again, for he always maintained I
should wish to bring my bride to pass a winter in it; and
we proceeded to Havre in a sort of incognito. There was
little danger of our being known on board the packet, and
we had previously ascertained that there was not an acquaintance
of either in the ship. There was a strong family
resemblance between my uncle and myself, and we passed
for father and son in the ship, as old Mr. Davidson and
young Mr. Davidson, of Maryland—or Myr-r-land, as it is
Doric to call that State. We had no concern in this part
of the deception, unless abstaining from calling my supposed
father “uncle,” as one would naturally do in strange
society, can be so considered.

The passage itself—by the way, I wish all landsmen
would be as accurate as I am here, and understand that a
“voyage” means “out” and “home,” or “thence” and

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“back again,” while a “passage” means from place to
place—but our passage was pregnant with no events worth
recording. We had the usual amount of good and bad
weather, the usual amount of eating and drinking, and the
usual amount of ennui. The latter circumstance, perhaps,
contributed to the digesting of a further scheme of my
uncle's, which it is now necessary to state.

A re-perusal of his letters and papers had induced him to
think the anti-rent movement a thing of more gravity, even,
than he had first supposed. The combination on the part
of the tenants, we learned also from an intelligent New
Yorker who was a fellow-passenger, extended much further
than our accounts had given us reason to believe; and it
was deemed decidedly dangerous for landlords, in many
cases, to be seen on their own estates. Insult, personal degradation,
or injury, and even death, it was thought, might
be the consequences, in many cases. The blood actually
spilled had had the effect to check the more violent demonstrations,
it is true; but the latent determination to achieve
their purposes was easily to be traced among the tenants,
in the face of all their tardy professions of moderation, and
a desire for nothing but what was right. In this case, what
was right was the letter and spirit of the contracts; and
nothing was plainer than the fact that these were not what
was wanted.

Professions pass for nothing, with the experienced, when
connected with a practice that flatly contradicts them. It
was only too apparent to all who chose to look into the matter,
and that by evidence which could not mislead, that the
great body of the tenants in various counties of New York
were bent on obtaining interests in their farms that were not
conveyed by their leases, without the consent of their landlords,
and insomuch that they were bent on doing that which
should be discountenanced by every honest man in the community.
The very fact that they supported, or in any manner
connived at, the so-called “Injin” system, spoke all that
was necessary as to their motives; and, when we come to
consider that these “Injins” had already proceeded to the
extremity of shedding blood, it was sufficiently plain that
things must soon reach a crisis.

My uncle Roger and myself reflected on all these matters

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calmly, and decided on our course, I trust, with prudence.
As that decision has proved to be pregnant with consequences
that are likely to affect my future life, I shall now
briefly give an outline of what induced us to adopt it.

It was all-important for us to visit Ravensnest in person,
while it might be hazardous to do so openly. The Nest
house stood in the very centre of the estate, and, ignorant
as we were of the temper of the tenants, it might be indiscreet
to let our presence be known; and circumstances
favoured our projects of concealment. We were not expected
to reach the country at all until autumn, or “fall,”
as that season of the year is poetically called in America;
and this gave us the means of reaching the property unexpectedly,
and, as we hoped, undetected. Our arrangement,
then, was very simple, and will be best related in the course
of the narrative.

The packet had a reasonably short passage, as we were
twenty-nine days from land to land. It was on a pleasant afternoon
in May when the hummock-like heights of Navesink
were first seen from the deck; and, an hour later, we came
in sight of the tower-resembling sails of the coasters which
were congregating in the neighbourhood of the low point
of land that is so very appropriately called Sandy Hook.
The light-houses rose out of the water soon after, and objects
on the shore of New Jersey next came gradually out of the
misty back-ground, until we got near enough to be boarded,
first by the pilot, and next by the news-boat; the first preceding
the last for a wonder, news usually being far more
active, in this good republic, than watchfulness to prevent
evil. My uncle Ro gave the crew of this news-boat a thorough
scrutiny, and, finding no one on board her whom he
had ever before seen, he bargained for a passage up to town.

We put our feet on the Battery just as the clocks of New
York were striking eight. A custom-house officer had examined
our carpet-bags and permitted them to pass, and we
had disburthened ourselves of the effects in the ship, by desiring
the captain to attend to them. Each of us had a
town-house, but neither would go near his dwelling; mine
being only kept up in winter, for the use of my sister and
an aunt who kindly took charge of her during the season,
while my uncle's was opened principally for his mother.

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At that season, we had reason to think neither was tenanted
but by one or two old family servants; and it was our cue
also to avoid them. But “Jack Dunning,” as my uncle
always called him, was rather more of a friend than of an
agent; and he had a bachelor establishment in Chamber
Street that was precisely the place we wanted. Thither,
then, we proceeded, taking the route by Greenwich Street,
fearful of meeting some one in Broadway by whom we
might be recognised.

CHAPTER IV. Cit.

“Speak, speak.”

1 Cit.

“You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?”

Cit.

“Resolved, resolved.”

1 Cit.

“First you know, Caius Marcus is chief enemy to the
people.”

Cit.

“We know 't, we know 't.”

1 Cit.

“Let 's kill him, and we 'll have corn at our own price.
Is 't a verdict?”

Coriolonus.

The most inveterate Mauhattanese, if he be anything of
a man of the world, must confess that New York is, after
all, but a Rag-Fair sort of a place, so far as the eye is concerned.
I was particularly struck with this fact, even at
that hour, as we went stumbling along over an atrociously
bad side-walk, my eyes never at rest, as any one can imagine,
after five years of absence. I could not help noting
the incongruities; the dwellings of marble, in close proximity
with miserable, low constructions in wood; the
wretched pavements, and, above all, the country air, of a
town of near four hundred thousand souls. I very well
know that many of the defects are to be ascribed to the
rapid growth of the place, which gives it a sort of hobbledehoy
look; but, being a Manhattanese by birth, I thought
I might just as well own it all, at once, if it were only for
the information of a particular portion of my townsmen,

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who may have been under a certain delusion on the subject.
As for comparing the Bay of New York with that of Naples
on the score of beauty, I shall no more be guilty of any
such folly, to gratify the cockney feelings of Broadway and
Bond street, than I should be guilty of the folly of comparing
the commerce of the ancient Parthenope with that of
old New York, in order to excite complacency in the bosom
of some bottegajo in the Toledo, or on the Chiaja. Our
fast-growing Manhattan is a great town in its way—a wonderful
place—without a parallel, I do believe, on earth, as a
proof of enterprise and of the accumulation of business;
and it is not easy to make such a town appear ridiculous by
any jibes and innuendoes that relate to the positive things of
this world, though nothing is easier than to do it for itself
by setting up to belong to the sisterhood of such places as
London, Paris, Vienna and St. Petersburg. There is too
much of the American notion of the omnipotence of numbers
among us Manhattanese, which induces us to think that
the higher rank in the scale of places is to be obtained by
majorities. No, no; let us remember the familiar axiom
of “ne sutor ultra crepidum.” New York is just the queen
of “business,” but not yet the queen of the world. Every
man who travels ought to bring back something to the common
stock of knowledge; and I shall give a hint to my
townsmen, by which I really think they may be able to tell
for themselves, as by feeling a sort of moral pulse, when
the town is rising to the level of a capital. When simplicity
takes the place of pretension, is one good rule; but, as
it may require a good deal of practice, or native taste, to
ascertain this fact, I will give another that is obvious to the
senses, which will at least be strongly symptomatic; and
that is this: When squares cease to be called parks; when
horse-bazaars and fashionable streets are not called Tattersalls
and Bond street; when Washington Market is rechristened
Bear Market, and Franklin and Fulton and other
great philosophers and inventors are plucked of the unmerited
honours of having shambles named after them; when
commercial is not used as a prefix to emporium; when people
can return from abroad without being asked “if they
are reconciled to their country,” and strangers are not
interrogated at the second question, “how do you like our

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city?” then may it be believed that the town is beginning
to go alone, and that it may set up for itself.

Although New York is, out of all question, decidedly
provincial, labouring under the peculiar vices of provincial
habits and provincial modes of thinking, it contains many
a man of the world, and some, too, who have never quitted
their own firesides. Of this very number was the Jack
Dunning, as my uncle Ro called him, to whose house in
Chamber street we were now proceeding.

“If we were going anywhere but to Dunning's,” said my
uncle, as we turned out of Greenwich street, “I should
have no fear of being recognised by the servants; for no
one here thinks of keeping a man six months. Dunning,
however, is of the old school, and does not like new faces;
so he will have no Irishman at his door, as is the case with
two out of three of the houses at which one calls, now-a-days.”

In another minute we were at the bottom of Mr. Dunning's
“stoup”—what an infernal contrivance it is to get in
and out at the door by, in a hotty-cold climate like ours!—
but, there we were, and I observed that my uncle hesitated.

Parlez au Suisse,” said I; “ten to one he is fresh
from some Bally-this, or Bally-that.”

“No, no; it must be old Garry the nigger”—my uncle
Ro was of the old school himself, and would say “nigger”—
“Jack can never have parted with Garry.”

“Garry” was the diminutive of Garret, a somewhat common
Dutch christian name among us.

We rang, and the door opened—in about five minutes.
Although the terms “aristocrat” and “aristocracy” are
much in men's mouths in America just now, as well as those
of “feudal” and the “middle ages,” and this, too, as applied
to modes of living as well as to leasehold tenures, there is
but one porter in the whole country; and he belongs to the
White House, at Washington. I am afraid even that personage,
royal porter as he is, is often out of the way; and
the reception he gives when he is there, is not of the most
brilliant and princely character. When we had waited three
minutes, my uncle Ro said—

“I am afraid Garry is taking a nap by the kitchen-fire;
I 'll try him again.”

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Uncle Ro did try again, and, two minutes later, the door
opened.

“What is your pleasure?” demanded the Suisse, with a
strong brogue.

My uncle started back as if he had met a sprite; but he
asked if Mr. Dunning was at home.

“He is, indeed, sir.”

“Is he alone, or is he with company?”

“He is, indeed.”

“But what is he, indeed?”

“He is that.”

“Can you take the trouble to explain which that it is?
Has he company, or is he alone?”

“Just that, sir. Walk in, and he 'll be charmed to see
you. A fine gentleman is his honour, and pleasure it is to
live with him, I 'm sure!”

“How long is it since you left Ireland, my friend?”

“Isn't it a mighty bit, now, yer honour!” answered Barney,
closing the door. “T'irteen weeks, if it 's one day.”

“Well, go ahead, and show us the way. This is a bad
omen, Hugh, to find that Jack Dunning, of all men in the
country, should have changed his servant—good, quiet, lazy,
respectable, old, grey-headed Garry the nigger—for such a
bogtrotter as that fellow, who climbs those stairs as if accustomed
only to ladders.”

Dunning was in his library on the second floor, where he
passed most of his evenings. His surprise was equal to
that which my uncle had just experienced, when he saw us
two standing before him. A significant gesture, however,
caused him to grasp his friend and client's hand in silence;
and nothing was said until the Swiss had left the room,
although the fellow stood with the door in his hand a most
inconvenient time, just to listen to what might pass between
the host and his guests. At length we got rid of him,
honest, well-meaning fellow that he was, after all; and the
door was closed.

“My last letters have brought you home, Roger?” said
Jack, the moment he could speak; for feeling, as well as
caution, had something to do with his silence.

“They have, indeed. A great change must have come
over the country, by what I hear; and one of the very

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worst symptoms is that you have turned away Garry, and
got an Irishman in his place.”

“Ah! old men must die, as well as old principles, I find.
My poor fellow went off in a fit last week, and I took that
Irishman as a pis aller. After losing poor Garry, who was
born a slave in my father's house, I became indifferent, and
accepted the first comer from the intelligence office.”

“We must be careful, Dunning, not to give up too soon.
But hear my story, and then to other matters.”

My uncle then explained his wish to be incognito, and his
motive. Dunning listened attentively, but seemed uncertain
whether to dissent or approve. The matter was discussed
briefly, and then it was postponed for further consideration.

“But how comes on this great moral dereliction, called
anti-rentism? Is it on the wane, or the increase?”

“On the wane, to the eye, perhaps; but on the increase,
so far as principles, the right, and facts, are concerned.
The necessity of propitiating votes is tempting politicians of
all sides to lend themselves to it; and there is imminent
danger now that atrocious wrongs will be committed under
the form of law.”

“In what way can the law touch an existing contract?
The Supreme Court of the United States will set that right.”

“That is the only hope of the honest, let me tell you.
It is folly to expect that a body composed of such men as
usually are sent to the State Legislature, can resist the
temptation to gain power by conciliating numbers. That is
out of the question
. Individuals of these bodies may resist;
but the tendency there will be as against the few, and in
favour of the many, bolstering their theories by clap-traps
and slang political phrases. The scheme to tax the rents,
under the name of quit-rents, will be restored to, in the first
place.”

“That will be a most iniquitous proceeding, and would
justify resistance just as much as our ancestors were justified
in resisting the taxation of Great Britain.”

“It would more so, for here we have a written convenant
to render taxation equal. The landlord already pays one
tax on each of these farms—a full and complete tax, that
is reserved from the rent in the original bargain with the
tenant; and now the wish is to tax the rents themselves;

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and this not to raise revenue, for that is confessedly not
wanted, but most clearly with a design to increase the inducements
for the landlords to part with their property. If
that can be done, the sales will be made on the principle
that none but the tenant must be, as indeed no one else can
be, the purchaser; and then we shall see a queer exhibition—
men parting with their property under the pressure of a
clamour that is backed by as much law as can be pressed
into its service, with a monopoly of price on the side of the
purchaser, and all in a country professing the most sensitive
love of liberty, and where the prevailing class of politicians
are free-trade men!”

“There is no end of these inconsistencies among politicians.”

“There is no end of knavery when men submit to
`noses,' instead of principles. Call things by their right
names, Ro, as they deserve to be. This matter is so plain,
that he who runs can read.”

“But will this scheme of taxation succeed? It does not
affect us, for instance, as our leases are for three lives.”

“Oh! that is nothing; for you they contemplate a law
that will forbid the letting of land, for the future, for a period
longer than five years. Hugh's leases will soon be
falling in, and then he can't make a slave of any man for a
longer period than five years.”

“Surely no one is so silly as to think of passing such a
law, with a view to put down aristocracy, and to benefit the
tenant!” I cried, laughing.

“Ay, you may laugh, young sir,” resumed Jack Dunning;
“but such is the intention. I know very well what
will be your course of reasoning; you will say, the longer
the lease, the better for the tenant, if the bargain be reasonably
good; and landlords cannot ask more for the use of
their lands than they are really worth in this country, there
happening to be more land than there are men to work it.
No, no; landlords rather get less for their lands than they
are worth, instead of more, for that plain reason. To compel
the tenant to take a lease, therefore, for a term as short
as five years, is to injure him, you think; to place him
more at the control of his landlord, through the little interests
connected with the cost and trouble of moving, and

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through the natural desire he may possess to cut the meadows
he has seeded, and to get the full benefit of manure
he has made and carted. I see how you reason, young sir;
but you are behind the age—you are sadly behind the age.”

“The age is a queer one, if I am! All over the world it
is believed that long leases are favours, or advantages, to
tenants; and nothing can make it otherwise, cœteris paribus.
Then what good will the tax do, after violating right
and moral justice, if not positive law, to lay it? On a hundred
dollars of rent, I should have to pay some fifty-five
cents of taxes, as I am assessed on other things at Ravensnest;
and does anybody suppose I will give up an estate
that has passed through five generations of my family, on
account of a tribute like that!”

“Mighty well, sir—mighty well, sir! This is fine talk;
but I would advise you not to speak of your ancestors at all.
Landlords can't name their ancestors with impunity just
now.”

“I name mine only as showing a reason for a natural
regard for my paternal acres.”

“That you might do, if you were a tenant; but not as a
landlord. In a landlord, it is aristocratic and intolerable
pride, and to the last degree offensive—as Dogberry says,
`tolerable and not to be endured.”'

“But it is a fact, and it is natural one should have some
feelings connected with it.”

“The more it is a fact, the less it will be liked. People
associate social position with wealth and estates, but not
with farms; and the longer one has such things in a family,
the worse for them!”

“I do believe, Jack,” put in my uncle Ro, “that the rule
which prevails all over the rest of the world is reversed
here, and that with us it is thought a family's claim is lessened,
and not increased, by time.”

“To be sure it is!” answered Dunning, without giving
me a chance to speak. “Do you know that you wrote me
a very silly letter once, from Switzerland, about a family
called de Blonay, that had been seated on the same rock, in
a little castle, some six or eight hundred years, and the sort
of respect and veneration the circumstance awakened?
Well, all that was very foolish, as you will find when you

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pay your incognito visit to Ravensnest. I will not anticipate
the result of your schooling; but, go to school.”

“As the Rensselaers and other great landlords, who have
estates on durable leases, will not be very likely to give
them up, except on terms that will suit themselves, for a tax
as insignificant as that mentioned by Hugh,” said my uncle,
“what does the legislature anticipate from passing the law?”

“That its members will be called the friends of the people,
and not the friends of the landlords. Would any man
tax his friends, if he could help it?”

“But what will that portion of the people who compose
the anti-renters gain by such a measure?”

“Nothing; and their complaints will be just as loud, and
their longings as active, as ever. Nothing that can have
any effect on what they wish, will be accomplished by any
legislation in the matter. One committee of the assembly
has actually reported, you may remember, that the State
might assume the lands, and sell them to the tenants, or
some one else; or something of the sort.”

“The constitution of the United States must be Hugh's
ægis.”

“And that alone will protect him, let me tell you. But
for that noble provision of the constitution of the Federal
Government, his estate would infallibly go for one-half its
true value. There is no use in mincing things, or in affecting
to believe men more honest than they are—AN INFERNAL
FEELING OF SELFISHNESS IS SO MUCH TALKED OF, AND
CITED, AND REFERRED TO, ON ALL OCCASIONS, IN THIS
COUNTRY, THAT A MAN ALMOST RENDERS HIMSELF RIDICULOUS
WHO APPEARS TO REST ON PRINCIPLE.”

“Have you heard what the tenants of Ravensnest aim
at, in particular?”

“They want to get Hugh's lands, that 's all; nothing
more, I can assure you.”

“On what conditions, pray?” demanded I.

“As you `light of chaps,' to use a saying of their own.
Some even profess a willingness to pay a fair price.”

“But I do not wish to sell for even a fair price. I have
no desire to part with property that is endeared to me by
family feeling and association. I have an expensive house
and establishment on my estate, which obtains its principal

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value from the circumstance that it is so placed that I can
look after my interests with the least inconvenience to myself.
What can I do with the money but buy another
estate? and I prefer this that I have.”

“Poh! boy, you can shave notes, you 'll recollect,” said
uncle Ro, drily. “The calling is decided to be honourable
by the highest tribunal; and no man should be above his
business.”

“You have no right, sir, in a free country,” returned the
caustic Jack Dunning, “to prefer one estate to another,
more especially when other people want it. Your lands are
leased to honest, hard-working tenants, who can eat their
dinners without silver forks, and whose ancestors—”

“Stop!” I cried, laughing; “I bar all ancestry. No
man has a right to ancestry in a free country, you 'll remember!”

“That means landlord-ancestry; as for tenant-ancestry,
one can have a pedigree as long as the Maison de Levis.
No, sir; every tenant you have has every right to demand
that his sentiment of family feeling should be respected.
His father planted that orchard, and he loves the apples
better than any other apples in the world—”

“And my father procured the grafts, and made him a
present of them.”

“His grandfather cleared that field, and converted its
ashes into pots and pearls—”

“And my grandfather received that year ten shillings of
rent, for land off which his received two hundred and fifty
dollars for his ashes.”

“His great-grandfather, honest and excellent man—nay,
super-honest and confiding creature—first `took up' the land
when a wilderness, and with his own hands felled the timber,
and sowed the wheat.”

“And got his pay twenty-fold for it all, or he would not
have been fool enough to do it. I had a great-grandfather,
too; and I hope it will not be considered aristocratic if I
venture to hint as much. He—a dishonest, pestilent knave,
no doubt—leased that very lot for six years without any
rent at all, in order that the `poor, confiding creature' might
make himself comfortable, before he commenced paying his
sixpence or shilling an acre rent for the remainder of three

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lives, with a moral certainty of getting a renewal on the
most liberal terms known to a new country; and who
knew, the whole time, he could buy land in fee, within ten
miles of his door, but who thought this a better bargain than
that.”

“Enough of this folly,” cried uncle Ro, joining in the
laugh; “we all know that, in our excellent America, he
who has the highest claims to anything, must affect to have
the least, to stifle the monster envy; and, being of one mind
as to principles, let us come to facts. What of the girls,
Jack, and of my honoured mother?”

“She, noble, heroic woman! she is at Ravensnest at this
moment; and, as the girls would not permit her to go alone,
they are all with her.”

“And did you, Jack Dunning, suffer them to go unattended
into a part of the country that is in open rebellion?”
demanded my uncle, reproachfully.

“Come, come! Hodge Littlepage, this is very sublime as
a theory, but not so clear when reduced to practice. I did
not go with Mrs. Littlepage and her young fry, for the good
and substantial reason that I did not wish to be `tarred and
feathered.”'

“So you leave them to run the risk of being `tarred and
feathered' in your stead?”

“Say what you will about the cant of freedom that is
becoming so common among us, and from which we were
once so free; say what you will, Ro, of the inconsistency
of those who raise the cry of `feudality,' and `aristocracy,'
and `nobility,' at the very moment they are manifesting a
desire for exclusive rights and privileges in their own persons;
say what you will of dishonesty, envy, that prominent
American vice, knavery, convetousness, and selfishness;
and I will echo all you can utter;—but do not say that a
woman can be in serious danger among any material body
of Americans, even if anti-renters, and mock-redskins in the
bargain.”

“I believe you are right there, Jack, on reflection. Pardon
my warmth; but I have lately been living in the old
world, and in a country in which women were not long
since carried to the scaffold on account of their politics.”

“Because they meddled with politics. Your mother is in

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no serious danger, though it needs nerve in a woman to be
able to think so. There are few women in the State, and
fewer of her time of life anywhere, that would do what she
has done; and I give the girls great credit for sticking by
her. Half the young men in town are desperate at the
thought of three such charming creatures thus exposing
themselves to insult. Your mother has only been sued.”

“Sued! Whom does she owe, or what can she have
done to have brought this indignity on her?”

“You know, or ought to know, how it is in this country,
Littlepage; we must have a little law, even when most bent
on breaking it. A downright, straight-forward rascal, who
openly sets law at defiance, is a wonder. Then we have a
great talk of liberty when plotting to give it the deepest
stab; and religion even gets to share in no small portion of
our vices. Thus it is that the anti-renters have dragged in
the law in aid of their designs. I understand one of the
Rensselaers has been sued for money borrowed in a ferry-boat
to help him across a river under his own door, and for
potatoes bought by his wife in the streets of Albany!”

“But neither of the Rensselaers need borrow money to
cross the ferry, as the ferry-men would trust him; and no
lady of the Rensselaer family ever bought potatoes in the
streets of Albany, I 'll answer for it.”

“You have brought back some knowledge from your
travels, I find!” said Jack Dunning, with comic gravity.
“Your mother writes me that she has been sued for twenty-seven
pairs of shoes furnished her by a shoemaker whom
she never saw, or heard of, until she received the summons!”

“This, then, is one of the species of annoyances that
has been adopted to bully the landlords out of their property?”

“It is; and if the landlords have recourse even to the
covenants of their leases, solemnly and deliberately made,
and as solemnly guarantied by a fundamental law, the cry
is raised of `aristocracy' and `oppression' by these very
men, and echoed by many of the creatures who get seats
in high places among us—or what would be high places, if
filled with men worthy of their trusts.”

“I see you do not mince your words, Jack.”

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“Why should I? Words are all that is left me. I am
of no more weight in the government of this State than that
Irishman, who let you in just now, will be, five years hence—
less, for he will vote to suit a majority; and, as I shall
vote understandingly, my vote will probably do no one any
good.”

Dunning belonged to a school that mingles a good deal
of speculative and impracticable theory, with a great deal
of sound and just principles; but who render themselves
useless because they will admit of no compromises. He did
not belong to the class of American doctrinaires, however,
or to those who contend—no, not contend, for no one does
that any longer in this country, whatever may be his opinion
on the subject—but those who think that political power, as
in the last resort, should be the property of the few; for he
was willing New York should have a very broad constituency.
Nevertheless, he was opposed to the universal suffrage,
in its wide extent, that does actually exist; as I suppose
quite three-fourths of the whole population are opposed
to it, in their hearts, though no political man of influence,
now existing, has the moral calibre necessary to take the
lead in putting it down. Dunning deferred to principles,
and not to men. He well knew that an infallible whole was
not to be composed of fallible parts; and while he thought
majorities ought to determine many things, that there are
rights and principles that are superior to even such unanimity
as man can manifest, and much more to their majorities.
But Dunning had no selfish views connected with his
political notions, wanting no office, and feeling no motive to
affect that which he neither thought nor wished. He never
had quitted home, or it is highly probable his views of the
comparative abuses of the different systems that prevail in
the world would have been essentially modified. Those he
saw had unavoidably a democratic source, there being neither
monarch nor aristocrat to produce any other; and,
under such circumstances, as abuses certainly abound, it is
not at all surprising that he sometimes a little distorted facts,
and magnified evils.

“And my noble, high-spirited, and venerable mother has
actually gone to the Nest to face the enemy!” exclaimed my
uncle, after a thoughtful pause.

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“She has, indeed; and the noble, high-spirited, though
not venerable, young ladies have gone with her,” returned
Mr. Dunning, in his caustic way.

“All three, do you mean?”

“Every one of them—Martha, Henrietta, and Anne.”

“I am surprised that the last should have done so. Anne
Marston is such a meek, quiet, peace-loving person, that I
should think she would have preferred remaining, as she
naturally might have done, without exciting remark, with
her own mother.”

“She has not, nevertheless. Mrs. Littlepage would brave
the anti-renters, and the three maidens would be her companions.
I dare say, Ro, you know how it is with the
gentle sex, when they make up their minds?”

“My girls are all good girls, and have given me very
little trouble,” answered my uncle, complacently.

“Yes, I dare say that may be true. You have only been
absent from home five years, this trip.”

“An attentive guardian, notwithstanding, since I left you
as a substitute. Has my mother written to you since her
arrival among the hosts of the Philistines?”

“She has, indeed, Littlepage,” answered Dunning, gravely;
“I have heard from her three times, for she writes to
urge my not appearing on the estate. I did intend to pay
her a visit; but she tells me that it might lead to a violent
scene, and can do no good. As the rents will not be due
until autumn, and Master Hugh is now of age and was to
be here to look after his own affairs, I have seen no motive
for incurring the risk of the tarring and feathering. We
American lawyers, young gentleman, wear no wigs.”

“Does my mother write herself, or employ another?”
inquired my uncle, with interest.

“She honours me with her own hand. Your mother
writes much better than you do yourself, Roger.”

“That is owing to her once having carried chain, as she
would say herself. Has Martha written to you?”

“Of course. Sweet little Patty and I are bosom friends,
as you know.”

“And does she say anything of the Indian and the
negro?”

“Jaaf and Susquesus? To be sure she does. Both are

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living still, and both are well. I saw them myself, and even
ate of their venison, so lately as last winter.”

“Those old fellows must have each lived a great deal
more than his century, Jack. They were with my grandfather
in the old French war, as active, useful men—older,
then, than my grandfather!”

“Ay! a nigger or a redskin, before all others, for holding
on to life, when they have been temperate. Let me see—
that expedition of Abercrombie's was about eighty years
since; why, these fellows must be well turned of their hundred,
though Jaap is rather the oldest, judging from appearances.”

“I believe no one knows the age of either. A hundred
each has been thought, now, for many years. Susquesus
was surprisingly active, too, when I last saw him—like a
healthy man of eighty.”

“He has failed of late, though he actually shot a deer, as
I told you, last winter. Both the old fellows stray down to
the Nest, Martha writes me; and the Indian is highly scandalized
at the miserable imitations of his race that are now
abroad. I have even heard that he and Yop have actually
contemplated taking the field against them. Seneca Newcome
is their especial aversion.”

“How is Opportunity?” I inquired. “Does she take any
part in this movement?”

“A decided one, I hear. She is anti-rent, while she
wishes to keep on good terms with her landlord; and that
is endeavouring to serve God and Mammon. She is not
the first, however, by a thousand, that wears two faces in
this business.”

“Hugh has a deep admiration of Opportunity,” observed
my uncle, “and you had needs be tender in your strictures.
The modern Seneca, I take it, is dead against us?”

“Seneky wishes to go to the legislature, and of course he
is on the side of votes. Then his brother is a tenant at the
mill, and naturally wishes to be the landlord. He is also
interested in the land himself. One thing has struck me in
this controversy as highly worthy of notice; and it is the
naiveté with which men reconcile the obvious longings of
covetousness with what they are pleased to fancy the principles
of liberty! When a man has worked a farm a

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certain number of years, he boldly sets up the doctrine that the
fact itself gives him a high moral claim to possess it for
ever. A moment's examination will expose the fallacy by
which these sophists apply the flattering unction to their
souls. They work their farms under a lease, and in virtue
of its covenants. Now, in a moral sense, all that time can
do in such a case, is to render these covenants the more
sacred, and consequently more binding; but these worthies,
whose morality is all on one side, imagine that these timehonoured
covenants give them a right to fly from their own
conditions during their existence, and to raise pretensions
far exceeding anything they themselves confer, the moment
they cease.”

“Poh, poh! Jack; there is no need of refining at all, to
come at the merits of such a question. This is a civilized
country, or it is not. If it be a civilized country, it will
respect the rights of property, and its own laws; and if the
reverse, it will not respect them. As for setting up the doctrine,
at this late day, when millions and millions are invested
in this particular species of property, that the leasehold
tenure is opposed to the spirit of institutions of which
it has substantially formed a part, ever since those institutions
have themselves had an existence, it requires a bold
front, and more capacity than any man at Albany possesses,
to make the doctrines go down. Men may run off with the
notion that the tendencies to certain abuses, which mark
every system, form their spirit; but this is a fallacy that a
very little thought will correct. Is it true that proposals
have actually been made, by these pretenders to liberty, to
appoint commissioners to act as arbitrators between the
landlords and tenants, and to decide points that no one has
any right to raise?”

“True as Holy Writ; and a regular `Star Chamber'
tribunal it would be! It is wonderful, after all, how extremes
do meet!”

“That is as certain as the return of the sun after night.
But let us now talk of our project, Jack, and of the means
of getting among these self-deluded men—deluded by their
own covetousness — without being discovered; for I am
determined to see them, and to judge of their motives and
conduct for myself.”

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“Take care of the tar-barrel, and of the pillow-case of
feathers, Roger!”

“I shall endeavour so to do.”

We then discussed the matter before us at length and
leisurely. I shall not relate all that was said, as it would
be going over the same ground twice, but refer the reader
to the regular narrative. At the usual hour, we retired to
our beds, retaining the name of Davidson, as convenient
and prudent. Next day Mr. John Dunning busied himself
in our behalf, and made himself exceedingly useful to us.
In his character of an old bachelor, he had many acquaintances
at the theatre; and through his friends of the green-room
he supplied each of us with a wig. Both my uncle
and myself spoke German reasonably well, and our original
plan was to travel in the characters of immigrant trinket
and essence pedlars. But I had a fancy for a hand-organ
and a monkey; and it was finally agreed that Mr. Hugh
Roger Littlepage, senior, was to undertake this adventure
with a box of cheap watches and gilded trinkets; while Mr.
Hugh Roger Littlepage, junior, was to commence his travels
at home, in the character of a music-grinder. Modesty
will not permit me to say all I might, in favour of my own
skill in music in general; but I sang well for an amateur,
and played, both on the violin and flute, far better than is
common.

Everything was arranged in the course of the following
day, our wigs of themselves completely effecting all the
disguises that were necessary. As for my uncle, he was
nearly bald, and a wig was no great encumbrance; but my
shaggy locks gave me some trouble. A little clipping, however,
answered the turn; and I had a hearty laugh at myself,
in costume, that afternoon, before Dunning's dressing-room
glass. We got round the felony law, about being
armed and disguised, by carrying no weapons but our tools
in the way of trade.

-- 070 --

CHAPTER V.

“And she hath smiles to earth unknown—
Smiles, that with motion of their own
Do spread, and sink, and rise;
That come and go with endless play
And ever, as they pass away,
Are hidden in her eyes.”
Wordsworth

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I was early in costume the following morning. I question
if my own mother could have known me, had she lived
long enough to see the whiskers sprout on my cheeks, and
to contemplate my countenance as a man. I went into
Dunning's library, drew the little hurdy-gurdy from its
hiding-place, slung it, and began to play St. Patrick's Day
in the Morning, with spirit, and, I trust I may add, with
execution. I was in the height of the air, when the door
opened, and Barney thrust his high-cheeked-bone face into
the room, his mouth as wide open as that of a frozen
porker.

“Where the divil did ye come from?” demanded the new
footman, with the muscles of that vast aperture of his working
from grin to grim, and grim to grin again. “Yee's
wilcome to the tchune; but how comes ye here?”

“I coomes vrom Halle, in Preussen. Vat isht your
vaterland?”

“Be yees a Jew?”

“Nein—I isht a goot Christian. Vilt you haf Yankee
Tootle?”

“Yankee T'under! Ye 'll wake up the masther, and
he 'll be displais'd, else ye might work upon t'at tchune till
the end of time. That I should hear it here, in my own
liberary, and ould Ireland t'ree thousand laigues away!”

A laugh from Dunning interrupted the dialogue, when
Barney vanished, no doubt anticipating some species of
American punishment for a presumed delinquency. Whether
the blundering, well-meaning, honest fellow really
ascertained who we were that breakfasted with his master,

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I do not know; but we got the meal and left the house
without seeing his face again, Dunning having a young
yellow fellow to do the service of the table.

I need scarcely say that I felt a little awkward at finding
myself in the streets of New York in such a guise; but the
gravity and self-possession of my uncle were a constant
source of amusement to me. He actually sold a watch on
the wharf before the boat left it, though I imputed his success
to the circumstance that his price was what a brother
dealer, who happened to be trading in the same neighbour
hood, pronounced “onconscionably low.” We took a
comfortable state-room between us, under the pretence of
locking-up our property, and strolled about the boat, gaping
and looking curious, as became our class.

“Here are at least a dozen people that I know,” said my
uncle, as we were lounging around—loafing around, is the
modern Doric—about the time that the boat was paddling
past Fort Washington; “I have reconnoitred in all quarters,
and find quite a dozen. I have been conversing with
an old school-fellow, and one with whom I have ever lived
in tolerable intimacy, for the last ten minutes, and find my
broken English and disguise are perfect. I am confident
my dear mother herself would not recognise me.”

“We can then amuse ourselves with my grandmother
and the young ladies,” I answered, “when we reach the
Nest. For my part, it strikes me that we had better keep
our own secret to the last moment.”

“Hush! As I live, there is Seneca Newcome this moment!
He is coming this way, and we must be Germans
again.”

Sure enough, there was 'Squire Seneky, as the honest
farmers around the Nest call him; though many of them
must change their practices, or it will shortly become so
absurd to apply the term “honest” to them, that no one will
have the hardihood to use it. Newcome came slowly towards
the forecastle, on which we were standing; and my
uncle determined to get into conversation with him, as a
means of further proving the virtue of our disguises, as well
as possibly of opening the way to some communications that
might facilitate our visit to the Nest. With this view, the
pretended pedlar drew a watch from his pocket, and,

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offering it meekly to the inspection of the quasi lawyer, he
said—

“Puy a vatch, shentlemans?”

“Hey! what? Oh! a watch,” returned Seneca, in that
high, condescending, vulgar key, with which the salt of the
earth usually affect to treat those they evidently think much
beneath them in intellect, station, or some other great essential,
at the very moment they are bursting with envy, and
denouncing as aristocrats all who are above them. “Hey!
a watch, is it? What countryman are you, friend?”

“A Charmans—ein Teutscher.”

“A German—ine Tycher is the place you come from, I
s'pose?”

“Nein—ein Teutscher isht a Charman.”

“Oh, yes! I understand. How long have you been in
Ameriky?”

“Twelf moont's.”

“Why, that 's most long enough to make you citizens.
Where do you live?”

“Nowhere; I lifs jest asht it happens—soometimes here,
ant soometimes dere.”

“Ay, ay! I understand—no legal domicile, but lead a
wandering life. Have you many of these watches for sale?”

“Yees—I haf asht many as twenty. Dey are as sheep
as dirt, and go like pig clocks.”

`And what may be your price for this?”

“Dat you can haf for only eight tollars. Effery poty
wilt say it is golt, dat doesn't know petter.”

“Oh! it isn't gold then — I swan!” — what this oath
meant I never exactly knew, though I suppose it to be a
puritan mode of saying “I swear!” the attempts to cheat
the devil in this way being very common among their pious
descendants, though even “Smith Thompson” himself can
do no man any good in such a case of conscience—“I
swan! you come plaguy near taking even me in! Will
you come down from that price any?”

“If you wilt gif me some atfice, perhaps I may. You
look like a goot shentlemans, and one dat woultn't sheat a
poor Charmans; ant effery poty wants so much to sheat de
poor Charmans, dat I will take six, if you will drow in some
atfice.”

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“Advice? You have come to the right man for I
Walk a little this way, where we shall be alone. What is
the natur' of the matter—action on the case, or a tort?”

“Nein, nein! it isht not law dat I wants, put atfice.”

“Well, but advice leads to law, ninety-nine times in a
hundred.”

“Ya, ya!” answered the pedlar, laughing; “dat may be
so; put it isht not what I vants—I vants to know vere a
Charman can trafel wit' his goots in de coontry, and not in
de pig towns.”

“I understand you—six dollars, hey! That sounds high
for such a looking watch”—he had just before mistaken it
for gold—“but I 'm always the poor man's friend, and despise
aristocracy”—what Seneca hated with the strongest
hate, he ever fancied he despised the most, and by aristocracy
he merely understood gentlemen and ladies, in the
true signification of the words—“why, I 'm always ready
to help along the honest citizen. If you could make up
your mind, now, to part with this one watch for nawthin',
I think I could tell you a part of the country where you
might sell the other nineteen in a week.”

“Goot!” exclaimed my uncle, cheerfully. “Take him—
he ist your broberty, and wilcome. Only show me de town
where I canst sell de nineteen udders.”

Had my uncle Ro been a true son of peddling, he would
have charged a dollar extra on each of the nineteen, and
made eleven dollars by his present liberality.

“It is no town at all—only a township,” returned the
literal Seneca. “Did you expect it would be a city?”

“Vat cares I? I woult radder sell my vatches to goot,
honest, country men, dan asht to de best burghers in de
land.”

“You 're my man! The right spirit is in you. I hope
you 're no patroon — no aristocrat?”

“I don't know vat isht badroon, or vat isht arishtocrat.”

“No! You are a happy man in your ignorance. A
patroon is a nobleman who owns another man's land; and
an aristocrat is a body that thinks himself better than his
neighbours, friend.”

“Well, den, I isht no badroon, for I don't own no land

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at all, not even mine own; and I ishn't petter asht no poty
at all.”

“Yes, you be; you 've only to think so, and you 'll be
the greatest gentleman of 'em all.”

“Well, den, I will dry and dink so, and be petter asht de
greatest shentlemans of dem all. But dat won't do, nudder,
as dat vilt make me petter dan you; for you are one of de
greatest of dem all, shentlemans.”

“Oh! as for me, let me alone. I scorn being on their
level. I go for `Down with the rent!' and so 'll you, too,
afore you 've been a week in our part of the country.”

“Vat isht de rent dat you vants to git down?”

“It 's a thing that 's opposed to the spirit of the institutions,
as you can see by my feelin's at this very moment.
But no matter! I 'll keep the watch, if you say so, and
show you the way into that part of the country, as your
pay.”

“Agreet, shentlemans. Vat I vants is atfice, and vat you
vants is a vatch.”

Here uncle Ro laughed so much like himself, when he
ought clearly to have laughed in broken English, that I was
very much afraid he might give the alarm to our companion;
but he did not. From that time, the best relations existed
between us and Seneca, who, in the course of the day,
recognised us by sundry smiles and winks, though I could
plainly see he did not like the anti-aristocratic principle
sufficiently to wish to seem too intimate with us. Before we
reached the islands, however, he gave us directions where
to meet him in the morning, and we parted, when the boat
stopped alongside of the pier at Albany that afternoon, the
best friends in the world.

“Albany! dear, good old Albany!” exclaimed my uncle
Ro, as we stopped on the draw of the bridge to look at the
busy scene in the basin, where literally hundreds of canal-boats
were either lying to discharge or to load, or were
coming and going, to say nothing of other craft; “dear,
good old Albany! you are a town to which I ever return
with pleasure, for you at least never disappoint me. A
first-rate country-place you are; and, though I miss your
quaint old Dutch church, and your rustic-looking old English

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church from the centre of your principal street, almost
every change you make is respectable. I know nothing
that tells so much against you as changing the name of
Market street by the paltry imitation of Broadway; but,
considering that a horde of Yankees have come down upon
you since the commencement of the present century, you
are lucky that the street was not called the Appian Way.
But, excellent old Albany! whom even the corruptions of
politics cannot change in the core, lying against thy hillside,
and surrounded with thy picturesque scenery, there is
an air of respectability about thee that I admire, and a quiet
prosperity that I love. Yet, how changed since my boy-hood!
Thy simple stoups have all vanished; thy gables
are disappearing; marble and granite are rising in thy
streets, too, but they take honest shapes, and are free from
the ambition of mounting on stilts; thy basin has changed
the whole character of thy once semi-sylvan, semi-commercial
river; but it gives to thy young manhood an appearance
of abundance and thrift that promise well for thy age!”

The reader may depend on it that I laughed heartily at
this rhapsody; for I could hardly enter into my uncle's
feelings. Albany is certainly a very good sort of a place, and
relatively a more respectable-looking town than the “commercial
emporium,” which, after all, externally, is a mere
huge expansion of a very marked mediocrity, with the pretension
of a capital in its estimate of itself. But Albany
lays no claim to be anything more than a provincial town,
and in that class it is highly placed. By the way, there is
nothing in which “our people,” to speak idiomatically, more
deceive themselves, than in their estimate of what composes
a capital. It would be ridiculous to suppose that the representatives
of such a government as this could impart to any
place the tone, opinions, habits and manners of a capital;
for, if they did, they would impart it on the novel principle
of communicating that which they do not possess in their
own persons. Congress itself, though tolerably free from
most shackles, including those of the constitution, is not up
to that. In my opinion, a man accustomed to the world
might be placed blindfolded in the most finished quarter of
New York, and the place has new quarters in which the
incongruities I have already mentioned do not exist, and,

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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

my life on it, he could pronounce, as soon as the bandage
was removed, that he was not in a town where the tone of
a capital exists. The last thing to make a capital is trade.
Indeed, the man who hears the words “business” and “the
merchants” ringing in his ears, may safely conclude, de
facto
, that he is not in a capital. Now, a New-York village
is often much less rustic than the villages of the most advanced
country of Europe; but a New-York town is many
degrees below any capital of a large State in the old world.

Will New York ever be a capital? Yes—out of all question,
yes. But the day will not come until after the sudden
changes of condition which immediately and so naturally
succeeded the revolution, have ceased to influence ordinary
society, and those above again impart to those below more
than they receive. This restoration to the natural state of
things must take place, as soon as society gets settled; and
there will be nothing to prevent a town living under our
own institutions—spirit, tendencies and all—from obtaining
the highest tone that ever yet prevailed in a capital. The
folly is in anticipating the natural course of events. Nothing
will more hasten these events, however, than a literature
that is controlled, not by the lower, but by the higher
opinion of the country; which literature is yet, in a great
degree, to be created.

I had dispensed with the monkey, after trying to get
along with the creature for an hour or two, and went around
only with my music. I would rather manage an army of
anti-renters than one monkey. With the hurdy-gurdy slung
around my neck, therefore, I followed my uncle, who actually
sold another watch before we reached a tavern. Of
course we did not presume to go to Congress Hall, or the
Eagle, for we knew we should not be admitted. This was
the toughest part of our adventures. I am of opinion my
uncle made a mistake; for he ventured to a second-class
house, under the impression that one of the sort usually
frequented by men of our supposed stamp might prove too
coarse for us, altogether. I think we should have been
better satisfied with the coarse fare of a coarse tavern, than
with the shabby-genteel of the house we blundered into.
In the former, everything would have reminded us, in a way
we expected to be reminded, that we were out of the

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common track; and we might have been amused with the
change, though it is one singularly hard to be endured. I remember
to have heard a young man, accustomed from childhood
to the better habits of the country, but who went to sea a
lad, before the mast, declare that the coarseness of his shipmates,
and there is no vulgarity about a true sailor, even
when coarsest, gave him more trouble to overcome, than all
the gales, physical sufferings, labour, exposures and dangers,
put together. I must confess, I have found it so, too,
in my little experience. While acting as a strolling musician,
I could get along with anything better than the coarse
habits which I encountered at the table. Your silver-forkisms,
and your purely conventional customs, as a matter of
course, no man of the world attaches any serious importance
to; but there are conventionalities that belong to the
fundamental principles of civilized society, which become
second nature, and with which it gets to be hard, indeed, to
dispense. I shall say as little as possible of the disagreeables
of my new trade, therefore, but stick to the essentials.

The morning of the day which succeeded that of our
arrival at Albany, my uncle Ro and I took our seats in the
train, intending to go to Saratoga, viâ Troy. I wonder the
Trojan who first thought of playing this travestie on Homer,
did not think of calling the place Troyville, or Troyborough!
That would have been semi-American, at least,
whereas the present appellation is so purely classical! It
is impossible to walk through the streets of this neat and
flourishing town, which already counts its twenty thousand
souls, and not have the images of Achilles, and Hector, and
Priam, and Hecuba, pressing on the imagination a little
uncomfortably. Had the place been called Try, the name
would have been a sensible one; for it is trying all it can
to get the better of Albany; and, much as I love the latter
venerable old town, I hope Troy may succeed in its trying
to prevent the Hudson from being bridged. By the way, I
will here remark, for the benefit of those who have never
seen any country but their own, that there is a view on the
road between Schenectady and this Grecian place, just
where the heights give the first full appearance of the valley
of the Hudson, including glimpses of Waterford, Lansingburg
and Albany, with a full view of both Troys, which

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gives one a better idea of the affluence of European scenery,
than almost any other spot I can recall in America. To my
hurdy gurdy:

I made my first essay as a musician in public beneath the
windows of the principal inn of Troy. I cannot say much
in favour of the instrument, though I trust the playing itself
was somewhat respectable. This I know full well, that I
soon brought a dozen fair faces to the windows of the inn,
and that each was decorated with a smile. Then it was
that I regretted the monkey. Such an opening could not
but awaken the dormant ambition of even a “patriot” of
the purest water, and I will own I was gratified.

Among the curious who thus appeared, were two whom
I at once supposed to be father and daughter. The former
was a clergyman, and, as I fancied by something in his air,
of “the Church,” begging pardon of those who take offence
at this exclusive title, and to whom I will just give a hint in
passing. Any one at all acquainted with mankind, will at
once understand that no man who is certain of possessing
any particular advantage, ever manifests much sensibility
because another lays claim to it also. In the constant
struggles of the jealous, for instance, on the subject of that
universal source of jealous feeling, social position, the man
or woman who is conscious of claims never troubles himself
or herself about them. For them the obvious fact is
sufficient. If it be answered to this that the pretension of
the Church” is exclusive, I shall admit it is, and “conclusive,”
too. It is not exclusive, however, in the sense
urged, since no one denies that there are many branches to
“the Church,” although those branches do not embrace
everything. I would advise those who take offence at “our”
styling “ourselves” “the Church,” to style themselves “the
Church,” just as they call all their parsons bishops, and see
who will care about it. That is a touchstone which will
soon separate the true metal from the alloy.

My parson, I could easily see, was a Church clergyman—
not a meeting-house clergyman. How I ascertained that
fact at a glance, I shall not reveal; but I also saw in his
countenance some of that curiosity which marks simplicity
of character: it was not a vulgar feeling, but one which
induced him to beckon me to approach a little nearer. I did

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so, when he invited me in. It was a little awkward, at
first, I must acknowledge, to be beckoned about in this
manner; but there was something in the air and countenance
of the daughter that induced me not to hesitate about
complying. I cannot say that her beauty was so very striking,
though she was decidedly pretty; but the expression
of her face, eyes, smile, and all put together, was so singularly
sweet and feminine, that I felt impelled by a sympathy
I shall not attempt to explain, to enter the house, and ascend
to the door of a parlour that I saw at once was public,
though it then contained no one but my proper hosts.

“Walk in, young man,” said the father, in a benevolent
tone of voice. “I am curious to see that instrument; and
my daughter here, who has a taste for music, wishes it as
much as I do myself. What do you call it?”

“Hurty-gurty,” I answered.

“From what part of the world do you come, my young
friend?” continued the clergyman, raising his meek eyes to
mine still more curiously.

“Vrom Charmany; vrom Preussen, vere did reign so
late de good Koenig Wilhelm.”

“What does he say, Molly?”

So the pretty creature bore the name of Mary! I liked
the Molly, too; it was a good sign, as none but the truly
respectable dare use such familiar appellations in these
ambitious times. Molly sounded as if these people had the
aplomb of position and conscious breeding. Had they been
vulgar, it would have been Mollissa.

“It is not difficult to translate, father,” answered one of
the sweetest voices that had ever poured its melody on my
ear, and which was rendered still more musical by the slight
laugh that mingled with it. “He says he is from Germany—
from Prussia, where the good King William lately
reigned.”

I liked the “father,” too—that sounded refreshing, after
passing a night among a tribe of foul-nosed adventurers in
humanity, every one of whom had done his or her share
towards caricaturing the once pretty appellatives of “Pa”
and “Ma.” A young lady may still say “Papa,” or
even “Mamma,” though it were far better that she said

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“Father” and “Mother;” but as for “Pa” and “Ma,” they
are now done with in respectable life. They will not even
do for the nursery.

“And this instrument is a hurdy-gurdy?” continued the
clergyman. “What have we here—the name spelt on it?”

“Dat isht de maker's name—Hochstiel fecit.”

“Fecit!” repeated the clergyman; “is that German?”

“Nein—dat isht Latin; facio, feci, factum, facere—
feci, feciste
, FECIT. It means make, I suppose you know.

The parson looked at me, and at my dress and figure,
with open surprise, and smiled as his eye glanced at his
daughter. If asked why I made this silly display of lowerform
learning, I can only say that I chafed at being fancied
a mere every-day street musician, that had left his monkey
at home, by the charming girl who stood gracefully bending
over her father's elbow, as the latter examined the inscription
that was stamped on a small piece of ivory which had
been let into the instrument. I could see that Mary shrunk
back a little under the sensitive feeling, so natural to her
sex, that she was manifesting too much freedom of manner
for the presence of a youth who was nearer to her own class
than she could have supposed it possible for a player on the
hurdy-gurdy to be. A blush succeeded; but the glance of
the soft blue eye that instantly followed, seemed to set all at
rest, and she leaned over her father's elbow again.

“You understand Latin, then?” demanded the parent,
examining me over his spectacles from head to foot.

“A leetle, sir—just a ferry leetle. In my coontry, efery
mans isht obliget to be a soldier some time, and them t'at
knows Latin can be made sergeants and corporals.”

“That is Prussia, is it?”

“Ya—Preussen, vere so late did reign de goot Koenig
Wilhelm.”

“And is Latin much understood among you? I have
heard that, in Hungary, most well-informed persons even
speak the tongue.”

“In Charmany it isht not so. We all l'arnts somet'ing,
but not all dost l'arn efery t'ing.”

I could see a smile struggling around the sweet lips of
that dear girl, after I had thus delivered myself, as I fancied,

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with a most accurate inaccuracy; but she succeeded in
repressing it, though those provoking eyes of hers continued
to laugh, much of the time our interview lasted.

“Oh! I very well know that in Prussia the schools are
quite good, and that your government pays great attention
to the wants of all classes,” rejoined the clergyman; “but
I confess some surprise that you should understand anything
of Latin. Now, even in this country, where we boast so
much—”

“Ye-e-s,” I could not refrain from drawling out, “dey
does poast a great teal in dis coontry!”

Mary actually laughed; whether it was at my words, or
at the somewhat comical manner I had assumed—a manner
in which simplicity was tant soit peu blended with irony—
I shall not pretend to say. As for the father, his simplicity
was of proof; and, after civilly waiting until my interruption
was done, he resumed what he had been on the point
of saying.

“I was about to add,” continued the clergyman, “that
even in this country, where we boast so much”—the little
minx of a daughter passed her hand over her eyes, and
fairly coloured with the effort she made not to laugh again—
“of the common schools, and of their influence on the
public mind, it is not usual to find persons of your condition
who understand the dead languages.”

“Ye-e-s,” I replied; “it isht my condition dat misleats
you, sir. Mine fat'er wast a shentlemans, and he gifet me
as goot an etication as de Koenig did gif to de Kron Prinz.”

Here, my desire to appear well in the eyes of Mary
caused me to run into another silly indiscretion. How I
was to explain the circumstance of the son of a Prussian
gentleman, whose father had given him an education as
good as that which the King of his country had given to
its Crown Prince, being in the streets of Troy, playing on
a hurdy-gurdy, was a difficulty I did not reflect on for a
moment. The idea of being thought by that sweet girl a
mere uneducated boor, was intolerable to me; and I threw
it off by this desperate falsehood—false in its accessories,
but true in its main facts—as one would resent an insult.
Fortune favoured me, however, far more than I had any
right to expect.

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There is a singular disposition in the American character
to believe every well-mannered European at least a count.
I do not mean that those who have seen the world are not
like other persons in this respect; but a very great proportion
of the country never has seen any other world than a
world of “business.” The credulity on this subject surpasseth
belief; and, were I to relate facts of this nature that
might be established in a court of justice, the very parties
connected with them would be ready to swear that they are
caricatures. Now, well-mannered I trust I am, and, though
plainly dressed and thoroughly disguised, neither my air
nor attire was absolutely mean. As my clothes were new,
I was neat in my appearance; and there were possibly
some incongruities about the last, that might have struck
eyes more penetrating than those of my companions. I
could see that both father and daughter felt a lively interest
in me, the instant I gave them reason to believe I was one
of better fortunes. So many crude notions exist among us
on the subject of convulsions and revolutions in Europe, that
I dare say, had I told any improbable tale of the political
condition of Prussia, it would have gone down; for nothing
so much resembles the ignorance that prevails in America,
generally, concerning the true state of things in Europe, as
the ignorance that prevails in Europe, generally, concerning
the true state of things in America. As for Mary, her soft
eyes seemed to me to be imbued with thrice their customary
gentleness and compassion, as she recoiled a step in native
modesty, and gazed at me, when I had made my revelation.

“If such is the case, my young friend,” returned the clergyman,
with benevolent interest, “you ought, and might
easily be placed in a better position than this you are now
in. Have you any knowledge of Greek?”

“Certainly—Greek is moch study in Charmany.”

`In for a penny, in for a pound,' I thought.

“And the modern languages—do you understand any of
them?”

“I speaks de five great tongues of Europe, more ast less
well; and I read dem all, easily.”

“The five tongues!” said the clergyman, counting on his
fingers; “what can they be, Mary?”

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“French, and German, and Spanish, and Italian, I suppose,
sir.”

“These make but four. What can be the fifth, my
dear?”

“De yoong laty forgets de Englisch. De Englisch is
das funf.”

“Oh! yes, the English!” exclaimed the pretty creature,
pressing her lips together to prevent laughing in my face.

“True—I had forgotten the English, not being accustomed
to think of it as a mere European tongue. I suppose,
young man, you naturally speak the English less
fluently than any other of your five languages?”

“Ya!'

Again the smile struggled to the lips of Mary.

“I feel a deep interest in you as a stranger, and am sorry
we have only met to part so soon. Which way shall you
be likely to direct your steps, my Prussian young friend?”

“I go to a place which is callet Ravensnest—goot place
to sell vatch, dey tells me.”

“Ravensnest!” exclaimed the father.

“Ravensnest!” repeated the daughter, and that in tones
which put the hurdy-gurdy to shame.

“Why, Ravensnest is the place where I live, and the
parish of which I am the clergyman—the Protestant Episcopal
clergyman, I mean.”

This, then, was the Rev. Mr. Warren, the divine who
had been called to our church the very summer I left home,
and who had been there ever since! My sister Martha had
written me much concerning these people, and I felt as if I
had known them for years. Mr. Warren was a man of
good connexions, and some education, but of no fortune
whatever, who had gone into the Church—it was the church
of his ancestors, one of whom had actually been an English
bishop, a century or two ago—from choice, and contrary to
the wishes of his friends. As a preacher, his success had
never been great; but for the discharge of his duties no
man stood higher, and no man was more respected. The
living of St. Andrew's, Ravensnest, would have been poor
enough, had it depended on the contributions of the parishioners.
These last gave about one hundred and fifty dollars
a-year, for their share of the support of a priest. I gave

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another hundred, as regularly as clock-work, and had been
made to do so throughout a long minority; and my grandmother
and sister made up another fifty between them.
But there was a glebe of fifty acres of capital land, a woodlot,
and a fund of two thousand dollars at interest; the
whole proceeding from endowments made by my grandfather,
during his lifetime. Altogether, the living may have
been worth a clear five hundred dollars a-year, in addition
to a comfortable house, hay, wood, vegetables, pasture, and
some advantages in the way of small crops. Few country
clergymen were better off than the rector of St. Andrew's,
Ravensnest, and all as a consequence of the feudal and
aristocratic habits of the Littlepages, though I say it, perhaps,
who might better not, in times like these.

My letters had told me that the Rev. Mr. Warren was a
widower; that Mary was his only child; that he was a
truly pious, not a sham-pious, and a really zealous clergyman;
a man of purest truth, whose word was gospel—of
great simplicity and integrity of mind and character; that
he never spoke evil of others, and that a complaint of this
world and its hardships seldom crossed his lips. He loved
his fellow-creatures, both naturally and on principle;
mourned over the state of the diocese, and greatly preferred
piety even to high-churchism. High-churchman he
was, nevertheless; though it was not a high-churchmanship
that outweighed the loftier considerations of his christian
duties, and left him equally without opinions of his own in
matters of morals, and without a proper respect, in practice,
for those that he had solemnly vowed to maintain.

His daughter was described as a sweet-tempered, arch,
modest, sensible, and well-bred girl, that had received a far
better education than her father's means would have permitted
him to bestow, through the liberality and affection
of a widowed sister of her mother's, who was affluent, and
had caused her to attend the same school as that to which
she had sent her own daughters. In a word, she was a
most charming neighbour; and her presence at Ravensnest
had rendered Martha's annual visits to the “old house”
(built in 1785) not only less irksome, but actually pleasant.
Such had been my sister's account of the Warrens and
their qualities, throughout a correspondence of five years.

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I have even fancied that she loved this Mary Warren better
than she loved any of her uncle's wards, herself of course
excepted.

The foregoing flashed through my mind, the instant the
clergyman announced himself; but the coincidence of our
being on the way to the same part of the country, seemed
to strike him as forcibly as it did myself. What Mary
thought of the matter, I had no means of ascertaining.

“This is singular enough,” resumed Mr. Warren. “What
has directed your steps towards Ravensnest?”

“Dey tell mine ooncle 'tis goot place to sell moch vatch.”

“You have an uncle, then? Ah! I see him there in the
street, showing a watch at this moment to a gentleman. Is
your uncle a linguist, too, and has he been as well educated
as you seem to be yourself?”

“Certain—he moch more of a shentleman dan ast de
shentleman to whom he now sell vatch.”

“These must be the very persons,” put in Mary, a little
eagerly, “of whom Mr. Newcome spoke, as the”—the dear
girl did not like to say pedlars, after what I had told them
of my origin; so she added—“dealers in watches and
trinkets, who intended to visit our part of the country.”

“You are right, my dear, and the whole matter is now
clear. Mr. Newcome said he expected them to join us at
Troy, when we should proceed in the train together as far
as Saratoga. But here comes Opportunity herself, and her
brother cannot be far off.”

At that moment, sure enough, my old acquaintance, Opportunity
Newcome, came into the room, a public parlour,
with an air of great self-satisfaction, and a nonchalance of
manner that was not a little more peculiar to herself than it
is to most of her caste. I trembled for my disguise, since,
to be quite frank on a very delicate subject, Opportunity had
made so very dead a set at me—“setting a cap” is but a
pitiful phrase to express the assault I had to withstand—as
scarcely to leave a hope that her feminine instinct, increased
and stimulated with the wish to be mistress of the Nest
house, could possibly overlook the thousand and one personal
peculiarities that must still remain about one, whose
personal peculiarities she had made her particular study.

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CHAPTER VI.

“O, sic a geek she gave her head,
And sic a toss she gave her feather;
Man, saw ye ne'er a bonnier lass
Before, among the blooming heather?”
Allan Cunningham.

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

Ah! here are some charming French vignettes!” cried
Opportunity, running up to a table where lay some inferior
coloured engravings, that were intended to represent the
cardinal virtues, under the forms of tawdry female beauties.
The workmanship was French, as were the inscriptions.
Now, Opportunity knew just enough French to translate
these inscriptions, simple and school-girl as they were, as
wrong as they could possibly be translated, under the circumstances.

La Vertue,” cried Opportunity, in a high, decided way,
as if to make sure of an audience, “The Virtue; La Solitude,”
pronouncing the last word in a desperately English
accent, “The Solitude; La Charité, The Charity. It is
really delightful, Mary, as `Sarah Soothings' would say, to
meet with these glimmerings of taste in this wilderness of
the world.”

I wondered who the deuce “Sarah Soothings” could be,
but afterwards learned this was the nom-de-guerre of a
female contributor to the magazines, who, I dare say, silly
as she might be, was never silly enough to record the sentiments
Opportunity had just professed to repeat. As for
The la Charité, and The la Vertue, they did not in the
least surprise me; for Martha, the hussy, often made herself
merry by recording that young lady's tours de force in
French. On one occasion I remember she wrote me, that
when Opportunity wished to say On est venu me chercher,
instead of saying “I am come for,” in homely English,
which would have been the best of all, she had flown off in
the high flight of “Je suis venue pour.”

Mary smiled, for she comprehended perfectly the

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difference between la Solitude and the Solitude; but she said
nothing. I must acknowledge that I was so indiscreet as to
smile also, though, Opportunity's back being turned towards
us, these mutual signs of intelligence that escaped us both
through the eyes, opened a species of communication that,
to me at least, was infinitely agreeable.

Opportunity, having shown the owner of the strange
figure at which she had just glanced on entering the room,
that she had studied French, now turned to take a better
look at him. I have reason to think my appearance did not
make a very happy impression on her; for she tossed her
head, drew a chair, seated herself in the manner most opposed
to the descent of down, and opened her budget of news,
without the least regard to my presence, and apparently
with as little attention to the wishes and tastes of her companions.
Her accent, and jumping, hitching mode of speaking,
with the high key in which she uttered her sentiments,
too, all grated on my ears, which had become a little accustomed
to different habits, in young ladies in particular, in
the other hemisphere. I confess myself to be one of those
who regard an even, quiet, graceful mode of utterance, as
even a greater charm in a woman than beauty. Its effect
is more lasting, and seems to be directly connected with the
character. Mary Warren not only pronounced like one
accustomed to good society; but the modulations of her
voice, which was singularly sweet by nature, were even and
agreeable, as is usual with well-bred women, and as far as
possible from the jerking, fluttering, now rapid, now drawling
manner of Opportunity. Perhaps, in this age of “loose
attire,” loose habits, and free and easy deportment, the
speech denotes the gentleman, or the lady, more accurately
than any other off-hand test.

“Sen is enough to wear out anybody's patience!” exclaimed
Opportunity. “We must quit Troy in half an
hour; and I have visits that I ought to pay to Miss Jones,
and Miss White, and Miss Black, and Miss Green, and Miss
Brown, and three or four others; and I can't get him to
come near me.”

“Why not go alone?” asked Mary, quietly. “It is but
a step to two or three of the houses, and you cannot possibly
lose your way. I will go with you, if you desire it.”

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“Oh! lose my way? no, indeed! I know it too well for
that. I wasn't educated in Troy, not to know something of
the streets. But it looks so, to see a young lady walking
in the streets without a beau! I never wish to cross a room
in company without a beau; much less to cross a street.
No; it Sen don't come in soon, I shall miss seeing every
one of my friends, and that will be a desperate disappointment
to us all; but it can't be helped: walk without a beau
I will not, if I never see one of them again.”

“Will you accept of me, Miss Opportunity?” asked Mr.
Warren. “It will afford me pleasure to be of service to
you.”

“Lord! Mr. Warren, you don't think of setting up for a
beau at your time of life, do you? Everybody would see
that you 're a clergyman, and I might just as well go alone.
No, if Sen don't come in at once, I must lose my visits;
and the young ladies will be so put out about it, I know!
Araminta Maria wrote me, in the most particular manner,
never to go through Troy without stopping to see her, if I
didn't see another mortal; and Katherine Clotilda has as
much as said she would never forgive me if I passed her
door. But Seneca cares no more for the friendships of
young ladies, than he does”—Miss Newcome pronounced
this word “doos,” notwithstanding her education, as she did
“been,” “been,” and fifty others just as much out of the
common way—“But Seneca cares no more for the friendships
of young ladies, than he does for the young patroon.
I declare, Mr. Warren, I believe Sen will go crazy unless
the anti-renters soon get the best of it; he does nothing but
think and talk of `rents,' and `aristocracy,' and `poodle
usages,' from morning till night.”

We all smiled at the little mistake of Miss Opportunity,
but it was of no great consequence; and I dare say she
knew what she meant as well as most others who use the
same term, though they spell it more accurately. “Poodle
usages” are quite as applicable to anything now existing in
America, as “feudal usages.”

“Your brother is then occupied with a matter of the last
importance to the community of which he is a member,”
answered the clergyman, gravely. “On the termination of
this anti-rent question hangs, in my judgment, a vast amount

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of the future character, and much of the future destiny, of
New York.”

“I wonder, now! I 'm surprised to hear you say this,
Mr. Warren, for generally you 're thought to be unfriendly
to the movement. Sen says, however, that everything looks
well, and that he believes the tenants will get their lands
throughout the State before they 've done with it. He tells
me we shall have Injins enough this summer at Ravensnest.
The visit of old Mrs. Littlepage has raised a spirit that will
not easily be put down, he says.”

“And why should the visit of Mrs. Littlepage to the house
of her grandson, and to the house built by her own husband,
and in which she passed the happiest days of her life,
`raise a spirit,' as you call it, in any one in that part of the
country?”

“Oh! you 're episcopal, Mr. Warren; and we all know
how the Episcopals feel about such matters. But, for my
part, I don't think the Littlepages are a bit better than the
Newcomes, though I won't liken them to some I could name
at Ravensnest; but I don't think they are any better than
you, yourself; and why should they ask so much more of
the law than other folks?”

“I am not aware that they do ask more of the law than
others; and, if they do, I 'm sure they obtain less. The
law in this country is virtually administered by jurors, who
take good care to graduate justice, so far as they can, by a
scale suited to their own opinions, and, quite often, to their
prejudices. As the last are so universally opposed to persons
in Mrs. Littlepage's class in life, if there be a chance
to make her suffer, it is pretty certain it will be improved.”

“Sen says he can't see why he should pay rent to a
Littlepage, any more than a Littlepage should pay rent to
him.”

“I am sorry to hear it, since there is a very sufficient
reason for the former, and no reason at all for the latter.
Your brother uses the land of Mr. Littlepage, and that is a
reason why he should pay him rent. If the case were
reversed, then, indeed, Mr. Littlepage should pay rent to
your brother.”

“But what reason is there that these Littlepages should
go on from father to son, from generation to generation, as

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our landlords, when we 're just as good as they. It 's time
there was some change. Besides, only think, we 've been
at the mills, now, hard upon eighty years, grandpa having
first settled there; and we have had them very mills, now,
for three generations among us.”

“High time, therefore, Opportunity, that there should be
some change,” put in Mary, with a demure smile.

“Oh! you 're so intimate with Marthy Littlepage, I 'm
not surprised at anything you think or say. But reason is
reason, for all that. I haven't the least grudge in the world
against young Hugh Littlepage; if foreign lands haven't
spoilt him, as they say they 're desperate apt to do, he 's an
agreeable young gentleman, and I can't say that he used to
think himself any better than other folks.”

“I should say none of the family are justly liable to the
charge of so doing,” returned Mary.

“Well, I 'm amazed to hear you say that, Mary Warren.
To my taste, Marthy Littlepage is as disagreeable as she
can be. If the anti-rent cause had nobody better than she
is to oppose it, it would soon triumph.”

“May I ask, Miss Newcome, what particular reason you
have for so thinking?” asked Mr. Warren, who had kept his
eye on the young lady the whole time she had been thus
running on, with an interest that struck me as somewhat
exaggerated, when one remembered the character of the
speaker, and the value of her remarks.

“I think so, Mr. Warren, because everybody says so,”
was the answer. “If Marthy Littlepage don't think herself
better than other folks, why don't she act like other folks.
Nothing is good enough for her in her own conceit.”

Poor little Patt, who was the very beau idéal of nature
and simplicity, as nature and simplicity manifest themselves
under the influence of refinement and good-breeding, was
here accused of fancying herself better than this ambitious
young lady, for no other reason than the fact of the little
distinctive peculiarities of her air and deportment, which
Opportunity had found utterly unattainable, after one or two
efforts to compass them. In this very fact is the secret
of a thousand of the absurdities and vices that are going up
and down the land at this moment, like raging lions, seeking
whom they may devour. Men often turn to their

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statutebooks and constitution to find the sources of obvious evils,
that, in truth, have their origin in some of the lowest passions
of human nature. The entrance of Seneca at that
moment, however, gave a new turn to the discourse, though
it continued substantially the same. I remarked that Seneca
entered with his hat on, and that he kept his head covered
during most of the interview that succeeded, notwithstanding
the presence of the two young ladies and the divine.
As for myself, I had been so free as to remove my cap,
though many might suppose it was giving myself airs, while
others would have imagined it was manifesting a degree of
respect to human beings that was altogether unworthy of
freemen. It is getting to be a thing so particular and aristocratic
to take off the hat on entering a house, that few of
the humbler democrats of America now ever think of it!

As a matter of course, Opportunity upbraided her delinquent
brother for not appearing sooner to act as her beau;
after which, she permitted him to say a word for himself.
That Seneca was in high good-humour, was easily enough
to be seen; he even rubbed his hands together in the excess
of his delight.

“Something has happened to please Sen,” cried the sister,
her own mouth on a broad grin, in her expectation of
coming in for a share of the gratification. “I wish you
would get him to tell us what it is, Mary; he 'll tell you
anything.”

I cannot describe how harshly this remark grated on my
nerves. The thought that Mary Warren could consent to
exercise even the most distant influence over such a man as
Seneca Newcome, was to the last degree unpleasant to me;
and I could have wished that she would openly and indignantly
repel the notion. But Mary Warren treated the
whole matter very much as a person who was accustomed
to such remarks would be apt to do. I cannot say that she
manifested either pleasure or displeasure; but a cold indifference
was, if anything, uppermost in her manner. Possibly,
I should have been content with this; but I found it
very difficult to be so. Seneca, however, did not wait for
Miss Warren to exert her influence to induce him to talk,
but appeared well enough disposed to do it of his own
accord.

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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

“Something has happened to please me, I must own,” he
answered; “and I would as lief Mr. Warren should know
what it is, as not. Things go ahead finely among us antirenters,
and we shall carry all our p'ints before long!”

“I wish I were certain no points would be carried but
those that ought to be carried, Mr. Newcome,” was the
answer. “But what has happened, lately, to give a new
aspect to the affair?”

“We 're gaining strength among the politicians. Both
sides are beginning to court us, and the `spirit of the institutions'
will shortly make themselves respected.”

“I am delighted to hear that! It is in the intention of
the institutions to repress covetousness, and uncharitableness,
and all frauds, and to do nothing but what is right,”
observed Mr. Warren.

“Ah! here comes my friend the travelling jeweller,” said
Seneca, interrupting the clergyman, in order to salute my
uncle, who at that instant showed himself in the door of the
room, cap in hand. “Walk in, Mr. Dafidson, since that is
your name: Rev. Mr. Warren—Miss Mary Warren—Miss
Opportunity Newcome, my sister, who will be glad to look
at your wares. The cars will be detained on some special
business, and we have plenty of time before us.”

All this was done with a coolness and indifference of
manner which went to show that Seneca had no scruples
whatever on the subject of whom he introduced to any one.
As for my uncle, accustomed to these free and easy manners,
and probably not absolutely conscious of the figure he
cut in his disguise, he bowed rather too much like a gentleman
for one of his present calling, though my previous
explanation of our own connexion and fallen fortunes had
luckily prepared the way for this deportment.

“Come in, Mr. Dafidson, and open your box—my sister
may fancy some of your trinkets; I never knew a girl that
didn't.”

The imaginary pedlar entered, and placed his box on a
table near which I was standing, the whole party immediately
gathering around it. My presence had attracted no
particular attention from either Seneca or his sister, the
room being public, and my connexion with the vender of
trinkets known. In the mean time, Seneca was too full of

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his good nows to let the subject drop; while the watches,
rings, chains, brooches, bracelets, &c. &c., were passed
under examination.

“Yes, Mr. Warren, I trust we are about to have a complete
development of the spirit of our institutions, and that
in futur' there will be no privileged classes in New York, at
least.”

“The last will certainly be a great gain, sir,” the divine
coldly answered. “Hitherto, those who have most suppressed
the truth, and who have most contributed to the circulation
of flattering falsehoods, have had undue advantages
in America.”

Seneca, obviously enough, did not like this sentiment;
but I thought, by his manner, that he was somewhat accustomed
to meeting with such rebuffs from Mr. Warren.

“I suppose you will admit there are privileged classes
now among us, Mr. Warren?”

“I am ready enough to allow that, sir; it is too plain to
be denied.”

“Wa-all, I should like to hear you p'int 'em out; that I
might see if we agree in our sentiments.”

“Demagogues are a highly privileged class. The editors
of newspapers are another highly privileged class; doing
things, daily and hourly, which set all law and justice at
defiance, and invading, with perfect impunity, the most precious
rights of their fellow-citizens. The power of both is
enormous; and, as in all cases of great and irresponsible
power, both enormously abuse it.”

“Wa-all, that 's not my way of thinking at all. In my
judgment, the privileged classes in this country are your
patroons and your landlords; men that 's not satisfied with
a reasonable quantity of land, but who wish to hold more
than the rest of their fellow-creature's.”

“I am not aware of a single privilege that any patroon—
of whom, by the way, there no longer exists one, except in
name—or any landlord, possesses over any one of his fellow-citizens.”

“Do you call it no privilege for a man to hold all the
land there may happen to be in a township? I call that a
great privilege; and such as no man should have in a free
country. Other people want land as well as your Van

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Renssalaers and Littlepages; and other people mean to
have it, too.”

“On that principle, every man who owns more of any
one thing than his neighbour is privileged. Even I, poor
as I am, and am believed to be, am privileged over you, Mr.
Newcome. I own a cassock, and have two gowns, one old
and one new, and various other things of the sort, of which
you have not one. What is more, I am privileged in another
sense; since I can wear my cassock and gown, and
bands, and do wear them often; whereas you cannot wear
one of them all without making yourself laughed at.”

“Oh! but them are not privileges I care anything about;
if I did I would put on the things, as the law does not prohibit
it.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Newcome; the law does prohibit
you from wearing my cassock and gown contrary to
my wishes.”

“Wa-all, wa-all, Mr. Warren; we never shall quarrel
about that I don't desire to wear your cassack and gown.”

“I understand you, then; it is only the things that you
desire to use that you deem it a privilege for the law to leave
me.”

“I am afraid we shall never agree, Mr. Warren, about
this anti-rent business; and I 'm very sorry for it, as I
wish particularly to think as you do,” glancing his eye
most profanely towards Mary as he spoke. “I am for the
movement principle, while you are too much for the standstill
doctrine.”

“I am certainly for remaining stationary, Mr. Newcome,
if progress mean taking away the property of old and long
established families in the country, to give it to those whose
names are not to be found in our history; or, indeed, to give
it to any but those to whom it rightfully belongs.”

“We shall never agree, my dear sir, we shall never
agree;” then, turning towards my uncle with the air of superiority
that the vulgar so easily assume—“What do you
say to all this, friend Dafidson—are you up-rent or down-rent?”

“Ja, mynheer,” was the quiet answer;” “I always downs
mit der rent vens I leave a house or a garten. It is goot to
pay de debts; ja, it ist herr goot.”

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This answer caused the clergyman and his daughter to
smile, while Opportunity laughed outright.

“You won't make much of your Dutch friend, Sen,”
cried this buoyant young lady; “he says you ought to
keep on paying rent!”

“I apprehend Mr. Dafidson does not exactly understnad
the case,” answered Seneca, who was a good deal disconcerted,
but was bent on maintaining his point. “I have
understood you to say that you are a man of liberal principles,
Mr. Dafidson, and that you 've come to America to
enjoy the light of intelligence and the benefits of a free government.”

“Ja; ven I might coome to America, I say, vell, dat 'tis
a goot coontry, vhere an honest man might haf vhat he
'arns, ant keep it, too. Ja, ja! dat ist vhat I say, ant vhat
I dinks.”

“I understand you, sir; you come from a part of the
world where the nobles eat up the fat of the land, taking
the poor man's share as well as his own, to live in a country
where the law is, or soon will be, so equal that no citizen
will dare to talk about his estates, and hurt the feelin's
of such as haven't got any.”

My uncle so well affected an innocent perplexity at the
drift of this remark as to make me smile, in spite of an effort
to conceal it. Mary Warren saw that smile, and another
glance of intelligence was exchanged between us; though
the young lady immediately withdrew her look, a little consciously
and with a slight blush.

“I say that you like equal laws and equal privileges,
friend Dafidson,” continued Seneca, with emphasis; “and
that you have seen too much of the evils of nobility and of
feudal oppression in the old world, to wish to fall in with
them in the new.”

“Der noples ant der feudal privileges ist no goot,” answered
the trinket-pedlar, shaking his head with an appearance
of great distaste.

“Ay, I knew it would be so; you see, Mr. Warren, no
man who has ever lived under a feudal system can ever feel
otherwise.”

“But what have we to do with feudal systems, Mr. Newcome?
and what is there in common between the landlords

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of New York and the nobles of Europe, and between their
leases and feudal tenures?”

“What is there? A vast deal too much, sir, take my
word for it. Do not our very governors, even while ruthlessly
calling on one citizen to murder another—”

“Nay, nay, Mr. Newcome,” interrupted Mary Warren,
laughing, “the governors call on the citizens not to murder
each other.”

“I understand you, Miss Mary; but we shall make antirenters
of you both before we are done. Surely, sir, there
is a great deal too much resemblance between the nobles of
Europe and our landlords, when the honest and free-born
tenants of the last are obliged to pay tribute for permission
to live on the very land that they till, and which they cause
to bring forth its increase.”

“But men who are not noble let their lands in Europe;
nay, the very serfs, as they become free and obtain riches,
buy lands and let them, in some parts of the old world, as I
have heard and read.”

“All feudal, sir. The whole system is pernicious and
feudal, serf or no serf.”

“But, Mr. Newcome,” said Mary Warren, quietly, though
with a sort of demure irony in her manner that said she was
not without humour, and understood herself very well, “even
you let your land—land that you lease, too, and which you
do not own, except as you hire it from Mr. Littlepage.”

Seneca gave a hem, and was evidently disconcerted; but
he had too much of the game of the true progressive movement—
which merely means to lead in changes, though they
may lead to the devil—to give the matter up. Repeating
the hem, more to clear his brain than to clear his throat, he
hit upon his answer, and brought it out with something very
like triumph.

“That is one of the evils of the present system, Miss
Mary. Did I own the two or three fields you mean, and to
attend to which I have no leisure, I might sell them; but
now it is impossible, since I can give no deed. The instnat
my poor uncle dies—and he can't survive a week, being, as
you must know, nearly gone—the whole property, mills,
tavern, farms, timber-lot and all, fall in to young Hugh Littlepage,
who is off frolicking in Europe, doing no good to

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himself or others, I 'll venture to say, if the truth were
known. That is another of the hardships of the feudal system;
it enables one man to travel in idleness, wasting his
substance in foreign lands, while it keeps another at home,
at the plough-handles and the cart-tail.”

“And why do you suppose Mr. Hugh Littlepage wastes
his substance, and is doing himself and country no good in
foreign lands, Mr. Newcome? That is not at all the character
I hear of him, nor is it the result that I expect to see
from his travels.”

“The money he spends in Europe might do a vast deal
of good at Ravensnest, sir.”

“For my part, my dear sir,” put in Mary again, in her
quiet but pungent way, “I think it remarkable that neither
of our late governors has seen fit to enumerate the facts just
mentioned by Mr. Newcome among those that are opposed
to the spirit of the institutions. It is, indeed, a great hardship
that Mr. Seneca Newcome cannot sell Mr. Hugh Littlepage's
land.”

“I complain less of that,” cried Seneca, a little hastily,
“than of the circumstance that all my rights in the property
must go with the death of my uncle. That, at least, even
you, Miss Mary, must admit is a great hardship.”

“If your uncle were unexpectedly to revive, and live
twenty years, Mr. Newcome—”

“No, no, Miss Mary,” answered Seneca, shaking his
head in a melancholy manner; “that is absolutely impossible.
It would not surprise me to find him dead and buried
on our return.”

“But, admit that you may be mistaken, and that your
lease should continue—you would still have a rent to pay?”

“Of that I wouldn't complain in the least. If Mr. Dunning,
Littlepage's agent, will just promise, in as much as
half a sentence, that we can get a new lease on the old
terms, I 'd not say a syllable about it.”

“Well, here is one proof that the system has its advantages!”
exclaimed Mr. Warren, cheerfully. “I 'm delighted
to hear you say this; for it is something to have a class of
men among us whose simple promises, in a matter of money,
have so much value! It is to be hoped that their example
will not be lost.”

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“Mr. Newcome has made an admission I am also glad to
hear,” added Mary, as soon as her father had done speaking.
“His willingness to accept a new lease on the old
terms is a proof that he has been living under a good bargain
for himself hitherto, and that down to the present moment
he has been the obliged party.”

This was very simply said, but it bothered Seneca amazingly.
As for myself, I was delighted with it, and could
have kissed the pretty, arch creature who had just uttered
the remark; though I will own that as much might have
been done without any great reluctance, had she even held
her tongue. As for Seneca, he did what most men are apt
to do when they have the consciousness of not appearing
particularly well in a given point of view; he endeavoured
to present himself to the eyes of his companions in another.

“There is one thing, Mr. Warren, that I think you will
admit ought not to be,” he cried, exultingly, “whatever Miss
Mary thinks about it; and that is, that the Littlepage pew in
your church ought to come down.”

“I will not say that much, Mr. Newcome, though I rather
think my daughter will. I believe, my dear, you are of
Mr. Newcome's way of thinking in respect to this canopied
pew, and also in respect to the old hatchments?”

“I wish neither was in the church,” answered Mary, in
a low voice.

From that moment I was fully resolved neither should be,
as soon as I got into a situation to control the matter.

“In that I agree with you entirely, my child,” resumed
the clergyman; “and were it not for this movement connected
with the rents, and the false principles that have been
so boldly announced of late years, I might have taken on
myself the authority, as rector, to remove the hatchments.
Even according to the laws connected with the use of such
things, they should have been taken away a generation or
two back. As to the pew, it is a different matter. It is
private property; was constructed with the church, which
was built itself by the joint liberality of the Littlepages and
mother Trinity; and it would be a most ungracious act to
undertake to destroy it under such circumstances, and more
especially in the absence of its owner.”

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“You agree, however, that it ought not to be there?”
asked Seneca, with exultation.

“I wish with all my heart it were not. I dislike every
thing like worldly distinction in the house of God; and heraldic
emblems, in particular, seem to me very much out of
place where the cross is seen to be in its proper place.”

“Wa-all, now, Mr. Warren, I can't say I much fancy
crosses about churches either. What 's the use in raising
vain distinctions of any sort. A church is but a house, after
all, and ought so to be regarded.”

“True,” said Mary, firmly; “but the house of God.”

“Yes, yes, we all know, Miss Mary, that you Episcopalians
look more at outward things, and more respect outward
things, than most of the other denominations of the
country.”

“Do you call leases `outward things,' Mr. Newcome?”
asked Mary, archly; “and contracts, and bargains, and
promises, and the rights of property, and the obligation to
`do as you would be done by?”'

“Law! good folks,” cried Opportunity, who had been
all this time tumbling over the trinkets, “I wish it was
`down with the rent' for ever, with all my heart; and that
not another word might ever be said on the subject. Here
is one of the prettiest pencils, Mary, I ever did see; and its
price is only four dollars. I wish, Sen, you 'd let the rent
alone, and make me a present of this very pencil.”

As this was an act of which Seneca had not the least intention
of being guilty, he merely shifted his hat from one
side of his head to the other, began to whistle, and then he
coolly left the room. My uncle Ro profited by the occasion
to beg Miss Opportunity would do him the honour to
accept the pencil as an offering from himself.

“You an't surely in earnest!” exclaimed Opportunity,
flushing up with surprise and pleasure. “Why, you told
me the price was four dollars; and even that seems to me
desperate little!”

“Dat ist de price to anudder,” said the gallant trinket-dealer;
“but dat ist not de price to you, Miss Opportunity.
Ve shall trafel togedder; ant vhen ve gets to your coontry,
you vill dell me de best houses vhere I might go mit my
vatches ant drinkets.”

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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

“That I will; and get you in at the Nest House, in the
bargain,” cried Opportunity, pocketing the pencil without
further parley.

In the mean time my uncle selected a very neat seal, the
handsomest he had, being of pure metal, and having a real
topaz in it, and offered it to Mary Warren, with his best
bow. I watched the clergyman's daughter with anxiety,
as I witnessed the progress of this galantérie, doubting and
hoping at each change of the ingenuous and beautiful countenance
of her to whom the offering was made. Mary coloured,
smiled, seemed embarrassed, and, as I feared, for a
single moment doubting; but I must have been mistaken,
as she drew back, and, in the sweetest manner possible,
declined to accept the present. I saw that Opportunity's
having just adopted a different course added very much to
her embarrassment, as otherwise she might have said something
to lessen the seeming ungraciousness of the refusal.
Luckily for herself, however, she had a gentleman to deal
with, instead of one in the station that my uncle Ro had voluntarily
assumed. When this offering was made, the pretended
pedlar was ignorant altogether of the true characters
of the clergyman and his daughter, not even knowing that
he saw the rector of St. Andrew's, Ravensnest. But the
manner of Mary at once disabused him of an error into
which he had fallen through her association with Opportunity,
and he now drew back himself with perfect tact, bowing
and apologizing in a way that I thought must certainly
betray his disguise. It did not, however; for Mr. Warren,
with a smile that denoted equally satisfaction at his daughter's
conduct, and a grateful sense of the other's intended
liberality, but with a simplicity that was of proof, turned to
me and begged a tune on the flute which I had drawn from
my pocket and was holding in my hand, as expecting some
such invitation.

If I have any accomplishment, it is connected with music;
and particularly with the management of the flute. On this
occasion I was not at all backward about showing off, and
I executed two or three airs, from the best masters, with as
much care as if I had been playing to a salon in one of the
best quarters of Paris. I could see that Mary and her father
were both surprised at the execution, and that the first was

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delighted. We had a most agreeable quarter of an hour
together; and might have had two, had not Opportunity—
who was certainly well named, being apropos of everything—
began of her own accord to sing, though not without
inviting Mary to join her. As the latter declined this
public exhibition, as well as my uncle Ro's offering, Seneca's
sister had it all to herself; and she sang no less than
three songs, in quick succession, and altogether unasked. I
shall not stop to characterize the music or the words of
these songs, any further than to say they were all, more or
less, of the Jim Crow school, and executed in a way that
did them ample justice.

As it was understood that we were all to travel in the
same train, the interview lasted until we were ready to proceed;
nor did it absolutely terminate then. As Mary and
Opportunity sat together, Mr. Warren asked me to share
his seat, regardless of the hurdy-gurdy; though my attire,
in addition to its being perfectly new and neat, was by no
means of the mean character that it is usual to see adorning
street-music in general. On the whole, so long as the instrument
was not en evidence, I might not have seemed
very much out of place seated at Mr. Warren's side. In
this manner we proceeded to Saratoga, my uncle keeping
up a private discourse the whole way with Seneca, on matters
connected with the rent movement.

As for the divine and myself, we had also much interesting
talk together. I was questioned about Europe in general,
and Germany in particular; and had reason to think
my answers gave surprise as well as satisfaction. It was
not an easy matter to preserve the Doric of my assumed
dialect, though practice and fear contributed their share to
render me content to resort to it. I made many mistakes,
of course, but my listeners, for I soon ascertained that Mary
Warren, who sat on the seat directly before us, was a profoundly
attentive listener to all that passed. This circumstance
did not render me the less communicative, though it
did increase the desire I felt to render what I said worthy
of such a listener. As for Opportunity, she read a newspaper
a little while, munched an apple a very little while,

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and slept the rest of the way. But the journey between
modern Troy and Saratoga is not a long one, and was soon
accomplished.

CHAPTER VII.

“I will tell you;
If you' ll bestow a small (of what you have little),
Patience, a while, you 'll hear the belly's answer.”
Menenius Agrippa.

At the springs we parted, Mr. Warren and his friends
finding a conveyance, with their own horses, in readiness to
carry them the remainder of the distance. As for my uncle
and myself, it was understood that we were to get on in the
best manner we could, it being expected that we should
reach Ravensnest in the course of a day or two. According
to the theory of our new business, we ought to travel on
foot, but we had a reservation in petto that promised us also
the relief of a comfortable wagon of some sort or other.

“Well,” said my uncle, the moment we had got far
enough from our new acquaintances to be out of ear-shot,
“I must say one thing in behalf of Mr. Seneky, as he calls
himself, or Sen, as his elegant sister calls him, and that is,
that I believe him to be one of the biggest scoundrels the
state holds.”

“This is not drawing his character en beau,” I answered,
laughing. “But why do you come out so decidedly upon
him at this particular moment?”

“Because this particular moment happens to be the first
in which I have had an opportunity to say anything since
I have known the rascal. You must have remarked that
the fellow held me in discourse from the time we left Troy
until we stopped here.”

“Certainly; I could see that his tongue was in motion
unceasingly: what he said, I have to conjecture.”

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“He said enough to lay bare his whole character. Our
subject was anti-rent, which he commenced with a view to
explain it to a foreigner; but I managed to lead him on,
step by step, until he let me into all his notions and expectations
on the subject. Why, Hugh, the villain actually proposed
that you and I should enlist, and turn ourselves into
two of the rascally mock redskins.”

“Enlist! Do they still persevere so far as to keep up
that organization, in the very teeth of the late law?”

“The law! What do two or three thousand voters care
for any penal law, in a country like this? Who is to enforce
the law against them? Did they commit murder, and
were they even convicted, as might happen under the excitement
of such a crime, they very well know nobody would
be hanged. Honesty is always too passive in matters that
do not immediately press on its direct interests. It is for
the interest of every honest man in the State to set his face
against this anti-rent movement, and to do all he can, by
his vote and influence, to put it down into the dirt, out of
which it sprang, and into which it should be crushed; but
not one in a hundred, even of those who condemn it toto
cœlo
, will go a foot out of their way even to impede its progress.
All depends on those who have the power; and they
will exert that power so as to conciliate the active rogue,
rather than protect the honest man. You are to remember
that the laws are executed here on the principle that `what
is everybody's business is nobody's business.”'

“You surely do not believe that the authorities will wink
at an open violation of the laws!”

“That will depend on the characters of individuals; most
will, but some will not. You and I would be punished soon
enough, were there a chance, but the mass would escape.
Oh! we have had some precious disclosures in our corner
of the car! The two or three men who joined Newcome are
from anti-rent districts, and seeing me with their friend, little
reserve has been practised. One of those men is an anti-rent
lecturer; and, being somewhat didactic, he favoured me
with some of his arguments, seriatim.”

“How! Have they got to lectures? I should have supposed
the newspapers would have been the means of circulating
their ideas.”

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“Oh, the newspapers, like hogs swimming too freely,
have cut their own throats; and it seems to be fashionable,
just at this moment, not to believe them. Lecturing is the
great moral lever of the nation at present.”

“But a man can lie in a lecture, as well as in a newspaper.”

“Out of all question; and if many of the lecturers are
of the school of this Mr. Holmes—`Lecturer Holmes,' as
Seneca called him—but, if many are of his school, a pretty
set of liberty-takers with the truth must they be.”

“You detected him, then, in some of these liberties?”

“In a hundred: nothing was easier than for a man in
my situation to do that; knowing, as I did, so much of the
history of the land-titles of the State. One of his arguments
partakes so largely of the weak side of our system, that I
must give it to you. He spoke of the gravity of the disturbances—
of the importance to the peace and character of
the State of putting an end to them; and then, by way of
corollary to his proposition, produced a scheme for changing
the titles, IN ORDER TO SATISFY THE PEOPLE!”

“The people, of course, meaning the tenants; the landlords
and their rights passing for nothing.”

“That is one beautiful feature of the morality—an eye,
or a cheek, if you will—but here is the nose, and highly Roman
it is. A certain portion of the community wish to get
rid of the obligations of their contracts; and finding it cannot
be done by law, they resort to means that are opposed
to all law, in order to effect their purposes. Public law-breakers,
violators of the public peace, they make use of
their own wrong as an argument for perpetuating another
that can be perpetuated in no other way. I have been looking
over some of the papers containing proclamations, &c.,
and find that both law-makers and law-breakers are of one
mind as to this charming policy. Without a single manly
effort to put down the atrocious wrong that is meditated, the
existence of the wrong itself is made an argument for meeting
it with concessions, and thus sustaining it. Instead of
using the means the institutions have provided for putting
down all such unjust and illegal combinations, the combinations
are a sufficient reason of themselves why the laws
should be altered, and wrong be done to a few, in order that
many may be propitiated, and their votes secured.”

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“This is reasoning that can be used only where real
grievances exist. But there are no real grievances in the
case of the tenants. They may mystify weak heads in the
instance of the Manor leases, with their quarter sales, fat
hens, loads of wood and days' works; but my leases are all
on three lives, with rent payable in money, and with none
of the conditions that are called feudal, though no more feudal
than any other bargain to pay articles in kind. One
might just as well call a bargain made by a butcher to deliver
pork for a series of years feudal. However, feudal or
not, my leases, and those of most other landlords, are running
on lives; and yet, by what I can learn, the discontent
is general; and the men who have solemnly bargained to
give up their farms at the expiration of the lives are just as
warm for the `down-rent' and titles in fee, as the Manor
tenants themselves! They say that the obligations given
for actual purchases are beginning to be discredited.”

“You are quite right; and there is one of the frauds practised
on the world at large. In the public documents, only
the Manor leases, with their pretended feudal covenants
and their perpetuity, are kept in view, while the combination
goes to all leases, or nearly all, and certainly to all
sorts of leases, where the estates are of sufficient extent to
allow of the tenants to make head against the landlords. I
dare say there are hundreds of tenants, even on the property
of the Renssalaers, who are honest enough to be willing to
comply with their contracts if the conspirators would let
them; but the rapacious spirit is abroad among the occupants
of other lands, as well as among the occupants of
theirs, and the government considers its existence a proof
that concessions should be made. The discontented must
be appeased, right or not!”

“Did Seneca say anything on the subject of his own interests?”

“He did; not so much in conversation with me, as in the
discourse he held with `Lecturer Holmes.' I listened attentively,
happening to be familiar, through tradition and
through personal knowledge, with all the leading facts of
the case. As you will soon be called on to act in that matter
for yourself, I may as well relate them to you. They
will serve, also, as guides to the moral merits of the

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occupation of half the farms on your estate. These are things,
moreover, you would never know by public statements,
since all the good bargains are smothered in silence, while
those that may possibly have been a little unfavourable to
the tenant are proclaimed far and near. It is quite possible
that, among the many thousands of leased farms that are to
be found in the State, some bad bargains may have been
made by the tenants; but what sort of a government is that
which should undertake to redress evils of this nature? If
either of the Renssalaers, or you yourself, were to venture
to send a memorial to the Legislature setting forth the
grievances you labour under in connection with this very
`mill lot'—and serious losses do they bring to you, let me
tell you, though grievances, in the proper sense of the term,
they are not—you and your memorial would be met with a
general and merited shout of ridicule and derision. One
man has no rights, as opposed to a dozen.”

“So much difference is there between `de la Rochefoucauld
et de la Rochefoucauld
.”

“All the difference in the world: but let me give you the
facts, for they will serve as a rule by which to judge of
many others. In the first place, my great-grandfather Mordaunt,
the `patentee,' as he was called, first let the mill lot
to the grandfather of this Seneca, the tenant then being quite
a young man. In order to obtain settlers, in that early day,
it was necessary to give them great advantages, for there
was vastly more land than there were people to work it.
The first lease, therefore, was granted on highly advantageous
terms to that Jason Newcome, whom I can just remember.
He had two characters; the one, and the true,
which set him down as a covetous, envious, narrow-minded
provincial, who was full of cant and roguery. Some traditions
exist among us of his having been detected in stealing
timber, and in various other frauds. In public he is one of
those virtuous and hard-working pioneers who have transmitted
to their descendants all their claims, those that are
supposed to be moral, as well as those that are known to be
legal. This flummery may do for elderly ladies, who affect
snuff and bohea, and for some men who have minds of the
same calibre, but they are not circumstances to influence
such legislators and executives as are fit to be legislators

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and executives. Not a great while before my father's marriage,
the said Jason still living and in possession, the lease
expired, and a new one was granted for three lives, or
twenty-one years certain, of which one of the lives is still
running. That lease was granted, on terms highly favourable
to the tenant, sixty years since, old Newcome, luckily
for himself and his posterity, having named this long-lived
son as one of his three lives. Now Seneky, God bless him!
is known to lease a few of the lots that have fallen to his
share of the property for more money than is required to
meet all your rent on the whole. Such, in effect, has been
the fact with that mill-lot for the last thirty years, or even
longer; and the circumstance of the great length of time so
excellent a bargain has existed, is used as an argument why
the Newcomes ought to have a deed of the property for a
nominal price; or, indeed, for no price at all, if the tenants
could have their wishes.”

“I am afraid there is nothing unnatural in thus perverting
principles; half mankind appear to me really to get a
great many of their notions dessus dessous.”

“Half is a small proportion; as you will find, my boy,
when you grow older. But was it not an impudent proposal
of Seneca, when he wished you and me to join the
corps of `Injins?”'

“What answer did you make? Though I suppose it would
hardly do for us to go disguised and armed, now that the
law makes it a felony, even while our motive, at the bottom,
might be to aid the law.”

“Catch me at that act of folly! Why, Hugh, could they
prove such a crime on either of us, or any one connected
with an old landed family, we should be the certain victims.
No governor would dare pardon us. No, no; clemency is
a word reserved for the obvious and confirmed rogues.”

“We might get a little favour on the score of belonging
to a very powerful body of offenders.”

“True; I forgot that circumstance. The more numerous
the crimes and the criminals, the greater the probability
of impunity; and this, too, not on the general principle
that power cannot be resisted, but on the particular principle
that a thousand or two votes are of vast importance,

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where three thousand can turn an election. God only knows
where this thing is to end!”

We now approached one of the humbler taverns of the
place, where it was necessary for those of our apparent pretensions
to seek lodgings, and the discourse was dropped.
It was several weeks too early in the season for the Springs
to be frequented, and we found only a few of those in the
place who drank the waters because they really required
them. My uncle had been an old stager at Saratoga—a
beau of the “purest water,” as he laughingly described himself—
and he was enabled to explain all that it was necessary
for me to know. An American watering-place, however,
is so very much inferior to most of those in Europe,
as to furnish very little, in their best moments, beyond the
human beings they contain, to attract the attention of the
traveller.

In the course of the afternoon we availed ourselves of the
opportunity of a return vehicle to go as far as Sandy Hill,
where we passed the night. The next morning, bright and
early, we got into a hired wagon and drove across the country
until near night, when we paid for our passage, sent the
vehicle back, and sought a tavern. At this house, where
we passed the night, we heard a good deal of the “Injins” having
made their appearance on the Littlepage lands, and many
conjectures as to the probable result. We were in a township,
or rather on a property that was called Mooseridge,
and which had once belonged to us, but which, having been
sold, and in a great measure paid for by the occupants, no
one thought of impairing the force of the convenants under
which the parties held. The most trivial observer will soon
discover that it is only when something is to be gained that
the aggrieved citizen wishes to disturb a convenant. Now,
I never heard any one say a syllable against either of the
convenants of his lease under which he held his farm, let him
be ever so loud against those which would shortly compel
him to give it up! Had I complained of the fact—and such
facts abounded—that my predecessors had incautiously let
farms at such low prices that the lessees had been enabled
to pay the rents for half a century by subletting small portions
of them, as my uncle Ro had intimated, I should be

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pointed at as a fool. “Stick to your bond” would have been
the cry, and “Shylock” would have been forgotten. I do
not say that there is not a vast difference between the means
of acquiring intelligence, the cultivation, the manners, the
social conditions, and, in some senses, the social obligations
of an affluent landlord and a really hard-working, honest,
well-intentioned husbandman, his tenant—differences that
should dispose the liberal and cultivated gentleman to bear
in mind the advantages he has perhaps inherited, and not
acquired by his own means, in such a way as to render
him, in a certain degree, the repository of the interests of
those who hold under him; but, while I admit all this, and
say that the community which does not possess such a class
of men is to be pitied, as it loses one of the most certain
means of liberalizing and enlarging its notions, and of improving
its civilization, I am far from thinking that the men
of this class are to have their real superiority of position,
with its consequences, thrown into their faces only when
they are expected to give, while they are grudgingly denied
it on all other occasions! There is nothing so likely to advance
the habits, opinions, and true interests of a rural population,
as to have them all directed by the intelligence and
combined interests that ought to mark the connection between
landlord and tenant. It may do for one class of political
economists to prate about a state of things which supposes
every husbandman a freeholder, and rich enough to
maintain his level among the other freeholders of the State.
But we all know that as many minute gradations in means
must and do exist in a community, as there exists gradations
in characters. A majority soon will, in the nature of
things, be below the level of the freeholder, and by destroying
the system of having landlords and tenants, two great
evils are created—the one preventing men of large fortunes
from investing in lands, as no man will place his money
where it will be insecure or profitless, thereby cutting off
real estate generally from the benefits that might be and
would be conferred by their capital, as well as cutting it off
from the benefits of the increased price which arise from
having such buyers in the market; and the other is, to prevent
any man from being a husbandman who has not the
money necessary to purchase a farm. But they who want

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farms now, and they who will want votes next November,
do not look quite so far ahead as that, while shouting “equal
rights,' they are, in fact, for preventing the poor husbandman
from being anything but a day-labourer.

We obtained tolerably decent lodgings at our inn, though
the profoundest patriot America possesses, if he know anything
of other countries, or of the best materials of his own,
cannot say much in favour of the sleeping arrangements of
an ordinary country inn. The same money and the same
trouble would render that which is now the very beau idéal
of discomfort, at least tolerable, and in many instances good.
But who is to produce this reform? According to the opinions
circulated among us, the humblest hamlet we have has
already attained the highest point of civilization; and as for
the people, without distinction of classes, it is universally
admitted that they are the best educated, the acutest, and the
most intelligent in Christendom;—no, I must correct myself;
they are all this, except when they are in the act of leasing
lands, and then the innocent and illiterate husbandmen are
the victims of the arts of designing landlords, the wretches![1]

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We passed an hour on the piazza, after eating our supper,
and there being a collection of men assembled there,
inhabitants of the hamlet, we had an opportunity to get into
communication with them. My uncle sold a watch, and I
played on the hurdy-gurdy, by way of making myself popular.
After this beginning, the discourse turned on the engrossing
subject of the day, anti-rentism. The principal
speaker was a young man of about six-and-twenty, of a
sort of shabby genteel air and appearance, whom I soon
discovered to be the attorney of the neighbourhood. His
name was Hubbard, while that of the other principal speaker
was Hall. The last was a mechanic, as I ascertained, and
was a plain-looking working-man of middle age. Each of
these persons seated himself on a common “kitchen chair,”
leaning back against the side of the house, and, of course,
resting on the two hind legs of the rickety support, while
he placed his own feet on the rounds in front. The attitudes
were neither graceful nor picturesque, but they were
so entirely common as to excite no surprise. As for Hall,
he appeared perfectly contented with his situation, after
fidgeting a little to get the two supporting legs of his chair
just where he wanted them; but Hubbard's eye was restless,
uneasy, and even menacing, for more than a minute. He
drew a knife from his pocket—a small, neat pen-knife only, it
is true—gazed a little wildly about him, and just as I thought
he intended to abandon his nicely poised chair, and to make
an assault on one of the pillars that upheld the roof of the
piazza, the innkeeper advanced, holding in his hand several
narrow slips of pine board, one of which he offered at once
to 'Squire Hubbard. This relieved the attorney, who took
the wood, and was soon deeply plunged in, to me, the unknown
delights of whittling. I cannot explain the mysterious
pleasure that so many find in whittling, though the
prevalence of the custom is so well known. But I cannot
explain the pleasure so many find in chewing tobacco, or in
smoking. The precaution of the landlord was far from
being unnecessary, and appeared to be taken in good part
by all to whom he offered “whittling-pieces,” some six or
eight in the whole. The state of the piazza, indeed, proved
that the precaution was absolutely indispensable, if he did
not wish to see the house come tumbling down about his

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head. In order that those who have never seen such things
may understand their use, I will go a little out-of the way
to explain.

The inn was of wood, a hemlock frame with a “siding”
of clap-boards. In this there was nothing remarkable, many
countries of Europe, even, still building principally of wood.
Houses of lath and plaster were quite common, until within
a few years, even in large towns. I remember to have seen
some of these constructions, while in London, in close connection
with the justly celebrated Westminster Hall; and of
such materials is the much-talked-of miniature castle of
Horace Walpole, at Strawberry Hill. But the inn of Mooseridge
had some pretensions to architecture, besides being
three or four times larger than any other house in the place.
A piazza it enjoyed, of course; it must be a pitiful village
inn that does not: and building, accessaries and all, rejoiced
in several coats of a spurious white lead. The columns of
this piazza, as well as the clap-boards of the house itself,
however, exhibited the proofs of the danger of abandoning
your true whittler to his own instincts. Spread-eagles, five-points,
American flags, huzzahs for Polk! the initials of
names, and names at full length, with various other similar
conceits, records, and ebullitions of patriotic or party-otic
feelings, were scattered up and down with an affluence that
said volumes in favour of the mint in which they had been
coined. But the most remarkable memorial of the industry
of the guests was to be found on one of the columns; and
it was one at a corner, too, and consequently of double importance
to the superstructure—unless, indeed, the house
were built on that well-known principle of American architecture
of the last century, which made the architrave uphold
the pillar, instead of the pillar the architrave. The
column in question was of white pine, as usual—though latterly,
in brick edifices, bricks and stucco are much resorted
to—and, at a convenient height for the whittlers, it was literally
cut two-thirds in two. The gash was very neatly
made—that much must be said for it—indicating skill and
attention; and the surfaces of the wound were smoothed in
a manner to prove that appearances were not neglected.

“Vat do das?” I asked of the landlord, pointing to this
gaping wound in the main column of his piazza.

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“That! Oh! That's only the whittlers,” answered the
host, with a good-natural smile.

Assuredly the Americans are the best-natured people on
earth! Here was a man whose house was nearly tumbling
down about his ears—always bating the principle in architecture
just named—and he could smile as Nero may be
supposed to have done when fiddling over the conflagration
of Rome.

“But vhy might de vhittler vhittle down your house?”

“Oh! this is a free country, you know, and folks do
pretty much as they like in it,” returned the still smiling
host. “I let 'em cut away as long as I dared, but it was
high time to get out `whittling-pieces' I believe you must
own. It 's best always to keep a ruff (roof) over a man's
head, to be ready for bad weather. A week longer would
have had the column in two.”

“Vell, I dinks I might not bear dat! Vhat ist mein house
ist mein house, ant dey shall not so moch vittles.”

“By letting 'em so much vittles there, they so much vittles
in the kitchen; so you see there is policy in having
your under-pinnin' knocked away sometimes, if it 's done
by the right sort of folks.”

“You 're a stranger in these parts, friend?” observed
Hubbard, complacently, for by this time his “whittling-piece”
was reduced to a shape, and he could go on reducing
it, according to some law of the art of whittling, with which
I am not acquainted. “We are not so particular in such
matters as in some of your countries in the old world.”

“Ja—das I can see. But does not woot ant column cost
money in America, someding?”

“To be sure it does. There is not a man in the country
who would undertake to replace that pillar with a new one,
paint and all, for less than ten dollars.”

This was an opening for a discussion on the probable cost
of putting a new pillar into the place of the one that was injured.
Opinions differed, and quite a dozen spoke on the
subject; some placing the expense as high as fifteen dollars,
and others bringing it down as low as five. I was struck
with the quiet and self-possession with which each man delivered
his opinion, as well as with the language used. The
accent was uniformly provincial, that of Hubbard included,

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having a strong and unpleasant taint of the dialect of New
England in it; and some of the expressions savoured a little
of the stilts of the newspapers; but, on the whole, the language
was sufficiently accurate and surprisingly good, considering
the class in life of the speakers. The conjectures,
too, manifested great shrewdness and familiarity with practical
things, as well as, in a few instances, some reading.
Hall, however, actually surprised me. He spoke with a
precision and knowledge of mechanics that would have done
credit to a scholar, and with a simplicity that added to the
influence of what he said. Some casual remark induced me
to put in—“Vell, I might s'pose an Injin voult cut so das
column, but I might not s'pose a vhite man could.” This
opinion gave the discourse a direction towards anti-rentism,
and in a few minutes it caught all the attention of my uncle
Ro and myself.

“This business is going ahead after all!” observed Hubbard,
evasively, after others had had their say.

“More's the pity,” put in Hall. “It might have been
put an end to in a month, at any time, and ought to be put
an end to in a civilized land.”

“You will own, neighbour Hall, notwithstanding, it would
be a great improvement in the condition of the tenants all
over the State, could they change their tenures into free-holds.”

“No doubt 't would; and so it would be a great improvement
in the condition of any journeyman in my shop if he
could get to be the boss. But that is not the question here;
the question is, what right has the State to say any man
shall sell his property unless he wishes to sell it? A pretty
sort of liberty we should have if we all held our houses and
gardens under such laws as that supposes!”

“But do we not all hold our houses and gardens, and
farms, too, by some such law?” rejoined the attorney, who
evidently respected his antagonist, and advanced his own
opinions cautiously. “If the public wants land to use, it
can take it by paying for it.”

“Yes, to use; but use is everything. I 've read that old
report of the committee of the House, and don't subscribe to
its doctrines at all. Public `policy,' in that sense, doesn't
at all mean public `use.' If land is wanted for a road, or a

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fort, or a canal, it must be taken, under a law, by appraisement,
or the thing could not be had at all; but to pretend,
because one side to a contract wishes to alter it, that the State
has a right to interfere, on the ground that the discontented
can be bought off in this way easier and cheaper than they
can be made to obey the laws, is but a poor way of supporting
the right. The same principle, carried out, might prove
it would be easier to buy off pickpockets by compromising
than to punish them. Or it would be easy to get round all
sorts of contracts in this way.”

“But all governments use this power when it becomes
necessary, neighbour Hall.”

“That word necessary covers a great deal of ground,
'Squire Hubbard. The most that can be made of the necessity
here is to say it is cheaper, and may help along parties
to their objects better. No man doubts that the State
of New York can put down these anti-renters; and, I trust,
will put them down, so far as force is concerned. There is,
then, no other necessity in the case, to begin with, than the
necessity which demagogues always feel, of getting as many
votes as they can.”

“After all, neighbour Hall, these votes are pretty powerful
weapons in a popular government.”

“I 'll not deny that; and now they talk of a convention
to alter the constitution, it is a favourable moment to teach
such managers they shall not abuse the right of suffrage in
this way.”

“How is it to be prevented? You are an universal suffrage
man, I know?”

“Yes, I 'm for universal suffrage among honest folks;
but do not wish to have my rulers chosen by them that are
never satisfied without having their hands in their neighbours'
pockets. Let 'em put a clause into the constitution
providing that no town, or village, or county shall hold a
poll within a given time after the execution of process has
been openly resisted in it. That would take the conceit out
of all such law-breakers, in very short order.”

It was plain that this idea struck the listeners, and several
even avowed their approbation of the scheme aloud. Hubbard
received it as a new thought, but was more reluctant

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to admit its practicability. As might be expected from a
lawyer accustomed to practise in a small way, his objections
savoured more of narrow views than of the notions of a
statesman.

“How would you determine the extent of the district to
be disfranchised?” he asked.

“Take the legal limits as they stand. If process be resisted
openly by a combination strong enough to look down
the agents of the law in a town, disfranchise that town for
a given period; if in more than one town, disfranchise the
offending towns; if a county, disfranchise the whole
county.”

“But, in that way you would punish the innocent with
the guilty.”

“It would be for the good of all; besides, you punish the
innocent for the guilty, or with the guilty rather, in a thousand
ways. You and I are taxed to keep drunkards from
starving, because it is better to do that than to offend humanity
by seeing men die of hunger, or tempting them to
steal. When you declare martial law you punish the innocent
with the guilty, in one sense; and so you do in a hundred
cases. All we have to ask is, if it be not wiser and
better to disarm demagogues, and those disturbers of the
public peace who wish to pervert their right of suffrage to
so wicked an end, by so simple a process, than to suffer
them to effect their purposes by the most flagrant abuse of
their political privileges?”

“How would you determine when a town should lose the
right of voting?”

“By evidence given in open court. The judges would
be the proper authority to decide in such a case; and they
would decide, beyond all question, nineteen times in twenty,
right. It is the interest of every man who is desirous of
exercising the suffrage on right principles, to give him some
such protection against them that wish to exercise the suffrage
on wrong. A peace-officer can call on the posse
comitatus
or on the people to aid him; if enough appear to
put down the rebels, well and good; but if enough do not
appear, let it be taken as proof that the district is not worthy
of giving the votes of freemen. They who abuse such a

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liberty as man enjoys in this country are the least entitled
to our sympathies. As for the mode, that could easily be
determined, as soon as you settled the principle.”

The discourse went on for an hour, neighbour Hall giving
his opinions still more at large. I listened equally with
pleasure and surprise. “These, then, after all,” I said to
myself, “are the real bone and sinew of the country. There
are tens of thousands of this sort of men in the State, and
why should they be domineered over, and made to submit
to a legislation and to practices that are so often without
principle, by the agents of the worst part of the community?
Will the honest for ever be so passive, while the corrupt and
dishonest continue so active?” On my mentioning these
notions to my uncle, he answered:

“Yes; it ever has been so, and, I fear, ever will be so.
There is the curse of this country,” pointing to a table covered
with newspapers, the invariable companion of an American
inn of any size. “So long as men believe what they
find there, they can be nothing but dupes or knaves.”

“But there is good in newspapers.”

“That adds to the curse. If they were nothing but lies,
the world would soon reject them; but how few are able to
separate the true from the false! Now, how few of these
papers speak the truth about this very anti rentism! Occasionally
an honest man in the corps does come out; but
where one does this, ten affect to think what they do not
believe, in order to secure votes; — votes, votes, votes. In
that simple word lies all the mystery of the matter.”

“Jefferson said, if he were to choose between a government
without newspapers, or newspapers without a government,
he would take the last.”

“Ay, Jefferson did not mean newspapers as they are now.
I am old enough to see the change that has taken place. In
his day, three or four fairly convicted lies would damn any
editor; now, there are men that stand up under a thousand.
I 'll tell you what, Hugh, this country is jogging on under
two of the most antagonist systems possible — Christianity
and the newspapers. The first is daily hammering into
every man that he is a miserable, frail, good-for-nothing
being, while the last is eternally proclaiming the perfection
of the people and the virtues of self-government.”

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“Perhaps too much stress ought not to be laid on either.”

“The first is certainly true, under limitations that we all
understand; but as to the last, I will own I want more evidence
than a newspaper eulogy to believe it.”

After all, my uncle Ro is sometimes mistaken; though
candour compels me to acknowledge that he is very often
right.

eaf077v1.n1

[1] Mr. Hugh Littlepage writes a little sharply, but there is truth in
all he says, at the bottom. His tone is probably produced by the fact
that there is so serious an attempt to deprive him of his old paternal
estate, an attempt which is receiving support in high quarters. In
addition to this provocation, the Littlepages, as the manuscript shows
farther on, are traduced, as one means of effecting the objects of the
anti-renters; no man, in any community in which it is necessary to
work on public sentiment in order to accomplish such a purpose, ever
being wronged without being calumniated. As respects the inns, truth
compels me, as an old traveller, to say that Mr. Littlepage has much
reason for what he says. I have met with a better bed in the lowest
French tavern I ever was compelled to use, and in one instance I slept
in an inn frequented by carters, than in the best purely country inn in
America. In the way of neatness, however, more is usually to be
found in our New York village taverns than in the public hotels of
Paris itself. As for the hit touching the intelligence of the people, it
is merited; for I have myself heard subtle distinctions drawn to show
that the “people” of a former generation were not as knowing as the
“people” of this, and imputing the covenants of the older leases to
that circumstance, instead of imputing them to their true cause, the
opinions and practices of the times. Half a century's experience would
induce me to say that the “people” were never particularly dull in
making a bargain. — Editor.

CHAPTER VIII.

“I see thee still;
Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou 'rt with me through the gloomy night;
In dreams I meet thee as of old:
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear:
In every sense to memory dear
I see thee still.”
Sprague.

It was just ten in the morning of the succeeding day
when my uncle Ro and myself came in sight of the old
house at the Nest. I call it old, for a dwelling that has
stood more than half a century acquires a touch of the venerable,
in a country like America. To me it was truly old,
the building having stood there, where I then saw it, for a
period more than twice as long as that of my own existence,
and was associated with all my early ideas. From childhood
I had regarded that place as my future home, as it
had been the home of my parents and grand-parents, and,
in one sense, of those who had gone before them for two
generations more. The whole of the land in sight—the rich
bottoms, then waving with grass—the side-hills, the woods,
the distant mountains—the orchards, dwellings, barns, and
all the other accessaries of rural life that appertained to the
soil, were mine, and had thus become without a single act of

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injustice to any human being, so far as I knew and believed.
Even the red man had been fairly bought off by Herman
Mordaunt, the patentee, and so Susquesus, the Redskin of
Ravensnest, as our old Onondago was often called, had ever
admitted the fact to be. It was natural that I should love
an estate thus inherited and thus situated. No civilized
man, no man, indeed, savage or not, had ever been
the owner of those broad acres, but those who
were of my own blood
. This is what few besides Americans
can say; and when it can be said truly, in parts of
the country where the arts of life have spread, and amid the
blessings of civilization, it becomes the foundation of a sentiment
so profound, that I do not wonder those adventurerserrant
who are flying about the face of the country, thrusting
their hands into every man's mess, have not been able
to find it among their other superficial discoveries. Nothing
can be less like the ordinary cravings of avarice than the
feeling that is thus engendered; and I am certain that the
general tendency of such an influence is to elevate the feelings
of him who experiences it.

And there were men among us, high in political station—
high as such men ever can get, for the consequence of
having such men in power is to draw down station itself
nearer to their own natural level—but men in power had
actually laid down propositions in political economy which,
if carried out, would cause me to sell all that estate, reserving,
perhaps, a single farm for my own use, and reinvest
the money in such a way as that the interest I obtained
might equal my present income! It is true, this theory was
not directly applied to me, as my farms were to fall in by
the covenants of their leases, but it had been directly applied
to Stephen and William Van Rensselaer, and, by implication,
to others; and my turn might come next. What business
had the Rensselaers, or the Livingstons, or the Hunters,
or the Littlepages, or the Verplancks, or the Morgans, or the
Wadsworths, or five hundred others similarly placed, to entertain
“sentiments” that interfered with “business,” or that
interfered with the wishes of any straggling Yankee who
had found his way out of New England, and wanted a particular
farm on his own terms? It is aristocratic to put sentiment
in opposition to trade; and TRADE ITSELF IS NOT TO

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BE TRADE ANY LONGER THAN ALL THE PROFIT IS TO BE
FOUND ON THE SIDE OF NUMBERS. Even the principles of
holy trade are to be governed by majorities!

Even my uncle Ro, who never owned a foot of the property,
could not look at it without emotion. He too had
been born there—had passed his childhood there—and loved
the spot without a particle of the grovelling feeling of avarice.
He took pleasure in remembering that our race had
been the only owners of the soil on which he stood, and had
that very justifiable pride which belongs to enduring respectability
and social station.

“Well, Hugh,” he cried, after both of us had stood gazing
at the grey walls of the good and substantial, but certainly
not very beautiful dwelling, “here we are, and we now may
determine on what is next to be done. Shall we march
down to the village, which is four miles distant, you will
remember, and get our breakfasts there?—shall we try one
of your tenants?—or shall we plunge at once in medias res,
and ask hospitality of my mother and your sister?”

“The last might excite suspicion, I fear, sir. Tar and
feathers would be our mildest fate did we fall into the hands
of the Injins.”

“Injins! Why not go at once to the wigwam of Susquesus,
and get out of him and Yop the history of the state
of things. I heard them speaking of the Onondago at our
tavern last night, and while they said he was generally
thought to be much more than a hundred, that he was still
like a man of eighty. That Indian is full of observation,
and may let us into some of the secrets of his brethren.”

“They can at least give us the news from the family;
and though it might seem in the course of things for pedlars
to visit the Nest House, it will be just as much so for them
to halt at the wigwam.”

This consideration decided the matter, and away we went
towards the ravine or glen, on the side of which stood the
primitive-looking hut that went by the name of the “wigwam.”
The house was a small cabin of logs, neat and
warm, or cool, as the season demanded. As it was kept
up, and was whitewashed, and occasionally furnished anew
by the landlord—the odious creature! he who paid for so
many similar things in the neighbourhood—it was never

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unfit to be seen, though never of a very alluring, cottagelike
character. There was a garden, and it had been properly
made that very season, the negro picking and pecking
about it, during the summer, in a way to coax the vegetables
and fruits on a little, though I well knew that the regular
weedings came from an assistant at the Nest, who was
ordered to give it an eye and an occasional half-day. On
one side of the hut there was a hog-pen and a small stable
for a cow; but on the other the trees of the virgin forest,
which had never been disturbed in that glen, overshadowed
the roof. This somewhat poetical arrangement was actually
the consequence of a compromise between the tenants of the
cabin, the negro insisting on the accessories of his rude civilization,
while the Indian required the shades of the woods
to reconcile him to his position. Here had these two singularly
associated beings—the one deriving his descent from
the debased races of Africa, and the other from the fierce
but lofty-minded aboriginal inhabitant of this continent—
dwelt nearly for the whole period of an ordinary human
life. The cabin itself began to look really ancient, while
those who dwelt in it had little altered within the memory
of man! Such instances of longevity, whatever theorists
may say on the subject, are not unfrequent among either
the blacks or the “natives,” though probably less so among
the last than among the first, and still less so among the
first of the northern than of the southern sections of the republic.
It is common to say that the great age so often
attributed to the people of these two races is owing to ignorance
of the periods of their births, and that they do not
live longer than the whites. This may be true, in the main,
for a white man is known to have died at no great distance
from Ravensnest, within the last five-and-twenty years, who
numbered more than his six score of years; but aged negroes
and aged Indians are nevertheless so common, when
the smallness of their whole numbers is remembered, as to
render the fact apparent to most of those who have seen
much of their respective people.

There was no highway in the vicinity of the wigwam, for
so the cabin was generally called, though wigwam, in the
strict meaning of the word, it was not. As the little building
stood in the grounds of the Nest House, which contain

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two hundred acres, a bit of virgin forest included, and exclusively
of the fields that belonged to the adjacent farm, it
was approached only by foot-paths, of which several led to
and from it, and by one narrow, winding carriage-road,
which, in passing for miles through the grounds, had been
led near the hut, in order to enable my grandmother and
sister, and, I dare say, my dear departed mother, while she
lived, to make their calls in their frequent airings. By this
sweeping road we approached the cabin.

“There are the two old fellows, sunning themselves this
fine day!” exclaimed my uncle, with something like tremor
in his voice, as we drew near enough to the hut to distinguish
objects. “Hugh, I never see these men without a
feeling of awe, as well as of affection. They were the
friends, and one was the slave of my grandfather; and as
long as I can remember, have they been aged men! They
seem to be set up here as monuments of the past, to connect
the generations that are gone with those that are to come.”

“If so, sir, they will soon be all there is of their sort. It
really seems to me that, if things continue much longer in
their present direction, men will begin to grow jealous and
envious of history itself, because its actors have left descendants
to participate in any little credit they may have
gained.”

“Beyond all contradiction, boy, there is a strange perversion
of the old and natural sentiments on this head among
us. But you must bear in mind the fact, that of the two
millions and a half the State contains, not half a million,
probably, possess any of the true York blood, and can consequently
feel any of the sentiments connected with the
birth-place and the older traditions of the very society in
which they live. A great deal must be attributed to the
facts of our condition; though I admit those facts need not,
and ought not to unsettle principles. But look at those two
old fellows! There they are, true to the feeling and habits
of their races, even after passing so long a time together in
this hut. There squats Susquesus on a stone, idle and disdaining
work, with his rifle leaning against the apple-tree;
while Jaaf—or Yop, as I believe it is better to call him—is
pecking about in the garden, still a slave at his work, in
fancy at least.”

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“And which is the happiest, sir—the industrious old man
or the idler?”

“Probably each finds most happiness in indulging his
own early habits. The Onondago never would work, however,
and I have heard my father say, great was his happiness
when he found he was to pass the remainder of his
days in otium cum dignitate, and without the necessity of
making baskets.”

“Yop is looking at us; had we not better go up at once
and speak to them?”

“Yop may stare the most openly, but my life on it the
Indian sees twice as much. His faculties are the best, to
begin with; and he is a man of extraordinary and characteristic
observation. In his best days nothing ever escaped
him. As you say, we will approach.”

My uncle and myself then consulted on the expediency
of using broken English with these two old men, of which,
at first, we saw no necessity; but when we remembered
that others might join us, and that our communications with
the two might be frequent for the next few days, we changed
our minds, and determined rigidly to observe our incognitos.

As we came up to the door of the hut, Jaaf slowly left his
little garden and joined the Indian, who remained immoveable
and unmoved on the stone which served him for a seat.
We could see but little change in either during the five years
of our absence, each being a perfect picture, in his way, of
extreme but not decrepit old age in the men of his race. Of
the two, the black—if black he could now be called, his colour
being a muddy grey—was the most altered, though
that seemed scarcely possible when I saw him last. As for
the Trackless, or Susquesus, as he was commonly called, his
temperance throughout a long life did him good service,
and his half-naked limbs and skeleton-like body, for he wore
the summer dress of his people, appeared to be made of a
leather long steeped in a tannin of the purest quality. His
sinews, too, though much stiffened, seemed yet to be of
whip-cord, and his whole frame a species of indurated mummy
that retained its vitality. The colour of the skin was
less red than formerly, and more closely approached to that

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of the negro, as the latter now was, though perceptibly different.

“Sago—sago,” cried my uncle, as we came quite near,
seeing no risk in using that familiar semi-Indian salutation.[2]
“Sago, sago, dis charmin' mornin; in my tongue, dat might
be guten tag.”

“Sago,” returned the Trackless, in his deep, guttural
voice, while old Yop brought two lips together that resembled
thick pieces of overdone beef-steak, fastened his redencircled
gummy eyes on each of us in turn, pouted once
more, working his jaws as if proud of the excellent teeth they
still held, and said nothing. As the slave of a Littlepage, he
held pedlars as inferior beings; for the ancient negroes of
New York ever identified themselves, more or less, with the
families to which they belonged, and in which they so often
were born. “Sago,” repeated the Indian, slowly, courteously,
and with emphasis, after he had looked a moment longer
at my uncle, as if he saw something about him to command
respect.

“Dis ist charmin' day, frients,” said uncle Ro, placing
himself coolly on a log of wood that had been hauled for
the stove, and wiping his brow. “Vat might you calls dis
coontry?”

“Dis here?” answered Yop, not without a little contempt.
“Dis is York Colony; where you come from to ask sich a
question?”

“Charmany. Dat ist far off, but a goot coontry; ant
dis ist goot coontry too.”

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“Why you leab him, den, if he be good country, eh?”

“Vhy you leaf Africa, canst you dell me dat?” retorted
uncle Ro, somewhat coolly.

“Nebber was dere,” growled old Yop, bringing his blubber
lips together somewhat in the manner the boar works
his jaws when it is prudent to get out of his way. “I 'm
York-nigger born, and nebber seen no Africa; and nebber
want to see him, nudder.”

It is scarcely necessary to say that Jaaf belonged to a
school by which the term of “coloured gentleman” was never
used. The men of his time and stamp called themselves
“niggers;” and ladies and gentlemen of that age took them
at their word, and called them “niggers” too; a term that
no one of the race ever uses now, except in the way of reproach,
and which, by one of the singular workings of our
very wayward and common nature, he is more apt to use
than any other, when reproach is intended.

My uncle paused a moment to reflect before he continued
a discourse that had not appeared to commence under very
flattering auspices.

“Who might lif in dat big stone house?” asked uncle Ro,
as soon as he thought the negro had had time to cool a
little.

“Anybody can see you no Yorker, by dat werry speech,”
answered Yop, not at all mollified by such a question. “Who
should lib dere but Gin'ral Littlepage?”

“Vell, I dought he wast dead, long ago.”

“What if he be? It 's his house, and he lib in it; and
ole young missus lib dere too.”

Now, there had been three generations of generals among
the Littlepages, counting from father to son. First, there
had been Brigadier General Evans Littlepage, who held
that rank in the militia, and died in service during the revolution.
The next was Brigadier General Cornelius Littlepage,
who got his rank by brevet, at the close of the same
war, in which he had actually figured as a colonel of the
New York line. Third, and last, was my own grandfather,
Major General Mordaunt Littlepage: he had been a captain
in his father's regiment at the close of the same struggle,
got the brovet of major at its termination, and rose to
be a Major General of the militia, the station he held for

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many years before he died. As soon as the privates had
the power to elect their own officers, the position of a Major
General in the militia ceased to be respectable, and few gentlemen
could be induced to serve. As might have been
foreseen, the militia itself fell into general contempt, where
it now is, and where it will ever remain until a different
class of officers shall be chosen. The people can do a great
deal, no doubt, but they cannot make a “silk purse out of
a sow's ear.” As soon as officers from the old classes shall
be appointed, the militia will come up; for in no interest in
life is it so material to have men of certain habits, and notions,
and education, in authority, as in those connected with
the military service. A great many fine speeches may be
made, and much patriotic eulogy expended on the intrinsic
virtue and intelligence of the people, and divers projects entertained
to make “citizen-soldiers,” as they are called; but
citizens never can be, and never will be turned into soldiers
at all, good or bad, until proper officers are placed over
them. To return to Yop—

“Bray vhat might be der age of das laty dat you callet
olt young missus?” asked my uncle.

“Gosh! she nutten but gal—born sometime just a'ter ole
French war. Remember her well 'nough when she Miss
Dus Malbone. Young masser Mordaunt take fancy to her,
and make her he wife.”

“Vell, I hopes you hafn't any objection to der match!”

“Not I; she clebber young lady den, and she werry
clebber young lady now.”

And this of my venerable grandmother, who had fairly
seen her four-score years!

“Who might be der master of das big house now?”

“Gin'ral Littlepage, does n't I tell ye! Masser Mordaunt's
name, my young master. Sus, dere, only Injin; he
nebber so lucky as hab a good master. Niggers gettin'
scarce, dey tells me, now-a-days, in dis world!”

“Injins, too, I dinks; dere ist no more redskins might be
blenty.”

The manner in which the Onondago raised his figure, and
the look he fastened on my uncle, were both fine and startling.
As yet he had said nothing beyond the salutation;
but I could see he now intended to speak.

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“New tribe,” he said, after regarding us for half a minute
intently; “what you call him — where he come from?”

“Ja, ja—das ist der anti-rent redskins. Haf you seen
'em, Trackless?”

“Sartain; come to see me—face in bag — behave like
squaw; poor Injin—poor warrior!”

“Yees, I believes dat ist true enough. I can't bear soch
Injin! — might not be soch Injin in world. Vhat you call
'em, eh?”

Susquesus shook his head slowly, and with dignity.
Then he gazed intently at my uncle; after which he fastened
his eyes, in a similar manner on me. In this manner
his looks turned from one to the other for some little time,
when he again dropped them to the earth, calmly and in
silence. I took out the hurdy-gurdy, and began to play a
lively air—one that was very popular among the American
blacks, and which, I am sorry to say, is getting to be not
less so among the whites. No visible effect was produced
on Susquesus, unless a slight shade of contempt was visible
on his dark features. With Jaaf, however, it was very different.
Old as he was, I could see a certain nervous twitching
of the lower limbs, which indicated that the old fellow
actually felt some disposition to dance. It soon passed
away, though his grim, hard, wrinkled, dusky, grey countenance
continued to gleam with a sort of dull pleasure for
some time. There was nothing surprising in this, the indifference
of the Indian to melody being almost as marked as
the negro's sensitiveness to its power.

It was not to be expected that men so aged would be disposed
to talk much. The Onondago had ever been a silent
man; dignity and gravity of character uniting with prudence
to render him so. But Jaaf was constitutionally garrulous,
though length of days had necessarily much diminished
the propensity. At that moment a fit of thoughtful
and melancholy silence came over my uncle, too, and all
four of us continued brooding on our own reflections for two
or three minutes after I had ceased to play. Presently the
even, smooth approach of carriage-wheels was heard, and
a light, summer vehicle that was an old acquaintance, came
whirling round the stable, and drew up within ten feet of
the spot where we were all seated.

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My heart was in my mouth, at this unexpected interruption,
and I could perceive that my uncle was scarcely less
affected. Amid the flowing and pretty drapery of summer
shawls, and the other ornaments of the female toilet, were
four youthful and sunny faces, and one venerable with
years. In a word, my grandmother, my sister, and my
uncle's two other wards, and Mary Warren, were in the
carriage; yes, the pretty, gentle, timid, yet spirited and
intelligent daughter of the rector was of the party, and
seemingly quite at home and at her ease, as one among
friends. She was the first to speak even, though it was in
a low, quiet voice, addressed to my sister, and in words that
appeared extorted by surprise.

“There are the very two pedlars of whom I told you,
Martha,” she said, “and now you may hear the flute well
played.”

“I doubt if he can play better than Hugh,” was my dear
sister's answer. “But we 'll have some of his music, if it
be only to remind us of him who is so far away.”

“The music we can and will have, my child,” cried my
grandmother, cheerfully; “though that is not wanted to
remind us of our absent boy. Good morrow, Susquesus;
I hope this fine day agrees with you.”

“Sago,” returned the Indian, making a dignified and
even graceful forward gesture with one arm, though he did
not rise. “Weadder good—Great Spirit good, dat reason.
How squaws do?”

“We are all well, I thank you, Trackless. Good morrow,
Jaaf; how do you do, this fine morning?”

Yop, or Jaap, or Jaaf, rose tottering, made a low obeisance,
and then answered in the semi-respectful, semi-familiar
manner of an old, confidential family servant, as the
last existed among our fathers:

“T'ank 'ee, Miss Dus, wid all my heart,” he answered.
“Pretty well to-day; but ole Sus, he fail, and grow ol'er
and ol'er desp'ate fast!”

Now, of the two, the Indian was much the finest relic of
human powers, though he was less uneasy and more stationary
than the black. But the propensity to see the mote
in the eye of his friend, while he forgot the beam in his
own, was a long-established and well-known weakness of

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Jaaf, and its present exhibition caused everybody to smile.
I was delighted with the beaming, laughing eyes of Mary
Warren in particular, though she said nothing.

“I cannot say I agree with you, Jaaf,” returned my
smiling grandmother. “The Trackless bears his years
surprisingly; and I think I have not seen him look better
this many a day than he is looking this morning. We are
none of us as young as we were when we first became acquainted,
Jaaf — which is now near, if not quite, three-score
years ago.”

“You nuttin' but gal, nudder,” growled the negro. “Ole
Sus be raal ole fellow; but Miss Dus and Masser Mordaunt,
dey get married only tudder day. Why dat was a'ter de
revylooshen!”

“It was, indeed,” replied the venerable woman, with a
touch of melancholy in her tones; “but the revolution took
place many, many a long year since!”

“Well, now, I be surprise, Miss Dus! How you call
dat so long, when he only be tudder day?” retorted the
pertinacious negro, who began to grow crusty, and to speak
in a short, spiteful way, as if displeased by hearing that to
which he could not assent. “Masser Corny was little ole,
p'r'aps, if he lib, but all de rest ob you nuttin' but children.
Tell me one t'ing, Miss Dus, be it true dey's got a town at
Satanstoe?”

“An attempt was made, a few years since, to turn the
whole country into towns, and, among other places, the
Neck; but I believe it will never be anything more than a
capital farm.”

“So besser. Dat good land, I tell you! One acre down
dere wort' more dan twenty acre up here.”

“My grandson would not be pleased to hear you say
that, Jaaf.”

“Who your grandson, Miss Dus. Remember you hab
little baby tudder day; but baby can't hab baby.”

“Ah, Jaaf, my old friend, my babies have long since
been men and women, and are drawing on to old age. One,
and he was my first born, is gone before us to a better
world, and his boy is now your young master. This young
lady, that is seated opposite to me, is the sister of that young

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master, and she would be grieved to think you have forgotten
her.”

Jaaf laboured under the difficulty so common to old age;
he was forgetful of things of more recent date, while he remembered
those which had occurred a century ago! The
memory is a tablet that partakes of the peculiarity of all
our opinions and habits. In youth it is easily impressed,
and the images then engraved on it are distinct, deep and
lasting, while those that succeed become crowded, and take
less root, from the circumstance of finding the ground
already occupied. In the present instance, the age was so
great that the change was really startling, the old negro's
recollections occasionally coming on the mind like a voice
from the grave. As for the Indian, as I afterwards ascertained,
he was better preserved in all respects than the
black; his great temperance in youth, freedom from labour,
exercise in the open air, united to the comforts and abundance
of semi-civilized habits, that had now lasted for near
a century, contributing to preserve both mind and body.
As I now looked at him, I remembered what I had heard in
boyhood of his history.

There had ever been a mystery about the life of the Onondago.
If any one of our set had ever been acquainted with
the facts, it was Andries Coejemans, a half-uncle of my dear
grandmother, a person who has been known among us by
the sobriquet of the Chainbearer. My grandmother had
told me that “uncle Chainbearer,” as we all called the old
relative, did know all about Susquesus, in his time—the
reason why he had left his tribe, and become a hunter, and
warrior, and runner among the pale-faces—and that he had
always said the particulars did his red friend great credit,
but that he would reveal it no further. So great, however,
was uncle Chainbearer's reputation for integrity, that such
an opinion was sufficient to procure for the Onondago the
fullest confidence of the whole connection, and the experience
of four-score years and ten had proved that this confidence
was well placed. Some imputed the sort of exile in
which the old man had so long lived to love; others to war;
and others, again, to the consequences of those fierce personal
feuds that are known to occur among men in the

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savage state. But all was just as much a mystery and matter
of conjecture, now we were drawing near to the middle of
the nineteenth century, as it had been when our forefathers
were receding from the middle of the eighteenth! To return
to the negro.

Although Jaaf had momentarily forgotten me, and quite
forgotten my parents, he remembered my sister, who was
in the habit of seeing him so often. In what manner he
connected her with the family, it is not easy to say; but he
knew her not only by sight, but by name, and, as one might
say, by blood.

“Yes, yes,” cried the old fellow, a little eagerly, `champing
' his thick lips together, somewhat as an alligator snaps
his jaws, “yes, I knows Miss Patty, of course. Miss Patty
is werry han'some, and grows han'somer and han'somer
ebbery time I sees her—yah, yah, yah!” The laugh of
that old negro sounded startling and unnatural, yet there
was something of the joyous in it, after all, like every negro's
laugh. “Yah, yah, yah! Yes, Miss Patty won'erful
han'some, and werry like Miss Dus. I s'pose, now, Miss
Patty wast born about 'e time dat Gin'ral Washington die.”

As this was a good deal more than doubling my sister's
age, it produced a common laugh among the light-hearted
girls in the carriage. A gleam of intelligence that almost
amounted to a smile also shot athwart the countenance of
the Onondago, while the muscles of his face worked, but he
said nothing. I had reason to know afterwards that the
tablet of his memory retained its records better.

“What friends have you with you to-day, Jaaf,” inquired
my grandmother, inclining her head towards us pedlars
graciously, at the same time; a salutation that my uncle
Ro and myself rose hastily to acknowledge.

As for myself, I own honestly that I could have jumped
into the vehicle and kissed my dear grandmother's still goodlooking
but colourless cheeks, and hugged Patt, and possibly
some of the others, to my heart. Uncle Ro had more
command of himself; though I could see that the sound of
his venerable parent's voice, in which the tremour was
barely perceptible, was near overcoming him.

“Dese be pedlar, ma'am, I do s'pose,” answered the black.
“Dey's got box wid somet'in' in him, and dey 's got new

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kind of fiddle. Come, young man, gib Miss Dus a tune—
a libely one; sich as make an ole nigger dance.”

I drew round the hurdy-gurdy, and was beginning to
flourish away, when a gentle, sweet voice, raised a little
louder than usual by eagerness, interrupted me.

“Oh! not that thing, not that; the flute, the flute!” exclaimed
Mary Warren, blushing to the eyes at her own boldness,
the instant she saw that she was heard, and that I was
about to comply.

It is hardly necessary to say that I bowed respectfully,
laid down the hurdy-gurdy, drew the flute from my pocket,
and, after a few flourishes, commenced playing one of the
newest airs, or melodies, from a favourite opera. I saw the
colour rush into Martha's cheeks the moment I had got
through a bar or two, and the start she gave satisfied me
that the dear girl remembered her brother's flute. I had
played on that very instrument ever since I was sixteen, but
I had made an immense progress in the art during the five
years just passed in Europe. Masters at Naples, Paris, Vienna
and London had done a great deal for me; and I trust
I shall not be thought vain if I add, that nature had done
something, too. My excellent grandmother listened in profound
attention, and all four of the girls were enchanted.

“That music is worthy of being heard in a room,” observed
the former, as soon as I concluded the air; “and
we shall hope to hear it this evening, at the Nest House, if
you remain anywhere near us. In the mean time, we must
pursue our airing.”

As my grandmother spoke she leaned forward, and extended
her hand to me, with a benevolent smile. I advanced,
received the dollar that was offered, and, unable to
command my feelings, raised the hand to my lips, respectfully
but with fervour. Had Martha's face been near me,
it would have suffered also. I suppose there was nothing
in this respectful salutation that struck the spectators as very
much out of the way, foreigners having foreign customs,
but I saw a flush in my venerable grandmother's cheek, as
the carriage moved off. She had noted the warmth of the
manner. My uncle had turned away, I dare say to conceal
the tears that started to his eyes, and Jaaf followed towards
the door of the hut, whither my uncle moved, in order to

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do the honours of the place. This left me quite alone with
the Indian.

“Why no kiss face of grandmodder?” asked the Onondago,
coolly and quietly.

Had a clap of thunder broken over my head, I could not
have been more astonished! The disguise that had deceived
my nearest relations — that had baffled Seneca Newcome,
and had set at naught even his sister Opportunity — had
failed to conceal me from that Indian, whose faculties might
be supposed to have been numbed with age!

“Is it possible that you know me, Susquesus!” I exclaimed,
signing towards the negro at the same time, by
way of caution; “that you remember me, at all! I should
have thought this wig, these clothes, would have concealed
me.”

“Sartain,” answered the aged Indian, calmly. “Know
young chief soon as see him; know fader—know mudder;
know gran'fader, gran'mudder—great-gran'fader; his fader,
too; know all. Why forget young chief?”

“Did you know me before I kissed my grandmother's
hand, or only by that act?

“Know as soon as see him. What eyes good for, if
don't know? Know uncle, dere, sartain; welcome home!”

“But you will not let others know us, too, Trackless?
We have always been friends, I hope?”

“Be sure, friends. Why ole eagle, wid white head, strike
young pigeon? Nebber hatchet in 'e path between Susquesus
and any of de tribe of Ravensnest. Too ole to dig
him up now.”

“There are good reasons why my uncle and myself
should not be known for a few days. Perhaps you have
heard something of the trouble that has grown up between
the landlords and the tenants, in the land?”

“What dat trouble?”

“The tenants are tired of paying rent, and wish to make
a new bargain, by which they can become owners of the
farms on which they live.”

A grim light played upon the swarthy countenance of the
Indian: his lips moved, but he uttered nothing aloud.

“Have you heard anything of this, Susquesus?”

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“Little bird sing sich song in my ear—didn't like to
hear it.”

“And of Indians who are moving up and down the country,
armed with rifles and dressed in calico?”

“What tribe, dem Injin,” asked the Trackless, with a
quickness and a fire I did not think it possible for him to
retain. “What 'ey do, marchin' 'bout? — on war-path,
eh?”

“In one sense they may be said to be so. They belong
to the anti-rent tribe; do you know such a nation?”

“Poor Injin dat, b'lieve. Why come so late? — why no
come when 'e foot of Susquesus light as feather of bird? —
why stay away till pale-faces plentier dan leaf on tree, or
snow in air? Hundred year ago, when dat oak little, sich
Injin might be good; now, he good for nuttin'.”

“But you will keep our secret, Sus? — will not even tell
the negro who we are?”

The Trackless simply nodded his head in assent. After
this he seemed to me to sink back in a sort of brooding lethargy,
as if indisposed to pursue the subject. I left him to
go to my uncle, in order to relate what had just passed.
Mr. Roger Littlepage was as much astonished as I had been
myself, at hearing that one so aged should have detected
us through disguises that had deceived our nearest of kin.
But the quiet penetration and close observation of the man
had long been remarkable. As his good faith was of proof,
however, neither felt any serious apprehension of being betrayed,
as soon as he had a moment for reflection.

eaf077v1.n2

[2] The editor has often had occasion to explain the meaning of terms
of this nature. The colonists caught a great many words from the
Indians they first knew, and used them to all other Indians, though
not belonging to their languages; and these other tribes using them
as English, a sort of limited lingua franĉa has grown up in the
country that everybody understands. It is believed that “moccasin,”
“squaw,” “pappoose,” “sago,” “tomahawk,” “wigwam,” &c. &c.,
all belong to this class of words. There can be little doubt that the
sobriquel of “Yankees” is derived from “Yengeese,” the manner in
which the tribes nearest to New England pronounced the word “English.”
It is to this hour a provincialism of that part of the country to
pronounce this word “Eng-lish” instead of “Ing-lish,” its conventional
sound. The change from “Eng-lish” to “Yen-geese” is very
trifling.—Editor.

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CHAPTER IX.

“He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility;
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin
Is the pride that apes humility.”
Devil's Thoughts.

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

It was now necessary to determine what course we ought
next to pursue. It might appear presuming in men of our
pursuits to go to the Nest before the appointed time; and
did we proceed on to the village, we should have the distance
between the two places to walk over twice, carrying
our instruments and jewel-box. After a short consultation,
it was decided to visit the nearest dwellings, and to remain
as near my own house as was practicable, making an arrangement
to sleep somewhere in its immediate vicinity.
Could we trust any one with our secret, our fare would probably
be all the better; but my uncle thought it most prudent
to maintain a strict incognito until he had ascertained
the true state of things in the town.

We took leave of the Indian and the negro, therefore,
promising to visit them again in the course of that or the
succeeding day, and followed the path that led to the farm-house.
It was our opinion that we might, at least, expect
to meet with friends in the occupants of the home farm.
The same family had been retained in possession there for
three generations, and being hired to manage the husbandry
and to take care of the dairy, there was not the same reason
for the disaffection, that was said so generally to exist among
the tenantry, prevailing among them. The name of this
family was Miller, and it consisted of the two heads and
some six or seven children, most of the latter being still
quite young.

“Tom Miller was a trusty lad, when I knew much of
him,” said my uncle, as we drew near to the barn, in which
we saw the party mentioned, at work; “and he is said to
have behaved well in one or two alarms they have had at

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the Nest, this summer; still, it may be wiser not to let even
him into our secret as yet.”

“I am quite of your mind, sir,” I answered; “for who
knows that he has not just as strong a desire as any of them
to own the farm on which he lives? He is the grandson
of the man who cleared it from the forest, and has much the
same title as the rest of them.”

“Very true; and why should not that give him just as
good a right to claim an interest in the farm, beyond that
he has got under his contract to work it, as if he held a
lease? He who holds a lease gets no right beyond his bargain;
nor does this man. The one is paid for his labour
by the excess of his receipts over the amount of his annual
rent, while the other is paid partly in what he raises, and
partly in wages. In principle there is no difference whatever,
not a particle; yet I question if the veriest demagogue
in the State would venture to say that the man, or the family,
which works a farm for hire, even for a hundred years, gets
the smallest right to say he shall not quit it, if its owner
please, as soon as his term of service is up!”

“`The love of money is the root of all evil;' and when
that feeling is uppermost, one can never tell what a man
will do. The bride of a good farm, obtained for nothing, or
for an insignificant price, is sufficient to upset the morality
of even Tom Miller.”

“You are right, Hugh; and here is one of the points in
which our political men betray the cloven foot. They write,
and proclaim, and make speeches, as if the anti-rent troubles
grew out of the durable lease system solely, whereas
we all know that it is extended to all descriptions of obligations
given for the occupancy of land—life leases, leases for
a term of years, articles for deeds, and bonds and mortgages.
It is a wide-spread, though not yet universal attempt
of those who have the least claim to the possession
of real estate, to obtain the entire right, and that by agencies
that neither the law nor good morals will justify.
It is no new expedient for partizans to place en evidence
no more of their principles and intentions than suits their
purposes. But, here we are within ear-shot, and must resor
to the High Dutch. Guten tag, guten tag,” continued
uncle Ro, dropping easily into the broken English of our

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masquerade, as we walked into the barn, where Miller, two
of his older boys, and a couple of hired men were at work,
grinding scythes and preparing for the approaching hayharvest.
“It might be warm day, dis fine mornin'.”

“Good day, good day,” cried Miller, hastily, and glancing
his eye a little curiously at our equipments. “What have
you got in your box —essences?”

“Nein; vatches and drinkets;” setting down the box
and opening it at once, for the inspection of all present.
“Von't you burchase a goot vatch, dis bleasant mornin'?”

“Be they ra-al gold?” asked Miller, a little doubtingly.
“And all them chains and rings, be they gold too?”

“Not true golt; nein, nein, I might not say dat. But
goot enough golt for blain folks, like you and me.”

“Them things would never do for the grand quality over
at the big house!” cried one of the labourers who was unknown
to me, but whose name I soon ascertained was Joshua
Brigham, and who spoke with a sort of malicious sneer that
at once betrayed he was no friend. “You mean 'em for
poor folks, I s'pose?”

“I means dem for any bodies dat will pay deir money
for 'em,” answered my uncle. “Vould you like a vatch?”

“That would I; and a farm, too, if I could get 'em
cheap,” answered Brigham, with a sneer he did not attempt
to conceal. “How do you sell farms to-day?”

“I haf got no farms; I sells drinkets and vatches, but I
doesn't sell farms. Vhat I haf got I vill sell, but I cannot
sells vhat I haf not got.”

“Oh! you 'll get all you want if you 'll stay long enough
in this country! This is a free land, and just the place for
a poor man; or it will be, as soon as we get all the lords
and aristocrats out of it.”

This was the first time I had ever heard this political
blarney with my own ears, though I had understood it was
often used by those who wish to give to their own particular
envy and covetousness a grand and sounding air.

“Vell, I haf heards dat in America dere might not be any
noples ant aristocrats,” put in my uncle, with an appearance
of beautiful simplicity; “and dat dere ist not ein graaf
in der whole coontry.”

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“Oh! there 's all sorts of folks here, just as they are to
be found elsewhere,” cried Miller, seating himself coolly on
the end of the grindstone-frame, to open and look into the
mysteries of one of the watches. “Now, Josh Brigham,
here, calls all that 's above him in the world aristocrats, but
he doesn't call all that 's below him his equals.”

I liked that speech; and I liked the cool, decided way
in which it was uttered. It denoted, in its spirit, a man who
saw things as they are, and who was not afraid to say what
he thought about them. My uncle Ro was surprised, and
that agreeably, too, and he turned to Miller to pursue the
discourse.

“Den dere might not be any nopility in America, after
all?” he asked, inquiringly.

“Yes, there 's plenty of such lords as Josh here, who
want to be uppermost so plaguily that they don't stop to
touch all the rounds of the ladder. I tell him, friend, he
wants to get on too fast, and that he mustn't set up for a
gentleman before he knows how to behave himself.”

Josh looked a little abashed at a rebuke that came from
one of his own class, and which he must have felt, in secret,
was merited. But the demon was at work in him, and
he had persuaded himself that he was the champion of a
quality as sacred as liberty, when, in fact, he was simply
and obviously doing neither more nor less than breaking
the tenth commandment. He did not like to give up, while
he skirmished with Miller, as the dog that has been beaten
already two or three times growls over a bone at the approach
of his conqueror.

“Well, thank heaven,” he cried, “I have got some spirit
in my body.”

“That 's very true, Joshua,” answered Miller, laying
down one watch and taking up another; “but it happens to
be an evil spirit.”

“Now, here 's them Littlepages; what makes them better
than other folks?”

“You had better let the Littlepages alone, Joshua, seein'
they 're a family that you know nothing at all about.”

“I don't want to know them; though I do happen to
know all I want to know. I despise 'em.”

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“No you don't, Joshy, my boy; nobody despises folks
they talk so spitefully about. What 's the price of this here
watch, friend?”

“Four dollars,” said my uncle, eagerly, falling lower
than was prudent, in his desire to reward Miller for his good
feeling and sound sentiments. “Ja, ja—you might haf das
vatch for four dollars.”

“I 'm afraid it isn't good for anything,” returned Miller,
feeling the distrust that was natural at hearing a price so
low. “Let 's have another look at its inside.”

No man, probably, ever bought a watch without looking
into its works with an air of great intelligence, though none
but a mechanician is any wiser for his survey. Tom Miller
acted on this principle, for the good looks of the machine
he held in his hand, and the four dollars, tempted him sorely
It had its effect, too, on the turbulent and envious Joshua,
who seemed to understand himself very well in a bargain.
Neither of the men had supposed the watches to be of gold,
for though the metal that is in a watch does not amount to
a great deal, it is usually of more value than all that was
asked for the “article” now under examination. In point
of fact, my uncle had this very watch “invoiced to him” at
twice the price he now put it at.

“And what do you ask for this?” demanded Joshua,
taking up another watch of very similar looks and of equal
value to the one that Miller still retained open in his hand.
“Won't you let this go for three dollars?”

“No; der brice of dat is effery cent of forty dollars,” answered
uncle Ro, stubbornly.

“The two men now looked at the pedlar in surprise.
Miller took the watch from his hired man, examined it attentively,
compared it with the other, and then demanded
its price anew.

You might haf eider of dem vatches for four dollars,”
returned my uncle, as I thought, incautiously.

This occasioned a new surprise, though Brigham fortunately
referred the difference to a mistake.

“Oh!” he said, “I understood you to say forty dollars.
Four dollars is a different matter.”

“Josh,” interrupted the more observant and cooler-headed
Miller, “it is high time, now, you and Peter go and look

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a'ter them sheep. The conch will soon be blowing for dinner.
If you want a trade, you can have one when you get
back.”

Notwithstanding the plainness of his appearance and language,
Tom Miller was captain of his own company. He
gave this order quietly, and in his usual familiar way, but
it was obviously to be obeyed without a remonstrance. In
a minute the two hired men were off in company, leaving
no one behind in the barn but Miller, his sons, and us two.
I could see there was a motive for all this, but did not understand
it.

“Now he 's gone,” continued Tom quietly, but laying an
emphasis that sufficiently explained his meaning, “perhaps
you 'll let me know the true price of this watch. I 've a
mind for it, and may be we can agree.”

“Four dollars,” answered my uncle, distinctly. “I haf
said you might haf it for dat money, and vhat I haf said
once might always be.”

“I will take it, then. I almost wish you had asked eight,
though four dollars saved is suthin' for a poor man. It 's
so plaguy cheap I 'm a little afraid on 't; but I 'll ventur'.
There; there 's your money, and in hard cash.”

“Dank you, sir. Won't das ladies choose to look at my
drinkets?”

“Oh! if you want to deal with ladies who buy chains
and rings, the Nest House is the place. My woman wouldn't
know what to do with sich things, and don't set herself up
for a fine lady at all. That chap who has just gone for the
sheep is the only great man we have about this farm.”

“Ja, ja; he ist a nople in a dirty shirt: ja, ja; why hast
he dem pig feelin's?”

“I believe you have named them just as they ought to
be, pig's feelin's. It 's because he wishes to thrust his own
snout all over the trough, and is mad when he finds anybody
else's in the way. We 're getting to have plenty of
such fellows up and down the country, and an uncomfortable
time they give us. Boys, I do believe it will turn out,
a'ter all, that Josh is an Injin!”

“I know he is,” answered the oldest of the two sons, a
lad of nineteen; “where else should he be so much of
nights and Sundays, but at their trainin's?—and what was

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the meanin' of the calico bundle I saw under his arm a
month ago, as I told you on at the time?”

“If I find it out to be as you say, Harry, he shall tramp
off of this farm. I 'll have no Injins here!”

“Vell I dought I dit see an olt Injin in a hut up yonder
ast by der woots!” put in my uncle, innocently.

“Oh! that is Susquesus, an Onondago; he is a true Injin,
and a gentleman; but we have a parcel of the mock
gentry about, who are a pest and an eye-sore to every honest
man in the country. Half on 'em are nothing but
thieves in mock Injin dresses. The law is ag'in 'em, right
is ag'in 'em, and every true friend of liberty in the country
ought to be ag'in 'em.”

“Vhat ist der matter in dis coontry? I hear in Europe
how America ist a free lant, ant how efery man hast his
rights; but since I got here dey do nothin' but talk of barons,
and noples, and tenants, and arisdograts, and all der
bat dings I might leaf behint me, in der olt worlt.”

“The plain matter is, friend, that they who have got little,
envy them that 's got much; and the struggle is to see
which is the strongest. On the one side is the law, and
right, and bargains, and contracts; and on the other thousands—
not of dollars, but of men. Thousands of voters;
d' ye understand?”

“Ja, ja—I oonderstands; dat ist easy enough. But vhy
do dey dalk so much of noples and arisdograts? — ist der
noples and arisdograts in America?”

“Well, I don't much understand the natur' of sich things;
there sartainly is a difference in men, and a difference in
their fortun's, and edications, and such sort of things.”

“Und der law, den, favours der rich man at der cost of
der poor, in America, too, does it? Und you haf arisdograts
who might not pay taxes, and who holt all der offices,
and get all der pooblic money, and who ist petter pefore de
law, in all dings, dan ast dem dat be not arisdograts? Is
it so?”

Miller laughed outright, and shook his head at this question,
continuing to examine the trinkets the whole time.

“No, no, my friend, we 've not much of that, in this part
of the world, either. Rich men get very few offices, to begin
with; for it 's an argooment in favour of a man for an

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office, that he 's poor, and wants it. Folks don't so much
ask who the office wants, as who wants the office. Then,
as for taxes, there isn't much respect paid to the rich, on
that score. Young 'Squire Littlepage pays the tax on this
farm directly himself, and it 's assessed half as high ag'in,
all things considered, as any other farm on his estate.”

“But dat ist not right.”

“Right! Who says it is?—or who thinks there is anything
right about assessments, anywhere? I have heard
assessors, with my own ears, use such words as these:—
`Sich a man is rich, and can afford to pay,' and `sich a
man is poor, and it will come hard on him.' Oh! they
kiver up dishonesty, now-a-days, under all sorts of argooments.”

“But der law; der rich might haf der law on deir side,
surely?”

“In what way, I should like to know? Juries be everything,
and juries will go accordin' to their feelin's, as well
as other men. I 've seen the things with my own eyes.
The county pays just enough a-day to make poor men like to
be on jories, and they never fail to attend, while them that
can pay their fines stay away, and so leave the law pretty
much in the hands of one party. No rich man gains his
cause, unless his case is so strong it can't be helped.”

I had heard this before, there being a very general complaint
throughout the country of the practical abuses connected
with the jury system. I have heard intelligent lawyers
complain, that whenever a cause of any interest is
to be tried, the first question asked is not “what are the
merits?” “which has the law and the facts on his side?”
but “who is likely to be on the jury?” — thus obviously
placing the composition of the jury before either law or evidence.
Systems may have a very fair appearance on paper
and as theories, that are execrable in practice. As for juries,
I believe the better opinion of the intelligent of all countries
is, that while they are a capital contrivance to resist
the abuse of power in narrow governments, in governments
of a broad constituency they have the effect, which might
easily be seen, of placing the control of the law in the
hands of those who would be most apt to abuse it; since it
is adding to, instead of withstanding and resisting the

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controlling authority of the State, from which, in a popular government,
most of the abuses must unavoidably proceed.

As for my uncle Ro, he was disposed to pursue the subject
with Miller, who turned out to be a discreet and conscientious
man. After a very short pause, as if to reflect
on what had been said, he resumed the discourse.

“Vhat, den, makes arisdograts in dis coontry?” asked
my uncle.

“Wa-a-l”—no man but an American of New England
descent, as was the case with Miller, can give this word its
attic sound — “Wa-a-l, it 's hard to say. I hear a great
deal about aristocrats, and I read a great deal about aristocrats,
in this country, and I know that most folks look upon
them as hateful, but I 'm by no means sartain I know what
an aristocrat is. Do you happen to know anything about
it, friend?”

“Ja, ja; an arisdograt ist one of a few men dat hast all
de power of de government in deir own hands.”

“King! That isn't what we think an aristocrat in this
part of the world. Why, we call them critturs here DIMIGOGUES!
Now, young 'Squire Littlepage, who owns the
Nest House, over yonder, and who is owner of all this
estate, far and near, is what we call an aristocrat, and he
hasn't power enough to be named town clerk, much less to
anything considerable, or what is worth having.”

“How can he be an arisdograt, den?”

“How, sure enough, if your account be true! I tell you
'tis the dimigogues that be the aristocrats of America. Why,
Josh Brigham, who has just gone for the sheep, can get
more votes for any office in the country than young Littlepage!”

“Berhaps dis young Littlebage ist a pat yoong man?”

“Not he; he 's as good as any on 'em, and better than
most. Besides, if he was as wicked as Lucifer, the folks
of the country don't know anything about it, sin' he 's be'n
away ever sin' he has be'n a man.”

“Vhy, den, gan't he haf as many votes as dat poor, ignorant
fellow might haf? — das ist ott.”

“It is odd, but it 's true as gospel. Why, it may not be
so easy to tell. Many men, many minds, you know. Some
folks don't like him because he lives in a big house; some

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hate him because they think he is better off than they are
themselves; others mistrust him because he wears a fine
coat; and some pretend to laugh at him because he got his
property from his father, and grand'ther, and so on, and
didn't make it himself. Accordin' to some folks' notions,
now-a-days, a man ought to enj'y only the property he
heaps together himself.”

“If dis be so, your Herr Littlebage ist no arisdograt.”

“Wa-a-l, that isn't the idee, hereaway. We have had a
great many meetin's, latterly, about the right of the people
to their farms; and there has been a good deal of talk at
them meetin's consarnin' aristocracy and feudal tenors; do
you know what a feudal tenor is, too?”

“Ja; dere ist moch of dat in Teutchland—in mine coontry.
It ist not ferry easy to explain it in a few vords, but
der brincipal ding ist dat der vassal owes a serfice to hist
lort. In de olten dimes dis serfice vast military, und dere
ist someding of dat now. It ist de noples who owe der feudal
serfice, brincipally, in mine coontry, and dey owes it to
de kings und brinces.”

“And don't you call giving a chicken for rent feudal service,
in Germany?”

Uncle Ro and I laughed, in spite of our efforts to the contrary,
there being a bathos in this question that was supremely
ridiculous. Curbing his merriment, however, as
soon as he could, my uncle answered the question.

“If der landlordt hast a right to coome and dake as many
chickens as he bleases, und ast often ast he bleases, den dat
wouldt look like a feudal right; but if de lease says dat so
many chickens moost be paid a-year, for der rent, vhy dat
ist all der same as baying so much moneys; und it might
be easier for der tenant to bay in chicken ast it might be to
bay in der silver. Vhen a man canst bay his debts in vhat
he makes himself, he ist ferry interpentent.”

“It does seem so, I vow! Yet there 's folks about here,
and some at Albany, that call it feudal for a man to have
to carry a pair of fowls to the landlord's office, and the landlord
an aristocrat for asking it!”

“But der man canst sent a poy, or a gal, or a nigger,
wid his fowls, if he bleases?”

“Sartain; all that is asked is that the fowls should come.”

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“Und vhen der batroon might owe hist tailor, or hist
shoemaker, must he not go to hist shop, or find him and
bay him vhat he owes, or be suet for der debt?”

“That 's true, too; boys, put me in mind of telling that
to Josh, this evening. Yes, the greatest landlord in the
land must hunt up his creditor, or be sued, all the same as
the lowest tenant.”

“Und he most bay in a partic'lar ding; he most bay in
golt or silver?”

“True; lawful tender is as good for one as 'tis for
t' other.”

“Und if your Herr Littlebage signs a baper agreein' to
gif der apples from dat orchart to somebody on his landts,
most he send or carry der apples, too?”

“To be sure; that would be the bargain.”

“Und he most carry der ferry apples dat grows on dem
ferry dress, might it not be so?”

“All true as gospel. If a man contracts to sell the apples
of one orchard, he can't put off the purchaser with the
apples of another.”

“Und der law ist der same for one ast for anudder, in
dese t'ings?”

“There is no difference; and there should be none.”

“Und der batroons und der landlordts wants to haf der
law changet, so dat dey may be excuset from baying der
debts accordin' to der bargains, und to gif dem atfantages
over der poor tenants?”

“I never heard anything of the sort, and don't believe
they want any such change.”

“Of vhat, den, dost der beople complain?”

“Of having to pay rent at all; they think the landlords
ought to be made to sell their farms, or give them away.
Some stand out for the last.”

“But der landlordts don't vant to sell deir farms; und dey
might not be made to sell vhat ist deir own, and vhat dey
don't vant to sell, any more dan der tenants might be made
to sell deir hogs and deir sheep, vhen dey don't vant to sell
dem.”

“It does seem so, boys, as I 've told the neighbours, all
along. But I 'll tell this Dutchman all about it. Some folks

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want the State to look a'ter the title of young Littlepage,
pretending he has no title.”

“But der State wilt do dat widout asking for it particularly,
vill it not?”

“I never heard that it would.”

“If anybody hast a claim to der broperty, vilt not der
courts try it?”

“Yes, yes—in that way; but a tenant can't set up a title
ag'in his landlord.”

“Vhy should he? He canst haf no title but his landlort's,
and it vould be roguery and cheatery to let a man get into
der bossession of a farm under der pretence of hiring it, und
den coome out und claim it as owner. If any tenant dinks
he hast a better right dan his landlort, he can put der farm
vhere it vast before he might be a tenant, und den der State
wilt examine into der title, I fancys.”

“Yes, yes—in that way; but these men want it another
way. What they want is for the State to set up a legal examination,
and turn the landlords off altogether, if they can,
and then let themselves have the farms in their stead.”

“But dat would not be honest to dem dat hafen't nothing
to do wid der farms. If der State owns der farms, it ought
to get as moch as it can for dem, and so safe all der people
from baying taxes. It looks like roguery, all roundt.”

“I believe it is that, and nothing else! As you say, the
State will examine into the title as it is, and there is no need
of any laws about it.”

“Would der State, dink you, pass a law dat might inquire
into de demandts dat are made against der batroons, vhen
der tratesmen sent in deir bills?”

“I should like to see any patroon ask sich a thing! He
would be laughed at, from York to Buffalo.”

“Und he would desarf it. By vhat I see, frient, your
denants be der arisdograts, und der landlordts der vassals.”

“Why you see — what may your name be? — as we 're
likely to become acquainted, I should like to know your
name.

“My name is Greisenbach, und I comes from Preussen.”

“Well, Mr. Greisenbach, the difficulty about aristocracy
is this. Hugh Littlepage is rich, and his money gives him

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advantages that other men can't enj'y. Now, that sticks
in some folks' crops.”

“Oh! den it ist meant to divite broperty in dis coontry;
und to say no man might haf more ast anudder?”

“Folks don't go quite as far as that, yet; though some
of their talk does squint that-a-way, I must own. Now,
there are folks about here that complain that old Madam
Littlepage and her young ladies don't visit the poor.”

“Vell, if deys be hard-hearted, und hast no feelin's for
der poor and miseraple—”

“No, no; that is not what I mean, neither. As for that
sort of poor, everybody allows they do more for them than
anybody else about here. But they don't visit the poor that
isn't in want.”

“Vell, it ist a ferry coomfortable sort of poor dat ist not
in any vant. Berhaps you mean dey don't associate wid
'em, as equals?”

“That 's it. Now, on that head, I must say there is
some truth in the charge, for the gals over at the Nest never
come here to visit my gal, and Kitty is as nice a young
thing as there is about.”

“Und Gitty goes to visit the gal of the man who lives
over yonter, in de house on der hill?” pointing to a residence
of a man of the very humblest class in the town.

“Hardly! Kitty 's by no means proud, but I shouldn't
like her to be too thick there.”

“Oh! you 're an arisdograt, den, after all; else might
your daughter visit dat man's daughter.”

“I tell you, Grunzebach, or whatever your name may
be,” returned Miller, a little angrily, though a particularly
good-natured man in the main, “that my gal shall not visit
old Steven's da'ghters.”

“Vell, I 'm sure she might do as she bleases; but I dinks
der Mademoiselles Littlepage might do ast dey pleases, too.”

“There is but one Littlepage gal; if you saw them out
this morning in the carriage, you saw two York gals and
parson Warren's da'ghter with her.”

“Und dis parson Warren might be rich, too?”

“Not he; he hasn't a sixpence on 'arth but what he gets
from the parish. Why he is so poor his friends had to edicate
his da'ghter, I have heern say, over and over!”

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“Und das Littlepage gal und de Warren gal might be
goot friends?”

“They are the thickest together of any two young women
in this part of the world. I 've never seen two gals
more intimate. Now, there 's a young lady in the town,
one Opportunity Newcome, who, one might think, would
stand before Mary Warren at the big house, any day in the
week, but she doesn't! Mary takes all the shine out on
her.”

“Which ist der richest, Obbordunity or Mary?”

“By all accounts Mary Warren has nothing, while Opportunity
is thought to come next to Matty herself, as to
property, of all the young gals about here. But Opportunity
is no favourite at the Nest.”

“Den it would seem, after all, dat dis Miss Littlebage does
not choose her friends on account of riches. She likes Mary
Warren, who ist boor, und she does not like Obbordunity,
who ist vell to do in de vorlt. Berhaps der Littlepages be
not as big arisdograts as you supposes.”

Miller was bothered, while I felt a disposition to laugh.
One of the commonest errors of those who, from position
and habits, are unable to appreciate the links which connect
cultivated society together, is to refer everything to riches.
Riches, in a certain sense, as a means and through their
consequences, may be a principal agent in dividing society
into classes; but, long after riches have taken wings, their
fruits remain, when good use has been made of their presence.
So untrue is the vulgar opinion—or it might be better
to say the opinion of the vulgar—that money is the one
tie which unites polished society, that it is a fact which all
must know who have access to the better circles of even our
own commercial towns, that those circles, loosely and accidentally
constructed as they are, receive with reluctance,
nay, often sternly exclude, vulgar wealth from their associations,
while the door is open to the cultivated who have nothing.
The young, in particular, seldom think much of
money, while family connections, early communications,
similarity of opinions, and, most of all, of tastes, bring sets
together, and often keep them together long after the golden
band has been broken.

But men have great difficulty in comprehending things

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that lie beyond their reach; and money being apparent to
the senses, while refinement, through its infinite gradations,
is visible principally, and, in some cases, exclusively to its
possessors, it is not surprising that common minds should
refer a tie that, to them, would otherwise be mysterious, to
the more glittering influence, and not to the less obvious.
Infinite, indeed, are the gradations of cultivated habits; nor
are as many of them the fruits of caprice and self-indulgence
as men usually suppose. There is a common sense, nay,
a certain degree of wisdom, in the laws of even etiquette,
while they are confined to equals, that bespeak the respect
of those who understand them. As for the influence of associations
on men's manners, on their exteriors, and even
on their opinions, my uncle Ro has long maintained that it
is so apparent that one of his time of life could detect the
man of the world, at such a place as Saratoga even, by an
intercourse of five minutes; and what is more, that he could
tell the class in life from which he originally emerged. He
tried it, the last summer, on our return from Ravensnest,
and I was amused with his success, though he made a few
mistakes, it must be admitted.

“That young man comes from the better circles, but he
has never travelled,” he said, alluding to one of a group
which still remained at table; “while he who is next him
has travelled, but commenced badly.” This may seem a
very nice distinction, but I think it is easily made. “There
are two brothers, of an excellent family in Pennsylvania,”
he continued, “as one might know from the name; the
eldest has travelled, the youngest has not.” This was a
still harder distinction to make, but one who knew the world
as well as my uncle Ro could do it. He went on amusing
me by his decisions—all of which were respectable, and some
surprisingly accurate—in this way for several minutes. Now,
like has an affinity to like, and in this natural attraction is
to be found the secret of the ordinary construction of society.
You shall put two men of superior minds in a room
full of company, and they will find each other out directly,
and enjoy the accident. The same is true as to the mere
modes of thinking that characterize social castes; and it is
truer in this country, perhaps, than most others, from the
mixed character of our associations. Of the two, I am really

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of opinion that the man of high intellect, who meets with
one of moderate capacity, but of manners and social opinions
on a level with his own, has more pleasure in the communication
than with one of equal mind, but of inferior habits.

That Patt should cling to one like Mary Warren seemed
to me quite as natural as that she should be averse to much
association with Opportunity Newcome. The money of the
latter, had my sister been in the least liable to such an influence,
was so much below what she had been accustomed,
all her life, to consider affluence, that it would have had no
effect, even had she been subject to so low a consideration
in regulating her intercourse with others. But this poor
Tom Miller could not understand. He could “only reason
from what he knew,” and he knew little of the comparative
notions of wealth, and less of the powers of cultivation on
the mind and manners. He was struck, however, with a
fact that did come completely within the circle of his own
knowledge, and that was the circumstance that Mary Warren,
while admitted to be poor, was the bosom friend of her
whom he was pleased to call, sometimes, the “Littlepage
gal.” It was easy to see he felt the force of this circumstance;
and it is to be hoped that, as he was certainly a
wiser, he also became a better man, on one of the most
common of the weaknesses of human frailty.

“Wa-a-l,” he replied to my uncle's last remark, after
fully a minute of silent reflection, “I don't know! It would
seem so, I vow; and yet it hasn't been my wife's notion,
nor is it Kitty's. You 're quite upsetting my idees about
aristocrats; for though I like the Littlepages, I 've always
set 'em down as desp'rate aristocrats.”

“Nein, nein; dem as vat you calls dimigogues be der
American arisdograts. Dey gets all der money of der pooblic,
und haf all der power, but dey gets a little mads because
dey might not force demselves on der gentlemen and laties
of der coontry, as vell as on der lands und der offices!”

“I swan! I don't know but this may be true! A'ter all,
I don't know what right anybody has to complain of the
Littlepages.”

“Does dey dreat beoples vell, as might coome to see
dem?”

“Yes, indeed! if folks treat them well, as sometimes

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doesn't happen. I 've seen hogs here”—Tom was a little
Saxon in his figures, but their nature will prove their justification—
“I 've seen hogs about here, bolt right in before
old Madam Littlepage, and draw their chairs up to her fire,
and squirt about the tobacco, and never think of even taking
off their hats. Them folks be always huffy about their own
importance, though they never think of other people's
feelin's.”

We were interrupted by the sound of wheels, and looking
round, we perceived that the carriage of my grandmother
had driven up to the farm-house door, on its return
home. Miller conceived it to be no more than proper to go
and see if he were wanted, and we followed him slowly, it
being the intention of my uncle to offer his mother a watch,
by way of ascertaining if she could penetrate his disguise.

CHAPTER X.

“Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape? —
Come to the pedlar,
Money's a medler
That doth utter all men's ware-a.”
Winter's Tale.

There they sat, those four young creatures, a perfect
galaxy of bright and beaming eyes. There was not a plain
face among them; and I was struck with the circumstance
of how rare it was to meet with a youthful and positively
ugly American female. Kitty, too, was at the door by the
time we reached the carriage, and she also was a blooming
and attractive-looking girl. It was a thousand pities that
she spoke, however; the vulgarity of her utterance, tone
of voice, cadences, and accent, the latter a sort of singing
whine, being in striking contrast to a sort of healthful and
vigorous delicacy that marked her appearance. All the

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which had been the pencil in question, and which he had
dropped into the box but a moment before it was sold.

“Wa-a-l, Madam Littlepage,” cried Miller, who used the
familiarity of one born on the estate, “this is the queerest
watch-pedlar I 've met with, yet. He asks fifteen dollars
for that pencil, and only four for this watch!” showing his
own purchase as he concluded.

My grandmother took the watch in her hand, and examined
it attentively.

“It strikes me as singularly cheap!” she remarked,
glancing a little distrustfully, as I fancied, at her son, as if
she thought he might he selling his brushes cheaper than
those who only stole the materials, because he stole them
ready made. “I know that these watches are made for
very little in the cheap countries of Europe, but one can
hardly see how this machinery was put together for so small
a sum.”

“I has 'em, matam, at all brices,” put in my uncle.

“I have a strong desire to purchase a good lady's watch,
but should a little fear buying of any but a known and regular
dealer.”

“You needn't fear us, ma'am,” I ventured to say. “If
we might sheat anypodies, we shouldn't sheat so goot a
laty.”

“I do not know whether my voice struck Patt's ear pleasantly,
or a wish to see the project of her grandmother car
ried out at once, induced my sister to interfere; but interfere
she did, and that by urging her aged parent to put
confidence in us. Years had taught my grandmother caution,
and she hesitated.

“But all these watches are of base metal, and I want one
of good gold and handsome finish,” observed my grand
mother.

My uncle immediately produced a watch that he had
bought of Blondel, in Paris, for five hundred francs, and
which was a beautiful little ornament for a lady's belt. He
gave it to my grandmother, who read the name of the manufacturer
with some little surprise. The watch itself was
then examined attentively, and was applauded by all.

“And what may be the price of this?” demanded my
grandmother.

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“One hoondred dollars, matam; and sheaps at dat.”

Tom Miller looked at the bit of tinsel in his own hand,
and at the smaller, but exquisitely-shaped “article” that my
grandmother held up to look at, suspended by its bit of ribbon,
and was quite as much puzzled as he had evidently
been a little while before, in his distinctions between the
rich and the poor. Tom was not able to distinguish the
base from the true; that was all.

My grandmother did not appear at all alarmed at the
price, though she cast another distrustful glance or two, over
her spectacles, at the imaginary pedlar. At length the beauty
of the watch overcame her.

“If you will bring this watch to yonder large dwelling, I
will pay you the hundred dollars for it,” she said; “I have
not as much money with me here.”

“Ja, ja—ferry goot; you might keep das vatch, laty, und
I will coome for der money after I haf got some dinners of
somebodys.”

My grandmother had no scruple about accepting of the
credit, of course, and she was about to put the watch in her
pocket, when Patt laid her little gloved hand on it, and cried—

“Now, dearest grandmother, let it be done at once—
there is no one but us three present, you know!”

“Such is the impatience of a child!” exclaimed the elder
lady, laughing. “Well, you shall be indulged. I gave
you that pencil for a keep-sake, Mary, only en attendant,
it having been my intention to offer a watch, as soon as a
suitable one could be found, as a memorial of the sense I
entertain of the spirit you showed during that dark week in
which the anti-renters were so menacing. Here, then, is
such a watch as I might presume to ask you to have the
goodness to accept.”

Mary Warren seemed astounded! The colour mounted
to her temples; then she became suddenly pale. I had
never seen so pretty a picture of gentle female distress — a
distress that arose from conflicting, but creditable feelings.

“Oh! Mrs. Littlepage!” she exclaimed, after looking in
astonishment at the offering for a moment, and in silence.
“You cannot have intended that beautiful watch for me!”

“For you, my dear; the beautiful watch is not a whit
too good for my beautiful Mary.”

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“But, dear, dear Mrs. Littlepage, it is altogether too
handsome for my station — for my means.”

“A lady can very well wear such a watch; and you are
a lady in every sense of the word, and so you need have
no scruples on that account. As for the means, you will
not misunderstand me if I remind you that it will be
bought with my means, and there can be no extravagance
in the purchase.”

“But we are so poor, and that watch has so rich an appearance!
It scarcely seems right.”

“I respect your feelings and sentiments, my dear girl,
and can appreciate them. I suppose you know I was once
as poor, nay, much poorer than you are, yourself.”

“You, Mrs. Littlepage! No, that can hardly be. You
are of an affluent and very respectable family, I know.”

“It is quite true, nevertheless, my dear. I shall not affect
extreme humility, and deny that the Malbones did and
do belong to the gentry of the land, but my brother and
myself were once so much reduced as to toil with the surveyors,
in the woods, quite near this property. We had
then no claim superior to yours, and in many respects were
reduced much lower. Besides, the daughter of an educated
and well-connected clergyman has claims that, in a worldly
point of view alone, entitle her to a certain consideration.
You will do me the favour to accept my offering?”

“Dear Mrs. Littlepage! I do not know how to refuse
you, or how to accept so rich a gift! You will let me consult
my father, first?”

“That will be no more than proper, my dear,” returned
my beloved grandmother, quietly putting the watch into her
own pocket; “Mr. Warren, luckily, dines with us, and the
matter can be settled before we sit down to table.”

This ended the discussion, which had commenced under
an impulse of feeling that left us all its auditors. As for
my uncle and myself, it is scarcely necessary to say we
were delighted with the little scene. The benevolent wish
to gratify, on the one side, with the natural scruples on the
other, about receiving, made a perfect picture for our contemplation.
The three girls, who were witnesses of what
passed, too much respected Mary's feelings to interfere,
though Patt restrained herself with difficulty. As to Tom

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Miller and Kitty, they doubtless wondered why “Warren's
gal” was such a fool as to hesitate about accepting a watch
that was worth a hundred dollars. This was another point
they did not understand.

“You spoke of dinner,” continued my grandmother, looking
at my uncle. “If you and your companion will follow
us to the house, I will pay you for the watch, and order you
a dinner in the bargain.”

We were right down glad to accept this offer, making our
bows and expressing our thanks, as the carriage whirled
off. We remained a moment, to take our leave of Miller.

“When you 've got through at the Nest,” said that semiworthy
fellow, “give us another call here. I should like
my woman and Kitty to have a look at your finery, before
you go down to the village with it.”

With a promise to return to the farm-house, we proceeded
on our way to the building which, in the familiar parlance
of the country, was called the Nest, or the Nest House,
from Ravensnest, its true name, and which Tom Miller, in
his country dialect, called the “Neest.” The distance between
the two buildings was less than half a mile, the
grounds of the family residence lying partly between them.
Many persons would have called the extensive lawns which
surrounded my paternal abode a park, but it never bore that
name with us. They were too large for a paddock, and
might very well have come under the former appellation;
but, as deer, or animals of any sort, except those that are
domestic, had never been kept within it, the name had not
been used. We called them the grounds — a term which
applies equally to large and small enclosures of this nature—
while the broad expanse of verdure which lies directly
under the windows goes by the name of the lawn. Notwithstanding
the cheapness of land among us, there has
been very little progress made in the art of landscape gardening;
and if we have anything like park scenery, it is
far more owing to the gifts of a bountiful nature than to any
of the suggestions of art. Thanks to the cultivated taste of
Downing, as well as to his well-directed labours, this reproach
is likely to be soon removed, and country life will
acquire this pleasure, among the many others that are so
peculiarly its own. After lying for more than twenty years

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— a stigma on the national taste — disfigured by ravines or
gullies, and otherwise in a rude and discreditable condition,
the grounds of the White House have been brought into a
condition to denote that they are the property of a civilized
country. The Americans are as apt at imitation as the
Chinese, with a far greater disposition to admit of change;
and little beyond good models are required to set them on
the right track. But it is certain that, as a nation, we have
yet to acquire nearly all that belongs to the art I have mentioned
that lies beyond avenues of trees, with an occasional
tuft of shrubbery. The abundance of the latter, that forms
the wilderness of sweets, the masses of flowers that spot the
surface of Europe, the beauty of curved lines, and the whole
finesse of surprises, reliefs, back-grounds and vistas, are
things so little known among us as to be almost “arisdogratic,”
as my uncle Ro would call the word.

Little else had been done at Ravensnest than to profit by
the native growth of the trees, and to take advantage of the
favourable circumstances in the formation of the grounds.
Most travellers imagine that it might be an easy thing to
lay out a park in the virgin forest, as the axe might spare
the thickets, and copses, and woods, that elsewhere are the
fruits of time and planting. This is all a mistake, however,
as the rule; though modified exceptions may and do
exist. The tree of the American forest shoots upward toward
the light, growing so tall and slender as to be unsightly;
and even when time has given its trunk a due size,
the top is rarely of a breadth to ornament a park or a lawn,
while its roots, seeking their nourishment in the rich alluvium
formed by the decaved leaves of a thousand years, lie
too near the surface to afford sufficient support after losing
the shelter of its neighbours. It is owing to reasons like
these that the ornamental grounds of an American country-house
have usually to be commenced ab origine, and that
natural causes so little aid in finishing them.

My predecessors had done a little towards assisting nature,
at the Nest, and what was of almost equal importance,
in the state of knowledge on this subject as it existed in the
country sixty years since, they had done little to mar her
efforts. The results were, that the grounds of Ravensnest
possess a breadth that is the fruit of the breadth of our lands,

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and a rural beauty which, without being much aided by art,
was still attractive. The herbage was kept short by sheep,
of which one thousand, of the fine wool, were feeding on
the lawns, along the slopes, and particularly on the distant
heights, as we crossed the grounds on our way to the doors.

The Nest House was a respectable New York country
dwelling, as such buildings were constructed among us in
the last quarter of the past century, a little improved and
enlarged by the second and third generations of its owners.
The material was of stone, the low cliff on which it stood
supplying enough of an excellent quality; and the shape of
the main corps de batiment as near a square as might be.
Each face of this part of the constructions offered five windows
to view, this being almost the prescribed number for
a country residence in that day, as three have since got to
be in towns. These windows, however, had some size, the
main building being just sixty feet square, which was about
ten feet in each direction larger than was common so soon
after the revolution. But wings had been added to the original
building, and that on a plan which conformed to the
shape of a structure in square logs, that had been its predecessor
on its immediate site. These wings were only of a
story and a half each, and doubling on each side of the main
edifice just far enough to form a sufficient communication,
they ran back to the very verge of a cliff some forty feet in
height, overlooking, at their respective ends, a meandering
rivulet, and a wide expanse of very productive flats, that
annually filled my barns with hay and my cribs with corn.
Of this level and fertile bottom-land there was near a thousand
acres, stretching in three directions, of which two hundred
belonged to what was called the Nest Farm. The
remainder was divided among the farms of the adjacent tenantry.
This little circumstance, among the thousand-and-one
other atrocities that were charged upon me, had been
made a ground of accusation, to which I shall presently have
occasion to advert. I shall do this the more readily, because
the fact has not yet reached the ears and set in motion the
tongues of legislators — Heaven bless us, how words do get
corrupted by too much use! — in their enumeration of the
griefs of the tenants of the State.

Everything about the Nest was kept in perfect order, and

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in a condition to do credit to the energy and taste of my
grandmother, who had ordered all these things for the last
few years, or since the death of my grandfather. This circumstance,
connected with the fact that the building was
larger and more costly than those of most of the other citizens
of the country, had, of late years, caused Ravensnest
to be termed an “aristocratic residence.” This word “aristocratic,”
I find since my return home, has got to be a term
of expansive signification, its meaning depending on the
particular habits and opinions of the person who happens to
use it. Thus, he who chews tobacco thinks it aristocratic
in him who deems the practice nasty not to do the same;
the man who stoops accuses him who is straight in the back
of having aristocratic shoulders; and I have actually met
with one individual who maintained that it was excessively
aristocratic to pretend not to blow one's nose with his fingers.
It will soon be aristocratic to maintain the truth of
the familiar Latin axiom of “de gustibus non disputandum
est
.”

As we approached the door of the Nest House, which
opened on the piazza that stretched along three sides of the
main building, and the outer ends of both wings, the coachman
was walking his horses away from it, on the road that
led to the stables. The party of ladies had made a considerable
circuit after quitting the farm, and had arrived but
a minute before us. All the girls but Mary Warren had
entered the house, careless on the subject of the approach
of two pedlars; she remained, however, at the side of my
grandmother, to receive us.

“I believe in my soul,” whispered uncle Ro, “that my
dear old mother has a seeret presentiment who we are, by
her manifesting so much respect.—T'ousand t'anks, matam,
t'ousand t'anks,” he continued, dropping into his half-accurate
half-blundering broken English, “for dis great honour,
such as we might not expect das laty of das house to wait
for us at her door.”

“This young lady tells me that she has seen you before,
and that she understands you are both persons of education
and good manners, who have been driven from your native
country by political troubles. Such being the case, I cannot
regard you as common pedlars. I have known what it

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was to be reduced in fortune,” — my dear grandmother's
voice trembled a little — “and can feel for those who thus
suffer.”

“Matam, dere might be moch trut' in some of dis,” answered
my uncle, taking off his cap, and bowing very much
like a gentleman, an act in which I imitated him immediately.
“We haf seen petter tays; und my son, dere, hast
peen edicatet at an university. But we are now poor pedlars
of vatches, und dem dat might make moosic in der
streets.”

My grandmother looked as a lady would look under such
circumstances, neither too free to forget present appearances,
nor coldly neglectful of the past. She knew that something
was due to her own household, and to the example she ought
to set it, while she felt that far more was due to the sentiment
that unites the cultivated. We were asked into the
house, were told a table was preparing for us, and were
treated with a generous and considerate hospitality that involved
no descent from her own character, or that of the
sex; the last being committed to the keeping of every lady.

In the mean time, business proceeded with my uncle. He
was paid his hundred dollars; and all his stores of value,
including rings, brooches, ear rings, chains, bracelets, and
other trinkets that he had intended as presents to his wards,
were produced from his pockets, and laid before the bright
eyes of the three girls — Mary Warren keeping in the back
ground, as one who ought not to look on things unsuited to
her fortune. Her father had arrived, however, had been
consulted, and the pretty watch was already attached to the
girdle of the prettier waist. I fancied the tear of gratitude
that still floated in her serene eyes was a jewel of far higher
price than any my uncle could exhibit.

We had been shown into the library, a room that was in
the front of the house, and of which the windows all opened
on the piazza. I was at first a little overcome, at thus finding
myself, and unrecognized, under the paternal roof, and in
a dwelling that was my own, after so many years of absence.
Shall I confess it! Everything appeared diminutive
and mean, after the buildings to which I had been accustomed
in the old world. I am not now drawing comparisons
with the palaces of princes, and the abodes of the

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great, as the American is apt to fancy, whenever anything
is named that is superior to the things to which he is accustomed;
but to the style, dwellings, and appliances of domestic
life that pertain to those of other countries who have not
a claim in anything to be accounted my superiors—scarcely
my equals. In a word, American aristocracy, or that which
it is getting to be the fashion to stigmatize as aristocratic,
would be deemed very democratic in most of the nations of
Europe. Our Swiss brethren have their chateaux and their
habits that are a hundred times more aristocratic than anything
about Ravensnest, without giving offence to liberty;
and I feel persuaded, were the proudest establishment in all
America pointed out to a European as an aristocratic abode,
he would be very apt to laugh at it, in his sleeve. The secret
of this charge among ourselves is the innate dislike
which is growing up in the country to see any man distinguished
from the mass around him in anything, even though
it should be in merit. It is nothing but the expansion of
the principle which gave rise to the traditionary feud between
the “plebeians and patricians” of Albany, at the
commencement of this century, and which has now descended
so much farther than was then contemplated by the
soi-disant “plebeians” of that day, as to become quite disagreeable
to their own descendants. But to return to myself—

I will own that, so far from finding any grounds of exultation
in my own aristocratical splendour, when I came
to view my possessions at home, I felt mortified and disappointed.
The things that I had fancied really respectable,
and even fine, from recollection, now appeared very common-place,
and in many particulars mean. “Really,” I
found myself saying sotto voce, “all this is scarcely worthy
of being the cause of deserting the right, setting sound principles
at defiance, and of forgetting God and his commandments!”
Perhaps I was too inexperienced to comprehend
how capacious is the maw of the covetous man, and how
microscopic the eye of envy.

“You are welcome to Ravensnest,” said Mr. Warren,
approaching and offering his hand in a friendly way, much
as he would address any other young friend; “we arrived
a little before you, and I have had my ears and eyes open

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ever since, in the hope of hearing your flute, and of seeing
your form in the highway, near the parsonage, where you
promised to visit me.”

Mary was standing at her father's elbow, as when I first
saw her, and she gazed wistfully at my flute, as she would
not have done had she seen me in my proper attire, assuming
my proper character.

“I danks you, sir,” was my answer. “We might haf
plenty of times for a little moosic, vhen das laties shall be
pleaset to say so. I canst blay Yankee Doodle, Hail Coloombias,
and der `Star Spangled Banner,' und all dem airs,
as dey so moch likes at der taverns and on der road.”

Mr. Warren laughed, and he took the flute from my hand,
and began to examine it. I now trembled for the incognito!
The instrument had been mine for many years, and was a
very capital one, with silver keys, stops, and ornaments.
What if Patt — what if my dear grandmother should recognise
it! I would have given the handsomest trinket in my
uncle's collection to get the flute back again into my own
hands; but, before on opportunity offered for that, it went
from band to hand, as the instrument that had produced the
charming sounds heard that morning, until it reached those
of Martha. The dear girl was thinking of the jewelry,
which, it will be remembered, was rich, and intended in
part for herself, and she passed the instrument on, saying,
hurriedly,—

“See, dear grandmother, this is the flute which you pronounced
the sweetest toned of any you had ever heard!”

My grandmother took the flute, started, put her spectacles
closer to her eyes, examined the instrument, turned pale —
for her cheeks still retained a little of the colour of their
youth — and then cast a glance hurriedly and anxiously at
me. I could see that she was pondering on something profoundly
in her most secret mind, for a minute or two.
Luckily the others were too much occupied with the box of
the pedlar to heed her movements. She walked slowly out
of the door, almost brushing me as she passed, and went
into the hall. Here she turned, and, catching my eye, she
signed for me to join her. Obeying this signal, I followed,
until I was led into a little room, in one of the wings, that I
well remembered as a sort of private parlour attached to my

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grandmother's own bed-room. To call it a boudoir would
be to caricature things, its furniture being just that of the
sort of room I have mentioned, or of a plain, neat, comfortable,
country parlour. Here my grandmother took her seat
on a sofa, for she trembled so she could not stand, and then
she turned to gaze at me wistfully, and with an anxiety it
would be difficult for me to describe.

“Do not keep me in suspense!” she said, almost awfully
in tone and manner, “am I right in my conjecture?”

“Dearest grandmother, you are!” I answered, in my natural
voice.

No more was needed: we hung on each other's necks, as
had been my wont in boyhood.

“But who is that pedlar, Hugh?” demanded my grandmother,
after a time. “Can it possibly be Roger, my son?”

“It is no other; we have come to visit you, incog.”

“And why this disguise? — Is it connected with the troubles?”

“Certainly; we have wished to take a near view with
our own eyes, and supposed it might be unwise to come
openly, in our proper characters.”

“In this you have done well; yet I hardly know how to
welcome you, in your present characters. On no account
must your real names be revealed. The demons of tar and
feathers, the sons of liberty and equality, who illustrate their
principles as they do their courage, by attacking the few
with the many, would be stirring, fancying themselves heroes
and martyrs in the cause of justice, did they learn you
were here. Ten armed and resolute men might drive a
hundred of them, I do believe; for they have all the cowardice
of thieves, but they are heroes with the unarmed and
feeble. Are you safe, yourselves, appearing thus disguised,
under the new law?”

“We are not armed, not having so much as a pistol; and
that will protect us.”

“I am sorry to say, Hugh, that this country is no longer
what I once knew it. Its justice, if not wholly departed, is
taking to itself wings, and its blindness, not in a disregard
of persons, but in a faculty of seeing only the stronger side.
A landlord, in my opinion, would have but little hope, with
jury, judge, or executive, for doing that which thousands

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of the tenants have done, still do, and will continue to do,
with perfect impunity, unless some dire catastrophe stimulates
the public functionaries to their duties, by awakening
public indignation.”

“This is a miserable state of things, dearest grandmother;
and what makes it worse, is the cool indifference with which
most persons regard it. A better illustration of the utter
selfishness of human nature cannot be given, than in the
manner in which the body of the people look on, and see
wrong thus done to a few of their number.”

“Such persons as Mr. Seneca Newcome would answer,
that the public sympathises with the poor, who are oppressed
by the rich, because the last do not wish to let the first rob
them of their estates! We hear a great deal of the strong
robbing the weak, all over the world, but few among ourselves,
I am afraid, are sufficiently clear-sighted to see how
vivid an instance of the truth now exists among ourselves.”

“Calling the tenants the strong, and the landlords the
weak?”

“Certainly; numbers make strength, in this country, in
which all power in practice, and most of it in theory, rests
with the majority. Were there as many landlords as there
are tenants, my life on it, no one would see the least injustice
in the present state of things.”

“So says my uncle: but I hear the light steps of the
girls — we must be on our guard.”

At that instant Martha entered, followed by all three of
the girls, holding in her hand a very beautiful Manilla chain
that my uncle had picked up in his travels, and had purchased
as a present to my future wife, whomsoever she
might turn out to be, and which he had had the indiscretion
to show to his ward. A look of surprise was cast by each
girl in succession, as she entered the room, on me, but neither
said, and I fancy neither thought much of my being
shut up there with an old lady of eighty, after the first moment.
Other thoughts were uppermost at the moment.

“Look at this, dearest grandmamma!” cried Patt, holding
up the chain as she entered the room. “Here is just the
most exquisite chain that was ever wrought, and of the
purest gold; but the pedlar refuses to part with it!”

“Perhaps you do not offer enough, my child; it is,

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indeed, very, very beautiful; pray what does he say is its
value?”

“One hundred dollars, he says; and I can readily believe
it, for its weight is near half the money. I do wish
Hugh were at home; I am certain he would contrive to get
it, and make it a present to me!”

“Nein, nein, young lady,” put in the pedlar, who, a little
unceremoniously, had followed the girls into the room, though
he knew, of course, precisely where he was coming; “dat
might not be. Dat chain is der broperty of my son, t'ere,
und I haf sworn it shalt only be gifen to his wife.”

Pat coloured a little, and she pouted a good deal; then
she laughed outright.

“If it is only to be had on those conditions, I am afraid I
shall never own it,” she said, saucily, though it was intended
to be uttered so low as not to reach my ears. “I
will pay the hundred dollars out of my own pocket-money,
however, if that will buy it. Do say a good word for me,
grandmamma!”

How prettily the hussy uttered that word of endearment,
so different from the “paw” and “maw” one hears among
the dirty-noses that are to be found in the mud-puddles!
But our grand parent was puzzled, for she knew with whom
she had to deal, and of course saw that money would do
nothing. Nevertheless, the state of the game rendered it
necessary to say and do something that might have an appearance
of complying with Patty's request.

“Can I have more success in persuading you to change
your mind, sir?” she said, looking at her son in a way that
let him know at once, or at least made him suspect at once,
that she was in his secret. “It would give me great pleasure
to be able to gratify my grand-daughter, by making
her a present of so beautiful a chain.”

My uncle Ro advanced to his mother, took the hand she
had extended with the chain in it, in order the better to admire
the trinket, and he kissed it with a profound respect,
but in such a manner as to make it seem to the lookers-on
an act of European usage, rather than what it was, the tempered
salute of a child to his parent.

“Laty,” he then said, with emphasis, “if anybody might
make me change a resolution long since made, it would be

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one as fenerable, und gracious, und goot as I am sartain
you most be. But I haf vowet to gif dat chain to das wife
of mine son, vhen he might marry, one day, some bretty
young American; und it might not be.”

Dear grandmother smiled; but now she understood that
it was really intended the chain was to be an offering to my
wife, she no longer wished to change its destination. She
examined the bauble a few moments, and said to me —

“Do you wish this, as well as your un — father, I should
say? It is a rich present for a poor man to make.”

“Ja, ja, laty, it ist so; but vhen der heart goes, golt
might be t'ought sheap to go wid it.”

The old lady was half ready to laugh in my face, at hearing
this attempt at Germanic English; but the kindness, and
delight, and benevolent tenderness of her still fine eyes, made
me wish to throw myself in her arms again, and kiss her.
Patt continued to bouder for a moment or two longer, but
her excellent nature soon gave in, and the smiles returned
to her countenance, as the sun issues from behind a cloud
in May.

“Well, the disappointment may and must be borne,” she
said, good-naturedly; “though it is much the most lovely
chain I have ever seen.”

“I dare say the right person will one day find one quite
as lovely to present to you!” said Henrietta Coldbrook, a
little pointedly.

I did not like this speech. It was an allusion that a well-bred
young woman ought not to have made, at least before
others, even pedlars; and it was one that a young woman
of a proper tone of feeling would not be apt to make. I determined
from that instant the chain should never belong to
Miss Henrietta, though she was a fine, showy girl, and
though such a decision would disappoint my uncle sadly. I
was a little surprised to see a slight blush on Patt's cheek,
and then I remembered something of the name of the traveller,
Beekman. Turning towards Mary Warren, I saw
plain enough that she was disappointed because my sister
was disappointed, and for no other reason in the world.

“Your grandmother will meet with another chain, when
she goes to town, that will make you forget this,” she whispered,
affectionately, close at my sister's ear.

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Patt smiled, and kissed her friend with a warmth of manner
that satisfied me these two charming young creatures
loved each other sincerely. But my dear old grandmother's
curiosity had been awakened, and she felt a necessity for
having it appeased. She still held the chain, and as she
returned it to me, who happened to be nearest to her, she
said —

“And so, sir, your mind is sincerely made up to offer
this chain to your future wife?”

“Yes, laty; or what might be better, to das yoong frau,
before we might be marriet.”

“And is your choice made?” glancing round at the girls,
who were grouped together, looking at some other trinkets
of my uncle's. “Have you chosen the young woman who
is to possess so handsome a chain?”

“Nein, nein,” I answered, returning the smile, and glancing
also at the group; “dere ist so many peautiful laties in
America, one needn't be in a hurry. In goot time I shalt
find her dat ist intended for me.”

“Well, grandmamma,” interrupted Patt, “since nobody
can have the chain, unless on certain conditions, here are
the three other things that we have chosen for Ann, Henrietta,
and myself, and they are a ring, a pair of bracelets
and a pair of ear-rings. The cost, altogether, will be two
hundred dollars; can you approve of that?”

My grandmother, now she knew who was the pedlar, understood
the whole matter, and had no scruples. The bar
gain was soon made, when she sent us all out of the room,
under the pretence we should disturb her while setting with
the watch-seller. Her real object, however, was to be alone
with her son, not a dollar passing between them, of course.

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CHAPTER XI.

“Our life was changed. Another love
In its lone woof began to twine;
But oh! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine.”
Willis.

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Half an hour later, uncle Ro and myself were seated at
table, eating our dinners as quietly as if we were in an inn.
The footman who had set the table was an old family servant,
one who had performed the same sort of duty in that
very house for a quarter of a century. Of course he was
not an American, no man of American birth ever remaining
so long a time in an inferior station, or in any station
so low as that of a house-servant. If he has good qualities
enough to render it desirable to keep him, he is almost certain
to go up in the world; if not, one does not care particularly
about having him. But Europeans are less elastic
and less ambitious, and it is no uncommon thing to find one
of such an origin remaining a long time in the same service.
Such had been the fact with this man, who had followed
my own parents from Europe, when they returned from
their marriage tour, and had been in the house on the occasion
of my birth. From that time he had continued at the
Nest, never marrying, nor ever manifesting the smallest
wish for any change. He was an Englishman by birth;
and what is very unusual in a servant of that country, when
transferred to America, the “letting-up,” which is certain
to attend such a change from the depression of the original
condition to that in which he is so suddenly placed, had not
made him saucy. An American is seldom what is called
impudent, under any circumstances; he is careless, nay ignorant
of forms; pays little or no purely conventional respect;
does not understand half the social distinctions which
exist among the higher classes of even his own countrymen,
and fancies there are equalities in things about which, in
truth, there is great inequality between himself and others,

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merely because he has been taught that all men are equal
in rights; but he is so unconscious of any pressure as
seldom to feel a disposition to revenge himself by impudence.

But, while John was not impudent either, he had a footman's
feeling towards those whom he fancied no better than
himself. He had set the table with his customary neatness
and method, and he served the soup with as much regularity
as he would have done had we sat there in our proper
characters, but then he withdrew. He probably remembered
that the landlord, or upper servant of an English hotel,
is apt to make his appearance with the soup, and to disappear
as that disappears. So it was with John; after removing
the soup, he put a dumb-waiter near my uncle,
touched a carving-knife or two, as much as to say “help
yourselves,” and quitted the room. As a matter of course,
our dinner was not a very elaborate one, it wanting two or
three hours to the regular time of dining, though my grandmother
had ordered, in my hearing, one or two delicacies
to be placed on the table, that had surprised Patt. Among
the extraordinary things for such guests was wine. The
singularity, however, was a little explained by the quality
commanded, which was Rhenish.

My uncle Ro was a little surprised at the disappearance
of John; for, seated in that room, he was so accustomed to
his face, that it appeared as if he were not half at home
without him.

“Let the fellow go,” he said, withdrawing his hand from
the bell-cord, which he had already touched to order him back
again; “we can talk more freely without him. Well, Hugh,
here you are, under your own roof, eating a charitable dinner,
and treated as hospitably as if you did not own all you
can see for a circle of five miles around you. It was a
lucky idea of the old lady's, by the way, to think of ordering
this Rudesheimer, in our character of Dutchmen! How
amazingly well she is looking, boy!”

“Indeed she is; and I am delighted to see it. I do not
know why my grandmother may not live these twenty
years; for even that would not make her near as old as
Sus, who, I have often heard her say, was a middle-aged
man when she was born.”

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“True; she seems like an elder sister to me, rather than
as a mother, and is altogether a most delightful old woman.
But, if we had so charming an old woman to receive us, so
are there also some very charming young women — hey,
Hugh?”

“I am quite of your way of thinking, sir; and must say
I have not, in many a day, seen two as charming creatures
as I have met with here.”

Two! — umph; a body would think one might suffice.
Pray, which may be the two, Master Padishah?”

“Patt and Mary Warren, of course. The other two are
well enough, but these two are excellent.”

My uncle Ro looked grum, but he said nothing for some
time. Eating is always an excuse for a broken conversation,
and he ate away as if resolute not to betray his disappointment.
But it is a hard matter for a gentleman to do
nothing but eat at table, and so was obliged to talk.

“Everything looks well here, after all, Hugh,” observed
my uncle. “These anti-renters may have done an infinite
deal of harm in the way of abusing principles, but they do
not seem to have yet destroyed any material things.”

“It is not their cue, sir. The crops are their own; and
as they hope to own the farms, it would be scarcely wise to
injure what, no doubt, they begin to look on as their own
property, too. As for the Nest House, grounds, farm, &c.,
I dare say they will be very willing to leave me them for a
while longer, provided they can get everything else away
from me.”

“For a time longer, at least; though that is the folly of
those who expect to get along by concessions; as if men
were ever satisfied with the yielding of a part, when they
ask that which is wrong in itself, without sooner or later
expecting to get the whole. As well might one expect the
pickpocket who had abstracted a dollar, to put back two-and-sixpence
change. But things really look well, around
the place.”

“So much the better for us. Though, to my judgment
and taste, Miss Mary Warren looks better than anything
else I have yet seen in America.”

Another “umph” expressed my uncle's dissatisfaction —

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displeasure would be too strong a word — and he continued
eating.

“You have really some good Rhenish in your cellar,
Hugh,” resumed uncle Ro, after tossing off one of the knowing
green glasses full—though I never could understand
why any man should wish to drink his wine out of green,
when he might do it out of crystal. “It must have been a
purchase of mine, made when we were last in Germany,
and for the use of my mother.”

“As you please, sir; it neither adds nor subtracts from
the beauty of Martha and her friend.”

“Since you are disposed to make these boyish allusions,
be frank with me, and say, at once, how you like my
wards.”

“Meaning, of course, sir, my own sister exclusively. I
will be as sincere as possible, and say that, as to Miss Marston,
I have no opinion at all; and as to Miss Coldbrook,
she is what, in Europe, would be called a `fine' woman.”

“You can say nothing as to her mind, Hugh, for you
have had no opportunity for forming an opinion.”

“Not much of a one, I will own. Nevertheless, I should
have liked her better had she spared the allusion to the
`proper person' who is one day to forge a chain for my sister,
to begin with.”

“Poh, poh; that is the mere squeamishness of a boy. I
do not-think her in the least pert or forward, and your construction
would be tant soit peu vulgar.”

“Put your own construction on it, mon oncle; I do not
like it.”

“I do not wonder young men remain unmarried; they
are getting to be so ultra in their tastes and notions.”

A stranger might have retorted on an old bachelor, for
such a speech, by some allusion to his own example; but I
well knew that my uncle Ro had once been engaged, and
that he lost the object of his passion by death, and too much
respected his constancy and true sentiments ever to joke on
such subjects. I believe he felt the delicacy of my forbearance
rather more than common, for he immediately manifested
a disposition to relent, and to prove it by changing
the subject.

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“We can never stay here to-night,” he said. “It would
be at once to proclaim our names—our name, I might say—
a name that was once so honoured and beloved in this town,
and which is now so hated!”

“No, no; not as bad as that. We have done nothing
to merit hatred.”

Raison de plus for hating us so much the more heartily.
When men are wronged, who have done nothing to deserve
it, the evil-doer seeks to justify his wickedness to himself
by striving all he can to calumniate the injured party; and
the more difficulty he finds in doing that to his mind, the
more profound is his hatred. Rely on it, we are most sincerely
disliked here, on the spot where we were once both
much beloved. Such is human nature.”

At that moment John returned to the room, to see how
we were getting on, and to count his forks and spoons, for
I saw the fellow actually doing it. My uncle, somewhat
indiscreetly, I fancied, but by merely following the chain
of thought then uppermost in his mind, detained him in conversation.

“Dis broperty,” he said, inquiringly, “is de broperty of
one Yeneral Littlepage, I hears say?”

“Not of the General, who was Madam Littlepage's husband,
and who has long been dead, but of his grandson, Mr.
Hugh.”

“Und where might he be, dis Mr. Hugh? — might he be
at hand, or might he not?”

“No; he 's in Europe; that is to say, in Hengland.”
John thought England covered most of Europe, though he
had long gotten over his wish to return. “Mr. Hugh and
Mr. Roger be both habsent from the country, just now.”

“Dat ist unfortunate, for dey dells me dere might be
moch troobles here abouts, and Injin-acting.”

“There is, indeed; and a wicked thing it is, that there
should be anything of the sort.”

“Und what might be der reason of so moch troobles? —
and where ist der blame?”

“Well, that is pretty plain, I fancy,” returned John, who,
in consequence of being a favoured servant at head-quarters,
fancied himself a sort of cabinet minister, and had much

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[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]

pleasure in letting his knowledge be seen. “The tenants
on this estate wants to be landlords; and as they can't be
so, so long as Mr. Hugh lives and won't let 'em, why they
just tries all sorts of schemes and plans to frighten people
out of their property. I never go down to the village but I
has a talk with some of them, and that in a way that might
do them some good, if anything can.”

“Und what dost you say? — und vid whom dost you talk,
as might do dem moch goot?”

“Why, you see, I talks more with one 'Squire Newcome,
as they calls him, though he 's no more of a real 'squire
than you be — only a sort of an attorney, like, such as they
has in this country. You come from the old countries, I
believe?”

“Ja, ja—dat ist, yes—we comes from Charmany; so you
can say what you bleases.”

“They has queer 'squires in this part of the world, if
truth must be said. But that 's neither here nor there, though
I give this Mr. Seneca Newcome as good as he sends. What
is it you wants, I says to him? — you can't all be landlords—
somebody must be tenants; and if you didn't want to be
tenants, how come you to be so? Land is plenty in this
country, and cheap too; and why didn't you buy your land
at first, instead of coming to rent of Mr. Hugh; and now
when you have rented, to be quarrelling about the very
thing you did of your own accord?”

“Dere you didst dell 'em a goot t'ing; and what might
der 'Squire say to dat?”

“Oh! he was quite dumb-founded, at first; then he said
that in old times, when people first rented these lands, they
didn't know as much as they do now, or they never would
have done it.”

“Und you could answer dat; or vast it your durn to be
dum-founded?”

“I pitched it into him, as they says; I did. Says I,
how's this, says I — you are for ever boasting how much
you Americans know — and how the people knows everything
that ought to be done, about politics and religion—and
you proclaim far and near that your yeomen are the salt of
the earth—and yet you don't know how to bargain for your
leases! A pretty sort of wisdom is this, says I! I had him

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there; for the people round about here is only too sharp at
a trade.”

“Did he own dat you vast right, and dat he vast wrong,
dis Herr 'Squire Newcome?”

“Not he; he will never own anything that makes against
his own doctrine, unless he does it ignorantly. But I haven't
told you half of it. I told him, says I, how is it you talk
of one of the Littlepage family cheating you, when, as you
knows yourselves, you had rather have the word of one of
that family than have each other's bonds, says I. You
know, sir, it must be a poor landlord that a tenant can't and
won't take his word: and this they all know to be true;
for a gentleman as has a fine estate is raised above temptation,
like, and has a pride in him to do what is honourable
and fair; and, in my opinion, it is good to have a few such
people in a country, if it be only to keep the wicked one
from getting it altogether in his own keeping.”

“Und did you say dat moch to der 'Squire?”

“No; that I just says to you two, seeing that we are
here, talking together in a friendly way; but a man needn't
be ashamed to say it anywhere, for it 's a religious truth.
But I says to him, Newcome, says I, you, who has been
living so long on the property of the Littlepages, ought to
be ashamed to wish to strip them of it; but you 're not satisfied
with keeping gentlemen down quite as much out of
sight as you can, by holding all the offices yourselves, and
taking all the money of the public you can lay your hands
on for your own use, but you wants to trample them under
your feet, I says, and so take your revenge for being what
you be, says I.”

“Vell, my friend,” said my uncle, “you vast a bolt man
to dell all dis to der beoples of dis coontry, where I have
heard, a man may say just what he hast a mind to say, so
dat he dost not sbeak too moch trut!”

“That 's it—that 's it; you have been a quick scholar, I
find. I told this Mr. Newcome, says I, you 're bold enough
in railing at kings and nobles, for you very well know, says
I, that they are three thousand miles away from you, and
can do you no harm; but you would no more dare get up
before your masters, the people, here, and say what you
really think about 'em, and what I have heard you say of

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them in private, than you would dare put your head before
a cannon, as the gunner touched it off. Oh! I gave him a
lesson, you may be sure!”

Although there was a good deal of the English footman in
John's logic and feeling, there was also a good deal of truth
in what he said. The part where he accused Newcome of
holding one set of opinions in private, concerning his masters,
and another in public, is true to the life. There is not,
at this moment, within the wide reach of the American borders,
one demagogue to be found who might not, with justice,
be accused of precisely the same deception. There is
not one demagogue in the whole country, who, if he lived
in a monarchy, would not be the humblest advocate of men
in power, ready to kneel at the feet of those who stood in
the sovereign's presence. There is not, at this instant, a
man in power among us a senator or a legislator, who is
now the seeming advocate of what he wishes to call the
rights of the tenants, and who is for overlooking principles
and destroying law and right, in order to pacify the antirenters
by extraordinary concessions, that would not be
among the foremost, under a monarchial system, to recommend
and support the freest application of the sword and the
bayonet to suppress what would then be viewed, ay, and be
termed, “the rapacious longings of the disaffected to enjoy
the property of others without paying for it.” All this is
certain; for it depends on a law of morals that is infallible.
Any one who wishes to obtain a clear index to the true characters
of the public men he is required to support, or oppose,
has now the opportunity; for each stands before a
mirror that reflects him in his just proportions, and in which
the dullest eye has only to cast a glance, in order to view
him from head to foot.

The entrance of my grandmother put a stop to John's
discourse. He was sent out of the room on a message, and
then I learned the object of this visit. My sister had been
let into the secret of our true characters, and was dying to
embrace me. My dear grandmother, rightly enough, had
decided it would be to the last degree unkind to keep her in
ignorance of our presence; and, the fact known, nature had
longings which must be appeased. I had myself been

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tempted twenty times, that morning, to snatch Patt to my
heart and kiss her, as I used to do just after my beard began
to grow, and she was so much of a child as to complain.
The principal thing to be arranged, then, was to obtain an
interview for me without awakening suspicion in the observers.
My grandmother's plan was arranged, however,
and she now communicated it to us.

There was a neat little dressing-room annexed to Martha's
bed-room; in that the meeting was to take place.

“She and Mary Warren are now there, waiting for your
appearance, Hugh—”

“Mary Warren!—Does she, then, know who I am?”

“Not in the least; she has no other idea than that you
are a young German, of good connections and well educated,
who has been driven from his own country by political troubles,
and who is reduced to turn his musical taste and acquisitions
to account, in the way you seem to do, until he
can find some better employment. All this she had told us
before we met you, and you are not to be vain, Hugh, if I
add, that your supposed misfortunes, and great skill with
the flute, and good behaviour, have made a friend of one of
the best and most true-hearted girls I ever had the good fortune
to know. I say good behaviour, for little, just now,
can be ascribed to good looks.”

“I hope I am not in the least revolting in appearance, in
this disguise. For my sister's sake—”

The hearty laugh of my dear old grandmother brought
me up, and I said no more; colouring, I believe, a little, at
my own folly. Even uncle Ro joined in the mirth, though
I could see he wished Mary Warren even safely translated
along with her father, and that the latter was Archbishop of
Canterbury. I must acknowledge that I felt a good deal
ashamed of the weakness I had betrayed.

“You are very well, Hugh, darling,” continued my grandmother;
“though I must think you would be more interesting
in your own hair, which is curling, than in that lank
wig. Still, one can see enough of your face to recognise
it, if one has the clue; and I told Martha, at the first, that
I was struck with a certain expression of the eyes and smile
that reminded me of her brother. But, there they are, Mary

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and Martha, in the drawing-room, waiting for your appearance.
The first is so fond of music, and, indeed, is so practised
in it, as to have been delighted with your flute; and
she has talked so much of your skill as to justify us in seeming
to wish for a further exhibition of your skill. Henrietta
and Ann, having less taste that way, have gone together
to select bouquets, in the green-house, and there is now an
excellent opportunity to gratify your sister. I am to draw
Mary out of the room, after a little while, when you and
Martha may say a word to each other in your proper characters.
As for you, Roger, you are to open your box
again, and I will answer for it that will serve to amuse your
other wards, should they return too soon from their visit to
the gardener.”

Everything being thus explained, and our dinner ended,
all parties proceeded to the execution of the plan, each in
his or her designated mode. When my grandmother and I
reached the dressing-room, however, Martha was not there,
though Mary Warren was, her bright but serene eyes full
of happiness and expectation. Martha had retired to the
inner room for a moment, whither my grandmother, suspecting
the truth, followed her. As I afterwards ascertained,
my sister, fearful of not being able to suppress her
tears on my entrance, had withdrawn, in order to struggle
for self-command without betraying our secret. I was told
to commence an air, without waiting for the absent young
lady, as the strain could easily be heard through the open
door.

I might have played ten minutes before my sister and
grandmother came out again. Both had been in tears,
though the intense manner in which Mary Warren was occupied
with the harmony of my flute, probably prevented
her from observing it. To me, however, it was plain enough;
and glad was I to find that my sister had succeeded in commanding
her feelings. In a minute or two my grandmother
profited by a pause to rise and carry away with her Mary
Warren, though the last left the room with a reluctance that
was very manifest. The pretence was a promise to meet
the divine in the library, on some business connected with
the Sunday-schools.

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“You can keep the young man for another air, Martha,”
observed my grandmother, “and I will send Jane to you,
as I pass her room.”

Jane was my sister's own maid, and her room was close
at hand, and I dare say dear grandmother gave her the order,
in Mary Warren's presence, as soon as she quitted the room,
else might Mary Warren well be surprised at the singularity
of the whole procedure; but Jane did not make her appearance,
nevertheless. As for myself, I continued to play as
long as I thought any ear was near enough to hear me;
then I laid aside my flute. In the next instant Patt was in
my arms, where she lay some time weeping, but looking
inexpressibly happy.

“Oh! Hugh, what a disguise was this to visit your own
house in!” she said, as soon as composed enough to speak.

“Would it have done to come here otherwise? You
know the state of the country, and the precious fruits our
boasted tree of liberty is bringing forth. The owner of the
land can only visit his property at the risk of his life!”

Martha pressed me in her arms in a way to show how
conscious she was of the danger I incurred in even thus visiting
her; after which we seated ourselves, side by side,
on a little divan, and began to speak of those things that
were most natural to a brother and sister who so much loved
each other, and who had not met for five years. My grandmother
had managed so well as to prevent all interruption
for an hour, if we saw fit to remain together, while to others
it should seem as if Pat had dismissed me in a few minutes.

“Not one of the other girls suspect, in the least, who you
are,” said Martha, smiling, when we had got through with
the questions and answers so natural to our situation. “I
am surprised that Henrietta has not, for she prides herself
on her penetration. She is as much in the dark as the
others, however.”

“And Miss Mary Warren—the young lady who has just
left the room—has she not some small notion that I am not
a common Dutch music-grinder?”

Patt laughed, and that so merrily as to cause the tones
of her sweet voice to fill me with delight, as I remembered
what she had been in childhood and girlhood five years

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before, and she shook her bright tresses off her cheeks ere she
would answer.

“No, Hugh,” she replied, “she fancies you an uncommon
Dutch music-grinder; an artiste that not only grinds, but
who dresses up his harmonies in such a way as to be palatable
to the most refined taste. How came Mary to think
you and my uncle two reduced German gentlemen?”

“And does the dear girl believe—that is, does Miss Mary
Warren do us so much honour, as to imagine that?”

“Indeed she does, for she told us as much as soon as she
got home; and Henrietta and Ann have made themselves
very merry with their speculations on the subject of Miss
Warren's great incognito. They call you Herzog von
Geige.”

“Thank them for that.” I am afraid I answered a little
too pointedly, for I saw that Patt seemed surprised. “But
your American towns are just such half-way things as to
spoil young women; making them neither refined and polished
as they might be in real capitals, while they are not
left the simplicity and nature of the country.”

“Well, Master Hugh, this is being very cross about a
very little, and not particularly complimentary to your own
sister. And why not your American towns, as well as
ours? — are you no longer one of us?”

“Certainly; one of yours, always, my dearest Patt,
though not one of every chattering girl who may set up for
a belle, with her Dukes of Fiddle! But, enough of this;—
you like the Warrens?”

“Very much so; father and daughter. The first is just
what a clergyman should be; of a cultivation and intelligence
to fit him to be any man's companion, and a simplicity
like that of a child. You remember his predecessor—
so dissatisfied, so selfish, so lazy, so censorious, so unjust
to every person and thing around him, and yet so exacting;
and, at the same time, so—”

“What? Thus far you have drawn his character well;
I should like to hear the remainder.”

“I have said more than I ought already; for one has an
idea that, by bringing a clergyman into disrepute, it brings
religion and the church into discredit, too. A priest must

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be a very bad man to have injurious things said of him, in
this country, Hugh.”

“That is, perhaps, true. But you like Mr. Warren better
than him who has left you?”

“A thousand times, and in all things. In addition to
having a most pious and sincere pastor, we have an agreeable
and well-bred neighbour, from whose mouth, in the five
years that he has dwelt here, I have not heard a syllable at
the expense of a single fellow-creature. You know how it
is apt to be with the other clergy and ours, in the country—
for ever at swords' points; and if not actually quarrelling,
keeping up a hollow peace.”

“That is only too true—or used to be true, before I went
abroad.”

“And it is so now, elsewhere, I 'll answer for it, though
it be so no longer here. Mr. Warren and Mr. Peck seem
to live on perfectly amicable terms, though as little alike at
bottom as fire and water.”

“By the way, how do the clergy of the different sects, up
and down the country, behave on the subject of anti-rent?”

“I can answer only from what I hear, with the exception
of Mr. Warren's course. He has preached two or three
plain and severe sermons on the duty of honesty in our
worldly transactions, one of which was from the tenth commandment.
Of course he said nothing of the particular
trouble, but everybody must have made the necessary application
of the home-truths he uttered. I question if another
voice has been raised, far and near, on the subject,
although I have heard Mr. Warren say the movement
threatens more to demoralize New York than anything that
has happened in his time.”

“And the man down at the village?”

“Oh, he goes, of course, with the majority. When was
one of that set ever known to oppose his parish, in anything?”

“And Mary is as sound and as high-principled as her
father?”

“Quite so; though there has been a good deal said about
the necessity of Mr. Warren's removing, and giving up St.
Andrew's, since he preached against covetousness. All the

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anti-renters say, I hear, that they know he meant them, and
that they won't put up with it.”

“I dare say; each one fancying he was almost called out
by name: that is the way, when conscience works.”

“I should be very, very sorry to part with Mary; and
almost as much so to part with her father. There is one
thing, however, that Mr. Warren himself thinks we had better
have done, Hugh; and that is to take down the canopy
from over our pew. You can have no notion of the noise
that foolish canopy is making up and down the country.”

“I shall not take it down. It is my property, and there
it shall remain. As for the canopy, it was a wrong distinction
to place in a church, I am willing to allow; but it never
gave offence until it has been thought that a cry against it
would help to rob me of my lands at half price, or at no
price at all, as it may happen.”

“All that may be true; but if improper for a church, why
keep it?”

“Because I do not choose to be bullied out of what is my
own, even though I care nothing about it. There might
have been a time when the canopy was unsuited to the
house of God, and that was when those who saw it might
fancy it canopied the head of a fellow-creature who had
higher claims than themselves to divine favour; but, in
times like these, when men estimate merit by beginning at
the other end of the social scale, there is little danger of
any one's falling into the mistake. The canopy shall stand,
little as I care about it: now, I would actually prefer it
should come down, as I can fully see the impropriety of
making any distinctions in the temple; but it shall stand
until concessions cease to be dangerous. It is a right of
property, and as such I will maintain it. If others dislike
it, let them put canopies over their pews, too. The best
test, in such a matter, is to see who could bear it. A pretty
figure Seneca Newcome would cut, for instance, seated in
a canopied pew! Even his own set would laugh at him;
which, I fancy, is more than they yet do at me.”

Martha was disappointed; but she changed the subject.
We next talked of our own little private affairs, as they
were connected with smaller matters.

“For whom is that beautiful chain intended, Hugh?”

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asked Patt, laughingly. “I can now believe the pedlar
when he says it is reserved for your future wife. But who
is that wife to be? Will her name be Henrietta or Ann?”

“Why not ask, also, if it will be Mary? — why exclude
one of your companions, while you include the other two?”

Patt started—seemed surprised; her cheeks flushed, and
then I saw that pleasure was the feeling predominant.

“Am I too late to secure that jewel, as a pendant to my
chain?” I asked, half in jest, half seriously.

“Too soon, at least, to attract it by the richness and
beauty of the bauble. A more natural and disinterested
girl than Mary Warren does not exist in the country.”

“Be frank with me, Martha, and say at once; has she a
favoured suitor?”

“Why, this seems really serious!” exclaimed my sister,
laughing. “But, to put you out of your pain, I will answer,
I know of but one. One she has certainly, or female sagacity
is at fault.”

“But is he one that is favoured? You can never know
how much depends on your answer.”

“Of that you can judge for yourself. It is 'Squire Seneky
Newcome, as he is called hereabouts — the brother of
the charming Opportunity, who still reserves herself for
you.”

“And they are as rank anti-renters as any male and female
in the country.”

“They are rank Newcomites; and that means that each
is for himself. Would you believe it, but Opportunity really
gives herself airs with Mary Warren!”

“And how does Mary Warren take such an assumption?”

“As a young person should—quietly and without manifesting
any feeling. But there is something quite intolerable
in one like Opportunity Newcome's assuming a superiority
over any true lady! Mary is as well educated and as well
connected as any of us, and is quite as much accustomed to
good company; while Opportunity—” here Patt laughed,
and then added, hurriedly, “but you know Opportunity as
well as I do.”

“Oh! yes; she is la vertue, or the virtue, and je suis
venue, pour
.”

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The latter allusion Patt understood well enough, having
laughed over the story a dozen times; and she laughed again
when I explained the affair of “the solitude.”

Then came a fit of sisterly feeling. Patt insisted on taking
off my wig, and seeing my face in its natural dress. I
consented to gratify her, when the girl really behaved like a
simpleton. First she pushed about my curls until they were
arranged to suit the silly creature, when she ran back several
steps, clapped her hands in delight, then rushed into my
arms and kissed my forehead and eyes, and called me “her
brother” — her “only brother” — her “dear, dear Hugh,”
and by a number of other such epithets, until she worked
herself, and me too, into such an excess of feeling that we
sat down, side by side, and each had a hearty fit of crying.
Perhaps some such burst as this was necessary to relieve
our minds, and we submitted to it wisely.

My sister wept the longest, as a matter of course; but,
as soon as she had dried her eyes, she replaced the wig, and
completely restored my disguise, trembling the whole time
lest some one might enter and detect me.

“You have been very imprudent, Hugh, in coming here
at all,” she said, while thus busy. “You can form no notion
of the miserable state of the country, or how far the
anti-rent poison has extended, or the malignant nature of
its feeling. The annoyances they have attempted with dear
grandmother are odious; you they would scarcely leave
alive.”

“The country and the people must have strangely altered,
then, in five years. Our New York population has hitherto
had very little of the assassin-like character. Tar and feathers
are the blackguards', and have been the petty tyrants'
weapons, from time immemorial, in this country; but not
the knife.”

“And can anything sooner or more effectually alter a
people than longings for the property of others? Is not the
`love of money the root of all evil?' — and what right have
we to suppose our Ravensnest population is better than another,
when that sordid feeling is thoroughly aroused? You
know you have written me yourself, that all the American
can or does live for is money.”

“I have written you, dear, that the country, in its

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present condition, leaves no other incentive to exertion, and
therein it is cursed. Military fame, military rank, even,
are unattainable, under our system: the arts, letters and
science, bring little or no reward; and there being no polilitical
rank that a man of refinement would care for, men
must live for money, or live altogether for another state of
being. But I have told you, at the same time, Martha, that,
notwithstanding all this, I believe the American a less mercenary
being, in the ordinary sense of the word, than the
European; that two men might be bought, for instance, in
any European country, for one here. This last I suppose
to be the result of the facility of making a living, and the
habits it produces.”

“Never mind causes; Mr. Warren says there is a desperate
intention to rob existing among these people, and that
they are dangerous. As yet they do a little respect women,
but how long they will do that one cannot know.”

“It may all be so. It must be so, respecting what I have
heard and read; yet this vale looks as smiling and as sweet,
at this very moment, as if an evil passion never sullied it!
But, depend on my prudence, which tells me that we ought
now to part. I shall see you again and again before I quit
the estate, and you will, of course, join us somewhere — at
the Springs, perhaps — as soon as we find it necessary or
expedient to decamp.”

Martha promised this, of course, and I kissed her, previously
to separating. No one crossed my way as I descended
to the piazza, which was easily done, since I was
literally at home. I lounged about on the lawn a few minutes,
and then, showing myself in front of the library windows,
I was summoned to the room, as I had expected.

Uncle Ro had disposed of every article of the fine jewelry
that he had brought home as presents for his wards. The
pay was a matter to be arranged with Mrs. Littlepage,
which meant no pay at all; and, as the donor afterwards
told me, he liked this mode of distributing the various ornaments
better than presenting them himself, as he was now
certain each girl had consulted her own fancy.

As the hour of the regular dinner was approaching, we
took our leave soon after, not without receiving kind and
pressing invitations to visit the Nest again ere we left the

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township. Of course we promised all that was required,
intending most faithfully to comply. On quitting the house
we returned towards the farm, though not without pausing
on the lawn to gaze around us on a scene so dear to both,
from recollection, association, and interest. But I forget,
this is aristocratical; the landlord has no right to sentiments
of this nature, which are feelings that the sublimated
liberty of the law is beginning to hold in reserve solely for
the benefit of the tenant!

CHAPTER XII.

“There shall be, in England, seven half-penny loaves sold for a
penny: the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make
it felony to drink small beer: all the realm shall be in common, and
in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass.”

Jack Cade.

I do not see, sir,” I remarked, as we moved on from
the last of these pauses, “why the governors and legislators,
and writers on this subject of anti-rentism, talk so
much of feudality, and chickens, and days' works, and durable
leases, when we have none of these, while we have
all the disaffection they are said to produce.”

“You will understand that better as you come to know
more of men. No party alludes to its weak points. It is
just as you say; but the proceedings of your tenants, for
instance, give the lie to the theories of the philanthropists,
and must be kept in the back-ground. It is true that the
disaffection has not yet extended to one-half, or to one-fourth
of the leased estates in the country, perhaps not to one-tenth,
if you take the number of the landlords as the standard, instead
of the extent of their possessions, but it certainly will,
should the authorities tamper with the rebels much longer.”

“If they tax the incomes of the landlords under the durable
rent system, why would not the parties aggrieved have

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the same right to take up arms to resist such an act of oppression
as our fathers had, in 1776?”

“Their cause would be better; for that was only a constructive
right, and one dependent on general principles,
whereas this is an attempt at a most mean evasion of a written
law, the meanness of the attempt being quite as culpable
as its fraud. Every human being knows that such a tax,
so far as it has any object beyond that of an election-sop,
is to choke off the landlords from the maintenance of their
covenants, which is a thing that no State can do directly,
without running the risk of having its law pronounced unconstitutional
by the courts of the United States, if, indeed,
not by its own courts.”

“The Court of Errors, think you?”

“The Court of Errors is doomed, by its own abuses.
Catiline never abused the patience of Rome more than that
mongrel assembly has abused the patience of every sound
lawyer in the State. “Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum,” is interpreted,
now, into “Let justice be done, and the court fall.”
No one wishes to see it continued, and the approaching convention
will send it to the Capulets, if it do nothing else to
be commended. It was a pitiful imitation of the House of
Lords system, with this striking difference: the English
lords are men of education, and men with a vast deal at
stake, and their knowledge and interests teach them to leave
the settlement of appeals to the legal men of their body, of
whom there are always a respectable number, in addition
to those in possession of the woolsack and the bench;
whereas our Senate is a court composed of small lawyers,
country doctors, merchants, farmers, with occasionally a
man of really liberal attainments. Under the direction of
an acute and honest judge, as most of our true judges actually
are, the Court of Errors would hardly form such a jury
as would allow a creditable person to be tried by his peers,
in a case affecting character, for instance, and here we have
it set up as a court of the last resort, to settle points of
law!”

“I see it has just made a decision in a libel suit, at which
the profession sneers.”

“It has, indeed. Now look at that very decision, for instance,
as the measure of its knowledge. An editor of a

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newspaper holds up a literary man to the world as one anxious
to obtain a small sum of money, in order to put it into
Wall street, for `shaving purposes.' Now, the only material
question raised was the true signification of the word
`shaving.' If to say a man is a `shaver,' in the sense
in which it is applied to the use of money, be bringing him
into discredit, then was the plaintiff's declaration sufficient;
if not, it was insufficient, being wanting in what is called an
`innuendo.' The dictionaries, and men in general, understand
by `shaving,' `extortion,' and nothing else. To
call a man a `shaver' is to say he is an `extortioner,' without
going into details. But, in Wall street, and among money-dealers,
certain transactions that, in their eyes, and by
the courts, are not deemed discreditable, have of late been
brought within the category of `shaving.' Thus it is technically,
or by convention among brokers, termed “shaving”
if a man buy a note at less than its face, which is a legal
transaction. On the strength of this last circumstance, as
is set forth in the published opinions
, the highest Court of
Appeals in New York has decided it does not bring a man
into discredit to say he is a `shaver!'—thus making a conventional
signification of the brokers of Wall street higher
authority for the use of the English tongue than the standard
lexicographers, and all the rest of those who use the language!
On the same principle, if a set of pick-pockets, at
the Five Points, should choose to mystify their trade a little
by including in the term `to filch' the literal borrowing of
a pocket-handkerchief, it would not be a libel to accuse a
citizen of `filching his neighbour's handkerchief!”'

“But the libel was uttered to the world, and not to the
brokers of Wall street only, who might possibly understand
their own terms.”

“Very true; and was uttered in a newspaper that carried
the falsehood to Europe; for the writer of the charge,
when brought up for it, publicly admitted that he had no
ground for suspecting the literary man of any such practices.
He called it a `joke.' Every line of the context,
however, showed it was a malicious charge. The decision
is very much as if a man who is sued for accusing another
of `stealing' should set up a defence that he meant `stealing'
hearts, for the word is sometimes used in that sense. When

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men use epithets that convey discredit in their general meaning,
it is their business to give them a special signification
in their own contexts, if such be their real intention. But
I much question if there be a respectable money-dealer, even
in Wall street, who would not swear, if called on in a court
of justice so to do, that he thought the general charge of
`shaving' discreditable to any man.”

“And you think the landlords whose rents were taxed,
sir, would have a moral right to resist?”

“Beyond all question; as it would be an income tax on
them only, of all in the country. What is more, I am fully
persuaded that two thousand men embodied to resist such
tyranny would look down the whole available authority of
the State; inasmuch as I do not believe citizens could be
found to take up arms to enforce a law so flagrantly unjust.
Men will look on passively and see wrongs inflicted, that
would never come out to support them by their own acts.
But we are approaching the farm, and there is Tom Miller
and his hired men waiting our arrival.”

It is unnecessary to repeat, in detail, all that passed in
this our second visit to the farm-house. Miller received us
in a friendly manner, and offered us a bed, if we would pass
the night with him. This business of a bed had given us
more difficulty than anything else, in the course of our peregrinations.
New York has long got over the “two-man”
and “three-man bed” system, as regards its best inns. At
no respectable New York inn is a gentleman now asked to
share even his room, without an apology and a special necessity,
with another, much less his bed; but the rule does
not hold good as respects pedlars and music-grinders. We
had ascertained that we were not only expected to share
the same bed, but to occupy that bed in a room filled with
other beds. There are certain things that get to be second
nature, and that no masquerading will cause to go down;
and, among others, one gets to dislike sharing his room and
his tooth-brush. This little difficulty gave us more trouble
that night, at Tom Miller's, than anything we had yet encountered.
At the taverns, bribes had answered our purpose;
but this would not do so well at a farm residence.
At length the matter was got along with by putting me in
the garret, where I was favoured with a straw bed under

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my own roof, the decent Mrs. Miller making many apologies
for not having a feather-smotherer, in which to “squash”
me. I did not tell the good woman that I never used feathers,
summer or winter; for, had I done so, she would have
set me down as a poor creature from “oppressed” Germany,
where the “folks” did not know how to live. Nor would
she have been so much out of the way quoad the beds, for
in all my journeyings I never met with such uncomfortable
sleeping as one finds in Germany, off the Rhine and out of
the large towns.[3]

While the negotiation was in progress I observed that
Josh Brigham, as the anti-rent disposed hireling of Miller's
was called, kept a watchful eye and an open ear on what
was done and said. Of all men on earth, the American of
that class is the most “distrustful,” as he calls it himself,
and has his suspicions the soonest awakened. The Indian
on the war-path — the sentinel who is posted in a fog, near
his enemy, an hour before the dawn of day — the husband
that is jealous, or the priest that has become a partisan, is
not a whit more apt to fancy, conjecture, or assert, than the
American of that class who has become “distrustful.” This
fellow, Brigham, was the very beau ideal of the suspicious
school, being envious and malignant, as well as shrewd,
observant, and covetous. The very fact that he was connected
with the “Injins,” as turned out to be the case, added
to his natural propensities the consciousness of guilt, and
rendered him doubly dangerous. The whole time my uncle
and myself were crossing over and figuring in, in order to
procure for each a room, though it were only a closet, his
watchful, distrustful looks denoted how much he saw in our
movements to awaken curiosity, if not downright suspicion.
When all was over, he followed me to the little lawn in
front of the house, whither I had gone to look at the familiar
scene by the light of the setting sun, and began to betray
the nature of his own suspicions by his language.

“The old man” (meaning my uncle Ro) “must have
plenty of gold watches about him,” he said, “to be so plaguy

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partic'lar consarnin' his bed. Pedlin' sich matters is a ticklish
trade, I guess, in some parts?”

“Ja; it ist dangerous somevhere, but it might not be so
in dis goot coontry.”

“Why did the old fellow, then, try so hard to get that
little room all to himself, and shove you off into the garret?
We hired men don't like the garret, which is a hot place in
summer.”

“In Charmany one man hast ever one bed,” I answered,
anxious to get rid of the subject.

I bounced a little, as “one has one-half of a bed” would
be nearer to the truth, though the other half might be in
another room.

“Oh! that's it, is 't? Wa-a-l, every country has its
ways, I s'pose. Jarmany is a desp'ate aristocratic land, I
take it.”

“Ja; dere ist moch of de old feudal law, and feudal coostum
still remaining in Charmany.”

“Landlords a plenty, I guess, if the truth was known.
Leases as long as my arm, I calkerlate?”

“Vell, dey do dink, in Charmany, dat de longer might
be de lease, de better it might be for de denant.”

As that was purely a German sentiment, or at least not
an American sentiment, according to the notions broached
by statesmen among ourselves, I made it as Dutch as possible
by garnishing it well with d's.

“That's a droll idee! Now, we think, here, that a lease
is a bad thing; and the less you have of a bad thing, the
better.”

“Vell, dat ist queer; so queer ast I don't know! Vhat
vill dey do as might help it?”

“Oh! the Legislature will set it all right. They mean
to pass a law to prevent any more leases at all.”

“Und vill de beople stand dat? Dis ist a free coontry,
effery body dells me, and vilt der beoples agree not to hire
lands if dey vants to?”

“Oh! you see we wish to choke the landlords off from
their present leases; and, by and bye, when that is done,
the law can let up again.”

“But ist dat right? Der law should be joost, und not
hold down und let oop, as you calls it.”

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“You don't understand us yet, I see. Why that 's the
prettiest and the neatest legislation on airth! That 's just
what the bankrupt law did.”

“Vhat did der bankroopt law do, bray? Vhat might you
mean now? — I don't know.”

“Do! why it did wonders for some on us, I can tell you!
It paid our debts, and let us up when we was down; and
that 's no trifle, I can tell you. I took `the benefit,' as it is
called, myself.”

“You! — you might take der benefit of a bankroopt
law! You, lifing here ast a hiret man, on dis farm!”

“Sartain; why not? All a man wanted, under that law,
was about $60 to carry him through the mill; and if he
could rake and scrape that much together, he might wipe
off as long a score as he pleased. I had been dealin' in
speckylation, and that 's a make or break business, I can
tell you. Well, I got to be about $423.22 wuss than nothin';
but, having about $90 in hand, I went through the
mill without getting cogged the smallest morsel! A man
doos a good business, to my notion, when he can make 20
cents pay a whull dollar of debt.”

“Und you did dat goot business?”

“You may say that; and now I means to make antirentism
get me a farm cheap—what I call cheap; and that
an't none of your $30 or $40 an acre, I can tell you!”

It was quite clear that Mr. Joshua Brigham regarded
these transactions as so many Pragmatic Sanctions, that
were to clear the moral and legal atmospheres of any atoms
of difficulty that might exist in the forms of old opinions, to
his getting easily out of debt, in the one case, and suddenly
rich in the other. I dare say I looked bewildered, but I
certainly felt so, at thus finding myself face to face with a
low knave, who had a deliberate intention, as I now found,
to rob me of a farm. It is certain that Joshua so imagined,
for, inviting me to walk down the road with him a short distance,
he endeavoured to clear up any moral difficulties that
might beset me, by pursuing the subject.

“You see,” resumed Joshua, “I will tell you how it is.
These Littlepages have had this land long enough, and it 's
time to give poor folks a chance. The young spark that
pretends to own all the farms you see, far and near, never

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did any thing for 'em in his life; only to be his father's
son. Now, to my notion, a man should do suthin' for his
land, and not be obligated for it to mere natur'. This is a
free country, and what right has one man to land more than
another?”

“Or do his shirt or do his dobacco, or do his coat, or do
anyding else.”

“Well, I don't go as far as that. A man has a right to
his clothes, and maybe to a horse or a cow, but he has no
right to all the land in creation. The law gives a right to
a cow as ag'in' execution.”

“Und doesn't der law gif a right to der landt, too? You
most not depend on der law, if you might succeed.”

“We like to get as much law as we can on our side.
Americans like law: now, you 'll read in all the books—our
books, I mean, them that 's printed here—that the Americans
be the most lawful people on airth, and that they 'll do
more for the law than any other folks known!”

“Vell, dat isn't vhat dey says of der Americans in Europe;
nein, nein, dey might not say dat.”

“Why, don't you think it is so? Don't you think this
the greatest country on airth, and the most lawful?”

“Vell, I don'ts know. Das coontry ist das coontry, und
it ist vhat it ist, you might see.”

“Yes; I thought you would be of my way of thinking,
when we got to understand each other.” Nothing is easier
than to mislead an American on the estimate foreigners
place on them: in this respect they are the most deluded
people living, though, in other matters, certainly among the
shrewdest. “That 's the way with acquaintances, at first;
they don't always understand one another: and then you
talk a little thick, like. But now, friend, I 'll come to the
p'int — but first swear you 'll not betray me.”

“Ja, ja — I oonderstandst; I most schwear I won't bedray
you: das ist goot.”

“But, hold up your hand. Stop; of what religion be
you?”

“Gristian, to be sure. I might not be a Chew. Nein,
nein; I am a ferry bat Gristian.”

“We are all bad enough, for that matter; but I lay no
stress on that. A little of the devil in a man helps him

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along, in this business of ourn. But you must be suthin'
more than a Christian, I s'pose, as we don't call that bein'
of any religion at all, in this country. Of what supportin'
religion be you?”

“Soobortin'; vell, I might not oonderstands dat. Vhat
ist soobortin' religion? Coomes dat vrom Melanchton und
Luther? — or coomes it vrom der Pope? Vhat ist dat soobortin'
religion?”

“Why what religion do you patronize? Do you patronize
the standin' order, or the kneelin' order? — or do
you patronize neither? Some folks thinks its best to lie
down at prayer, as the least likely to divart the thoughts.”

“I might not oonderstand. But nefer mindt der religion,
und coome to der p'int dat you mentioned.”

“Well, that p'int is this. You 're a Jarman, and can't
like aristocrats, and so I 'll trust you; though, if you do
betray me, you 'll never play on another bit of music in this
country, or any other! If you want to be an Injin, as good
an opportunity will offer to-morrow as ever fell in a man's
way!”

“An Injin! Vhat goot vill it do to be an Injin? I
dought it might be better to be a vhite man, in America?”

“Oh! I mean only an anti-rent Injin. We 've got matters
so nicely fixed now, that a chap can be an Injin without
any paint at all, or any washin' or scrubbin', but can
convart himself into himself ag'in, at any time, in two minutes.
The wages is good and the work light; then we
have rare chances in the stores, and round about among the
farms. The law is that an Injin must have what he wants,
and no grumblin', and we take care to want enough. If
you 'll be at the meetin', I 'll tell you how you 'll know me.”

“Ja, ja—dat ist goot; I vill be at der meetin', sartainly.
Vhere might it be?”

“Down at the village. The word came up this a'ternoon,
and we shall all be on the ground by ten o'clock.”

“Vilt der be a fight, dat you meet so bunctually, and wid
so moch spirit?”

“Fight! Lord, no; who is there to fight, I should like to
know? We are pretty much all ag'in the Littlepages, and
there 's none of them on the ground but two or three women.
I 'll tell you how it 's all settled. The meetin' is

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called on the deliberative and liberty-supportin' plan. I
s'pose you know we 've all sorts of meetin's in this country?”

“Nein; I dought dere might be meetin's for bolitics,
vhen der beople might coome, but I don't know vhat else.”

“Is 't possible! What, have you no `indignation meetin's'
in Jarmany? We count a great deal on our indignation
meetin's, and both sides have 'em in abundance, when things
get to be warm. Our meetin' to-morrow is for deliberation
and liberty-principles generally. We may pass some indignation
resolutions about aristocrats, for nobody can bear
them critturs in this part of the country, I can tell you.”

Lest this manuscript should get into the hands of some
of those who do not understand the real condition of New
York society, it may be well to explain that “aristocrat”
means, in the parlance of the country, no other than a man
of gentleman-like tastes, habits, opinions and associations.
There are gradations among the aristocracy of the State, as
well as among other men. Thus he who is an aristocrat in
a hamlet, would be very democratic in a village; and he
of the village might be no aristocrat in the town, at all;
though, in the towns generally, indeed always, when their
population has the least of a town character, the distinction
ceases altogether, men quietly dropping into the traces of
civilized society, and talking or thinking very little about
it. To see the crying evils of American aristocracy, then,
one must go into the country. There, indeed, a plenty of
cases exist. Thus, if there happen to be a man whose property
is assessed at twenty-five per cent. above that of all
his neighbours — who must have right on his side bright as
a cloudless sun to get a verdict, if obliged to appeal to the
laws — who pays fifty per cent. more for everything he
buys, and receives fifty per cent. less for everything he
sells, than any other person near him — who is surrounded
by rancorous enemies, in the midst of a seeming state of
peace — who has everything he says and does perverted,
and added to, and lied about — who is traduced because his
dinner-hour is later than that of “other folks” — who don't
stoop, but is straight in the back — who presumes to doubt
that this country in general, and his own township in particular,
is the focus of civilization — who hesitates about

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signing his name to any flagrant instance of ignorance, bad
taste, or worse morals, that his neighbours may get up in
the shape of a petition, remonstrance, or resolution—depend
on it that man is a prodigious aristocrat, and one who, for
his many offences and manner of lording it over mankind,
deserves to be banished. I ask the reader's pardon for so
abruptly breaking in upon Joshua's speech, but such very
different notions exist about aristocrats, in different parts of
the world, that some such explanation was necessary in
order to prevent mistakes. I have forgotten one mark of
the tribe that is, perhaps, more material than all the rest,
which must not be omitted, and is this: — If he happen to
be a man who prefers his own pursuits to public life, and is
regardless of “popularity,” he is just guilty of the unpardonable
sin. The “people” will forgive anything sooner
than this; though there are “folks” who fancy it as infallible
a sign of an aristocrat not to chew tobacco. But, unless
I return to Joshua, the reader will complain that I cause
him to stand still.

“No, no,” continued Mr. Brigham; “anything but an
aristocrat for me. I hate the very name of the sarpents,
and wish there warn't one in the land. To-morrow we are
to have a great anti-rent lecturer out—”

“A vhat?”

“A lecturer; one that lectur's, you understand, on antirentism,
temperance, aristocracy, government, or any other
grievance that may happen to be uppermost. Have you
no lecturers in Jarmany?”

“Ja, Ja; dere ist lecturers in das universities — blenty
of dem.”

“Well, we have 'em universal and partic'lar, as we happen
to want 'em. To-morrow we 're to have one, they tell
me, the smartest man that has appeared in the cause. He
goes it strong, and the Injins mean to back him up, with all
sorts of shrieks and whoopin's. Your hurdy-gurdy, there,
makes no sort of music to what our tribe can make when
we fairly open our throats.”

“Vell, dis ist queer! I vast told dat der Americans vast
all philosophers, und dat all dey didt vast didt in a t'oughtful
and sober manner; und now you dells me dey screams
deir arguments like Injins!”

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“That we do! I wish you 'd been here in the hard-cider
and log-cabin times, and you 'd a seen reason and philosophy,
as you call it! I was a whig that summer, though I
went democrat last season. There 's about five hundred on
us in this county that make the most of things, I can tell
you. What 's the use of a vote, if a body gets nothin' by
it? But to-morrow you 'll see the business done up, and
matters detarmined for this part of the world, in fine style.
We know what we 're about, and we mean to carry things
through quite to the eend.”

“Und vhat do you means to do?”

“Well, seein' that you seem to be of the right sort, and
be so likely to put on the Injin shirt, I 'll tell you all about
it. We mean to get good and old farms at favourable rates.
That 's what we mean to do. The people 's up and in 'arnest,
and what the people want they 'll have! This time
they want farms, and farms they must have. What 's the
use of havin' a government of the people, if the people 's
obliged to want farms? We 've begun ag'in' the Renssalaers,
and the durables, and the quarter-sales, and the chickens;
but we don't, by no manner of means, think of eending
there. What should we get by that? A man wants to get
suthin' when he puts his foot into a matter of this natur'.
We know who 's our fri'nds and who 's our inimies! Could
we have some men I could name for governors, all would
go clear enough the first winter. We would tax the landlords
out, and law 'em about in one way and another, so as
to make 'em right down glad to sell the last rod of their
lands, and that cheap, too!”

“Und who might own dese farms, all oop und down der
coontry, dat I sees?”

“As the law now stands, Littlepage owns 'em; but if we
alter the law enough, he wun't. If we can only work the
Legislature up to the stickin' p'int, we shall get all we want.
Would you believe it, the man wun't sell a single farm, they
say; but wishes to keep every one on 'em for himself! Is
that to be borne in a free country? They 'd hardly stand
that in Jarmany, I 'm thinkin'. A man that is such an aristocrat
as to refuse to sell anything, I despise.”

“Vell, dey stand to der laws in Charmany, und broperty

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is respected in most coontries. You vouldn't do away wid
der rights of broperty, if you mights, I hopes?”

“Not I. If a man owns a watch, or a horse, or a cow,
I'm for having the law such that a poor man can keep 'em,
even ag'in execution. We 're getting the laws pretty straight
on them p'ints, in old York, I can tell you; a poor man, let
him be ever so much in debt, can hold on to a mighty smart lot
of things, now-a-days, and laugh at the law right in its face!
I've known chaps that owed as much as $200, hold on to
as good as $300; though most of their debts was for the
very things they held on to!”

What a picture is this, yet is it not true? A state of society
in which a man can contract a debt for a cow, or his
household goods, and laugh at his creditor when he seeks
his pay, on the one hand; and on the other, legislators and
executives lending themselves to the chicanery of another
set, that are striving to deprive a particular class of its rights
of property, directly in the face of written contracts! This
is straining at the gnat and swallowing the camel, with a
vengeance; and all for votes! Does any one really expect
a community can long exist, favoured by a wise and justicedispensing
Providence, in which such things are coolly attempted—
ay, and coolly done? It is time that the American
began to see things as they are, and not as they are
said to be, in the speeches of governors, fourth of July orations,
and electioneering addresses. I write warmly, I know,
but I feel warmly; and I write like a man who sees that a
most flagitious attempt to rob him is tampered with by some
in power, instead of being met, as the boasted morals and
intelligence of the country would require, by the stern opposition
of all in authority. Curses — deep, deep curses —
ere long, will fall on all who shrink from their duty in such
a crisis. Even the very men who succeed, if succeed they
should, will, in the end, curse the instruments of their own
success.[4]

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“A first-rate lecturer on feudal tenors,” (Joshua was not
in the least particular in his language, but, in the substance,
he knew what he was talking about as well as some who
are in high places,) “chickens and days' works. We expect
a great deal from this man, who is paid well for
coming.”

“Und who might bay him? — der State?

“No — we haven't got to that yet; though some think
the State will have to do it, in the long run. At present the
tenants are taxed so much on the dollar, accordin' to rent,
or so much an acre, and that way the needful money is
raised. But one of our lecturers told us, a time back, that
it was money put out at use, and every man ought to keep
an account of what he give, for the time was not far off
when he would get it back, with double interest. `It is paid
now for a reform,' he said, `and when the reform is obtained,
no doubt the State would feel itself so much indebted
to us all, that it would tax the late landlords until we got
all our money back again, and more too.”

“Dat vould pe a bretty speculation; ja, dat might be
most bootiful!”

“Why, yes; it wouldn't be a bad operation, living on
the inimy, as a body might say. But you 'll not catch our
folks livin' on themselves, I can tell you. That they might
do without societies. No, we 've an object; and when folks
has an object, they commonly look sharp a'ter it. We don't
let on all we want and mean openly: and you 'll find folks
among us that 'll deny stoutly that anti-renters has anything
to do with the Injin system; but folks an't obliged to believe
the moon is all cheese, unless they've a mind to. Some
among us maintain that no man ought to hold more than a
thousand acres of land, while others think natur' has laid
down the law on that p'int, and that a man shouldn't hold
more than he has need on.”

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“Und vich side dost you favour? — vich of dese obinions
might not be yours?”

“I 'm not partic'lar, so I get a good farm. I should like
one with comfortable buildin's on 't, and one that hasn't been
worked to death. For them two principles I think I 'd stand
out; but, whether there be four hundred acres, or four hundred
and fifty, or even five hundred, I 'm no way onaccomadatin'.
I expect there 'll be trouble in the eend, when we
come to the division, but I 'm not the man to make it. I
s'pose I shall get my turn at the town offices, and other
chances, and, givin' me my rights in them, I 'll take up with
almost any farm young Littlepage has, though I should rather
have one in the main valley here, than one more out
of the way; still, I don't set myself down as at all partic'lar.”

“Und vhat do you expect to bay Mr. Littlepage for der
farm, ast you might choose?”

“That depends on sarcumstances. The Injins mainly
expect to come in cheap. Some folks think it 's best to pay
suthin', as it might stand ag'in' law better, should it come
to that; while other some see no great use in paying anything.
Them that 's willing to pay, mainly hold out for
paying the principal of the first rents.”

“I doesn't oonderstandt vhat you means py der brincipal
of der first rents.”

“It 's plain enough, when you get the lay on 't. You
see, these lands were let pretty low, when they were first
taken up from the forest, in order to get folks to live here.
That 's the way we 're obliged to do in America, or people
won't come. Many tenants paid no rent at all for six, eight,
or ten years; and a'ter that, until their three lives run out,
as it is called, they paid only sixpence an acre, or six dollars
and a quarter on the hundred acres. That was done,
you see, to buy men to come here at all; and you can see
by the price that was paid, how hard a time they must have
had on 't. Now, some of our folks hold that the whull time
ought to be counted — that which was rent free, and that
which was not — in a way that I 'll explain to you; for I 'd
have you to know I haven't entered into this business without
looking to the right and the wrong on 't.”

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“Exblain, exblain; I might hear you exblain, and you
most exblain.”

“Why, you 're in a hurry, friend Griezenbach, or whatever
your name be. But I 'll explain, if you wish it. S'pose,
now, a lease run thirty years — ten on nothin', and twenty
on sixpences. Well, a hundred sixpences make fifty shillings,
and twenty times fifty make a thousand, as all the
rent paid in thirty years. If you divide a thousand by thirty,
it leaves thirty-three shillings and a fraction” — Joshua calculated
like an American of his class, accurately and with
rapidity — “for the average rent of the thirty years. Calling
thirty-three shillings four dollars, and it 's plaguy little
more, we have that for the interest, which, at 7 per cent.,
will make a principal of rather more than fifty dollars,
though not as much as sixty. As sich matters ought to be
done on liberal principles, they say that Littlepage ought to
take fifty dollars, and give a deed for the hundred acres.”

“Und vhat might be der rent of a hoondred acres now?—
he might get more dan sixpence to-day?”

“That he does. Most all of the farms are running out
on second, and some on third leases. Four shillings an
acre is about the average of the rents, accordin' to circumstances.”

“Den you dinks der landtlort ought to accept one year's
rent for der farms?”

“I don't look on it in that light. He ought to take fifty
dollars for a hundred acres. You forget the tenants have
paid for their farms, over and over again, in rent. They
feel as if they have paid enough, and that it was time to
stop.”

Extraordinary as this reasoning may seem in most men's
minds, I have since found it is a very favourite sentiment
among anti-renters. “Are we to go on, and pay rent for
ever?” they ask, with logical and virtuous indignation!

“Und vhat may be der aferage value of a hoondred acre
farm, in dis part of de coontry?” I inquired.

“From two thousand five hundred to three thousand dollars.
It would be more, but tenants won't put good buildings
on farms, you know, seein' that they don't own them.
I heard one of our leaders lamentin' that he didn't foresee

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what times was comin' to, when he repaired his old house,
or he would have built a new one. But a man can't fore-tell
everything. I dare say many has the same feelin's,
now.”

“Den you dinks Herr Littlebage ought to accept $50 for
vhat is worth $2500? Das seem ferry little.”

“You forget the back rent that has been paid, and the
work the tenant has done. What would the farm be good
for without the work that has been done on it?”

“Ja, ja — I oonderstandst; und vhat vould der work be
goot for vidout der landt on vhich it vast done?”

This was rather an incautious question to put to a man
as distrustful and rogueish as Joshua Brigham. The fellow
cast a lowering and distrustful look at me; but ere there was
time to answer, Miller, of whom he stood in healthful awe,
called him away to look after the cows.

Here, then, I had enjoyed an opportunity of hearing the
opinions of one of my own hirelings on the interesting subject
of my right to my own estate. I have since ascertained
that, while these sentiments are sedulously kept out of view
in the proceedings of the government, which deals with the
whole matter as if the tenants were nothing but martyrs to
hard bargains, and the landlords their task-masters, of
greater or less lenity, they are extensively circulated in the
“infected districts,” and are held to be very sound doctrines
by a large number of the “bone and sinew of the land.”
Of course the reasoning is varied a little, to suit circumstances,
and to make it meet the facts. But of this school
is a great deal, and a very great deal, of the reasoning that
circulates on the leased property; and, from what I have
seen and heard already, I make no doubt that there are
quasi legislators among us who, instead of holding the
manly and only safe doctrine which ought to be held on
such a subject, and saying that these deluded men should be
taught better, are ready to cite the very fact that such notions
do exist as a reason for the necessity of making concessions,
in order to keep the peace at the cheapest rate.
That profound principle of legislation, which concedes the
right in order to maintain quiet, is admirably adapted to
forming sinners; and, if carried out in favour of all who

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may happen to covet their neighbour's goods, would, in a
short time, render this community the very paradise of
knaves.

As for Joshua Brigham, I saw no more of him that night;
for he quitted the farm on leave, just as it got to be dark.
Where he went I do not know; but the errand on which
he left us could no longer be a secret to me. As the family
retired early, and we ourselves were a good deal fatigued,
everybody was in bed by nine o'clock, and, judging from
myself, soon asleep. Previously to saying “good night,”
however, Miller told us of the meeting of the next day, and
of his intention to attend it.

eaf077v1.n3

[3] As the “honourable gentleman from Albany” does not seem to
understand the precise signification of “provincial,” I can tell him that
one sign of such a character is to admire a bed at an American country
inn.—Editor.

eaf077v1.n4

[4] That Mr. Hugh Littlepage does not feel or express himself too
strongly on the state of things that has now existed among us for long,
long years, the following case, but one that illustrates the melancholy
truth among many, will show. At a time when the tenants of an extensive
landlord, to whom tens of thousands were owing for rent, were
openly resisting the law, and defeating every attempt to distrain, though
two ordinary companies of even armed constables would have put them
down, the sheriff entered the house of that very landlord, and levied on
his furniture for debt. Had that gentleman, on the just and pervading
principle that he owed no allegiance to an authority that did not protect
him, resisted the sheriff's officer, he would have gone to the State's
prison; and there he might have staid until his last hour of service
was expended. — Editor.

CHAPTER XIII.

“He knows the game; how true he keeps the wind!”
“Silence.”

King Henry VI.

After an early breakfast, next morning, the signs of
preparation for a start became very apparent in the family.
Not only Miller, but his wife and daughter, intended to go
down to “Little Neest,” as the hamlet was almost invariably
called in that fragment of the universe, in contradistinction
to the “Neest” proper. I found afterwards that this very circumstance
was cited against me in the controversy, it being
thought lèse majesté for a private residence to monopolize
the major of the proposition, while a hamlet had to put up
with the minor; the latter, moreover, including two taverns,
which are exclusively the property of the public, there being
exclusiveness with the public as well as with aristocrats —
more especially in all things that pertain to power or profit.
As to the two last, even Joshua Brigham was much more of
an aristocrat than I was myself. It must be admitted that
the Americans are a humane population, for they are the

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only people who deem that bankruptcy gives a claim to
public favour.[5]

As respects the two “Nests,” had not so much more serious
matter been in agitation, the precedence of the names
might actually have been taken up as a question of moment.
I have heard of a lawsuit in France, touching a name that
has been illustrious in that country for a period so long as
to extend beyond the reach of man — as, indeed, was apparent
by the matter in controversy — and which name has
obtained for itself a high place in the annals of even our
own republic. I allude to the House of Grasse, which was
seated, prior to the revolution, and may be still, at a place
called Grasse, in the southern part of the kingdom, the town
being almost as famous for the manufacture of pleasant
things as the family for its exploits in arms. About a century
since, the Marquis de Grasse is said to have had a
procés with his neighbours of the place, to establish the fact
whether the family gave its name to the town, or the town
gave its name to the family. The Marquis prevailed in the
struggle, but greatly impaired his fortune in achieving that
new victory. As my house, or its predecessor, was certainly
erected and named while the site of Little Nest was
still in the virgin forest, one would think its claims to the
priority of possession beyond dispute; but such might not
prove to be the case on a trial. There are two histories
among us, as relates to both public and private things; the
one being as nearly true as is usual, while the other is invariably
the fruits of the human imagination. Everything
depending so much on majorities, that soon gets to be the
most authentic tradition which has the most believers; for,
under the system of numbers, little regard is paid to superior
advantages, knowledge, or investigation, all depending
on 3 as against 2, which makes 1 majority. I find a great
deal of this spurious history is getting to be mixed up with
the anti-rent controversy, facts coming out daily that long
have lain dormant in the graves of the past. These facts
affect the whole structure of the historical picture of the

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State and colony, leaving touches of black where the pencil
had originally put in white, and placing the high lights
where the shadows have before always been understood to
be. In a word, men are telling the stories as best agrees
with their present views, and not at all as they agree with
fact.

It was the intention of Tom Miller to give my uncle Ro
and me a dearborn to ourselves, while he drove his wife,
Kitty and a help, as far as the “Little Neest,” in a two-horse
vehicle that was better adapted to such a freight.
Thus disposed of, then, we all left the place in company,
just as the clock in the farm-house entry struck nine. I
drove our horse myself; and mine he was, in fact, every
hoof, vehicle and farming utensil on the Nest farm, being
as much my property, under the old laws, as the hat on
my head. It is true, the Millers had now been fifty years
or more, nay, nearly sixty, in possession, and by the new
mode of construction it is possible some may fancy that we
had paid them wages so long for working the land, and for
using the cattle and utensils, that the title, in a moral sense,
had passed out of me, in order to pass into Tom Miller. If
use begets a right, why not to a wagon and horse, as well
as to a farm.

As we left the place I gazed wistfully towards the Nest
House, in the hope of seeing the form of some one that I
loved, at a window, on the lawn, or in the piazza. Not a
soul appeared, however, and we trotted down the road a
short distance in the rear of the other wagon, conversing
on such things as came uppermost in our minds. The distance
we had to go was about four miles, and the hour
named for the commencement of the lecture, which was to
be the great affair of the day, had been named at eleven.
This caused us to be in no hurry, and I rather preferred to
coincide with the animal I drove, and move very slowly,
than hurry on, and arrive an hour or two sooner than was
required. In consequence of this feeling on our part, Miller
and his family were soon out of sight, it being their wish to
obtain as much of the marvels of the day as was possible.

The road, of course, was perfectly well known to my
uncle and myself; but, had it not been, there was no danger
of missing our way, as we had only to follow the

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general direction of the broad valley through which it ran.
Then Miller had considerately told us that we must pass
two churches, or a church and a “meetin'-'us',” the spires
of both of which were visible most of the way, answering
for beacons. Referring to this term of “meeting-house,”
does it not furnish conclusive evidence, of itself, of the inconsistent
folly of that wisest of all earthly beings, man?
It was adopted in contradistinction from, and in direct opposition
to, the supposed idolatrous association connected
with the use of the word “church,” at a time when certain
sects would feel offended at hearing their places of worship
thus styled; whereas, at the present day, those very sectarians
are a little disposed to resent this exclusive appropriation
of the proscribed word by the sects who have always
adhered to it as offensively presuming, and, in a slight degree,
“arisdogradic!” I am a little afraid that your out-and-outers
in politics, religion, love of liberty, and other human
excellences, are somewhat apt to make these circuits
in their eccentric orbits, and to come out somewhere quite
near the places from which they started.

The road between the Nest House and Little Nest, the
hamlet, is rural, and quite as agreeable as is usually found
in a part of the country that is without water-views or mountain
scenery. Our New York landscapes are rarely, nay,
never grand, as compared with the noble views one finds in
Italy, Switzerland, Spain, and the finer parts of Europe;
but we have a vast many that want nothing but a finish to
their artificial accessories to render them singularly agreeable.
Such is the case with the principal vale of Ravensnest,
which, at the very moment we were driving through
it, struck my uncle and myself as presenting a picture of
rural abundance, mingled with rural comfort, that one seldom
sees in the old world, where the absence of enclosures,
and the concentration of the dwellings in villages, leave the
fields naked and with a desolate appearance, in spite of their
high tillage and crops.

“This is an estate worth contending for, now,” said my
uncle, as we trotted slowly on, “although it has not hitherto
been very productive to its owner. The first half century
of an American property of this sort rarely brings much to
its proprietor beyond trouble and vexation.”

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“And after that time the tenant is to have it, pretty much
at his own price, as a reward for his own labour!”

“What evidences are to be found, wherever the eye rests,
of the selfishness of man, and his unfitness to be left to the
unlimited control of his own affairs! In England they are
quarrelling with the landlords, who do compose a real aristocracy,
and make the laws, about the manner in which
they protect themselves and the products of their estates;
while here the true owner of the soil is struggling against the
power of numbers, with the people, who are the only aristocrats
we possess, in order to maintain his right of property
in the simplest and most naked form! A common
vice is at the bottom of both wrongs, and that is the vice of
selfishness.”

“But how are abuses like those of which we complain
here — abuses of the most formidable character of any that
can exist, since the oppressors are so many, and so totally
irresponsible by their numbers — to be avoided, if you give
the people the right of self-government?”

“God help the nation where self-government, in its literal
sense, exists, Hugh! The term is conventional, and,
properly viewed, means a government in which the source
of authority is the body of the nation, and does not come
from any other sovereign. When a people that has been
properly educated by experience calmly selects its agents,
and coolly sets to work to adopt a set of principles to form
its fundamental law or constitution, the machine is on the
right track, and will work well enough so long as it is kept
there; but this running off, and altering the fundamental
principles every time a political faction has need of recruits,
is introducing tyranny in its worst form — a tyranny that
is just as dangerous to real liberty as hypocrisy is to religion!”

We were now approaching St. Andrew's church and the
rectory, with its glebe, the latter lying contiguous to the
church-yard, or, as it is an Americanism to say, the “grave-yard.”
There had been an evident improvement around
the rectory since I had last seen it. Shrubbery had been
planted, care was taken of the fences, the garden was neatly
and well worked, the fields looked smooth, and everything
denoted that it was “new lords and new laws.” The last

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incumbent had been a whining, complaining, narrow-minded,
selfish and lazy priest, the least estimable of all human characters,
short of the commission of the actual and higher
crimes; but his successor had the reputation of being a devout
and real Christian—one who took delight in the duties
of his holy office, and who served God because he loved
him. I am fully aware how laborious is the life of a country
priest, and how contracted and mean is the pittance he
in common receives, and how much more he merits than he
gets, if his reward were to be graduated by things here. But
this picture, like every other, has its different sides, and occasionally
men do certainly enter the church from motives
as little as possible connected with those that ought to influence
them.

“There is the wagon of Mr. Warren, at his door,” observed
my uncle, as we passed the rectory. “Can it be
that he intends visiting the village also, on an occasion like
this?”

“Nothing more probable, sir, if the character Patt has
given of him be true,” I answered. “She tells me he has
been active in endeavouring to put down the covetous spirit
that is getting uppermost in the town, and has even preached
boldly, though generally, against the principles involved in
the question. The other man, they say, goes for popularity,
and preaches and prays with the anti-renters.”

No more was said, but on we went, soon entering a large
bit of wood, a part of the virgin forest. This wood, exceeding
a thousand acres in extent, stretched down from the
hills along some broken and otherwise little valuable land,
and had been reserved from the axe to meet the wants of
some future day. It was mine, therefore, in the fullest sense
of the word; and, singular as it may seem, one of the
grounds of accusation brought against me and my predecessors
was that we had declined leasing it! Thus, on the
one hand, we were abused for having leased our land, and,
on the other, for not having leased it. The fact is, we, in
common with other extensive landlords, are expected to use
our property as much as possible for the particular benefit
of other people, while those other people are expected to use
their property as much as possible for their own particular
benefit.

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There was near a mile of forest to pass before we came
out again in the open country, at about a mile and a half's
distance from the hamlet. On our left this little forest did
not extend more than a hundred rods, terminating at the
edge of the rivulet — or creek, as the stream is erroneously
called, and for no visible reason but the fact that it was only
a hundred feet wide — which swept close under the broken
ground mentioned at this point. On our right, however, the
forest stretched away for more than a mile, until, indeed, it
became lost and confounded with other portions of wood that
had been reserved for the farms on which they grew. As
is very usual in America, in cases where roads pass through
a forest, a second growth had shot up on each side of this
highway, which was fringed for the whole distance with
large bushes of pine, hemlock, chestnut and maple. In some
places these bushes almost touched the track, while in others
a large space was given. We were winding our way through
this wood, and had nearly reached its centre, at a point
where no house was visible — and no house, indeed, stood
within half a mile of us — with the view in front and in
rear limited to some six or eight rods in each direction by
the young trees, when our ears were startled by a low,
shrill, banditti-like whistle. I must confess that my feelings
were anything but comfortable at that interruption, for I remembered
the conversation of the previous night. I thought
by the sudden jump of my uncle, and the manner he instinctively
felt where he ought to have had a pistol, to meet
such a crisis, that he believed himself already in the hands
of the Philistines.

A half minute sufficed to tell us the truth. I had hardly
stopped the horse, in order to look around me, when a line
of men, all armed and disguised, issued in single file from
the bushes, and drew up in the road, at right angles to its
course. There were six of these “Injins,” as they are
called, and, indeed, call themselves, each carrying a ritle,
horn and pouch, and otherwise equipped for the field. The
disguises were very simple, consisting of a sort of loose
calico hunting-shirt and trowsers that completely concealed
the person. The head was covered by a species of hood,
or mask, equally of calico, that was fitted with holes for the
eyes, nose and mouth, and which completed the disguise.

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There were no means of recognizing a man thus equipped,
unless it might be by the stature, in cases in which the
party was either unusually tall or unusually short. A middle-sized
man was perfectly safe from recognition, so long
as he did not speak and could keep his equipments. Those
who did speak altered their voices, as we soon found, using
a jargon that was intended to imitate the imperfect English
of the native owners of the soil. Although neither of us
had ever seen one of the gang before, we knew these disturbers
of the public peace to be what in truth they were,
the instant our eyes fell on them. One could not well be
mistaken, indeed, under the circumstances in which we
were placed; but the tomahawks that one or two carried,
the manner of their march, and other pieces of mummery
that they exhibited, would have told us the fact, had we met
them even in another place.

My first impulse was to turn the wagon, and to endeavour
to lash the lazy beast I drove into a run. Fortunately,
before the attempt was made, I turned my head to see if
there was room for such an exploit, and saw six others of
these “Injins” drawn across the road behind us. It was
now so obviously the wisest course to put the best face on
the matter, that we walked the horse boldly up to the party
in front, until he was stopped by one of the gang taking
him by the bridle.

“Sago, sago,” cried one who seemed to act as a chief,
and whom I shall thus designate, speaking in his natural
voice, though affecting an Indian pronunciation. “How
do, how do? — where come from, eh? — where go, eh? —
What you say, too — up rent or down rent, eh?”

“Ve ist two Charmans,” returned uncle Ro, in his most
desperate dialect, the absurdity of men who spoke the same
language resorting to such similar means of deception tempting
me sorely to laugh in the fellows' faces; “Ve ist two
Charmans dat ist goin' to hear a man's sbeak about bayin'
rent, und to sell vatches. Might you buy a vatch, goot
shentlemans.”

Although the fellows doubtless knew who we were, so far
as our assumed characters went, and had probably been
advised of our approach, this bait took, and there was a
general jumping up and down, and a common pow-wowing

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among them, indicative of the pleasure such a proposal gave.
In a minute the whole party were around us, with some
eight or ten more who appeared from the nearest bushes.
We were helped out of the wagon with a gentle violence
that denoted their impatience. As a matter of course, I expected
that all the trinkets and watches, which were of little
value, fortunately, would immediately disappear; for who
could doubt that men engaged in attempting to rob on so
large a scale as these fellows were engaged in, would hesitate
about doing a job on one a little more diminutive. I
was mistaken, however; some sort of imperceptible discipline
keeping those who were thus disposed, of whom there
must have been some in such a party, in temporary order.
The horse was left standing in the middle of the highway,
right glad to take his rest, while we were shown the trunk
of a fallen tree, near by, on which to place our box of
wares. A dozen watches were presently in the hands of
as many of these seeming savages, who manifested a good
deal of admiration at their shining appearance. While this
scene, which was half mummery and half nature, was in
the course of enactment, the chief beckoned me to a seat on
the further end of the tree, and, attended by one or two of
his companions, he began to question me as follows:

“Mind tell truth,” he said, making no very expert actor
in the way of imitation. “Dis `Streak o' Lightning,”' laying
his hand on his own breast, that I might not misconceive
the person of the warrior who bore so eminent a title; “no
good lie to him — know ebbery t'ing afore he ask, only ask
for fun — what do here, eh?”

“Ve coomes to see der Injins und der beoples at der village,
dat ve might sell our vatches.”

“Dat all; sartain? — can call `down rent,' eh?”

“Dat ist ferry easy; `down rent, eh?”'

“Sartain Jarman, eh?—you no spy?—you no sent here
by gubbernor, eh?—landlord no pay you, eh?”

“Vhat might I spy? Dere ist nothin' do spy, but mans
vid calico faces. Vhy been you afraid of der governor? —
I dinks der governors be ferry goot frients of der antirents.”

“Not when we act this way. Send horse, send foot a'ter
us, den. T'ink good friend, too, when he dare.”

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“He be d—d!” bawled out one of the tribe, in as good,
homely, rustic English as ever came out of the mouth of a
clown. “If he 's our friend, why did he send the artillery
and horse down to Hudson? — and why has he had Big
Thunder up afore his infarnal courts? He be d—d!”

There was no mistaking this outpouring of the feelings;
and so “Streak o' Lightning” seemed to think too, for he
whispered one of the tribe, who took the plain-speaking Injin
by the arm and led him away, grumbling and growling, as
the thunder mutters in the horizon after the storm has
passed on. For myself, I made several profitable reflections
concerning the inevitable fate of those who attempt
to “serve God and Mammon.” This anti-rentism is a question
in which, so far as a governor is concerned, there is
but one course to pursue, and that is to enforce the laws by
suppressing violence, and leaving the parties to the covenants
of leases to settle their differences in the courts, like
the parties to any other contracts. It is a poor rule that
will not work both ways. Many a landlord has made a
hard bargain for himself; and I happen to know of one
case in particular, in which a family has long been, and is
still, kept out of the enjoyment of a very valuable estate, as
to any benefit of importance, purely by the circumstance
that a weak-minded possessor of the property fancied he
was securing souls for paradise by letting his farms on leases
for ninety-nine years, at nominal rents, with a covenant that
the tenant should go twice to a particular church! Now,
nothing is plainer than that it is a greater hardship to the citizen
who is the owner of many farms so situated, than to the
citizen who is the lessee of only one with a hard covenant;
and, on general principles, the landlord in question would
be most entitled to relief, since one man who suffers a good
deal is more an object of true commiseration than many who
suffer each a little. What would a governor be apt to say
if my landlord should go with his complaints to the foot of
the executive chair, and tell him that the very covenant
which had led his predecessor into the mistake of thus wasting
his means was openly disregarded; that farms worth
many thousands of dollars had now been enjoyed by the
tenants for near a century for mere nominal rents, and that
the owner of the land in fee had occasion for his property,

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&c. &c. Would the governor recommend legislative action
in that case? Would the length of such leases induce
him to recommend that no lease should exceed five years in
duration? Would the landlords who should get up a corps
of Injins to worry their tenants into an abandonment of their
farms be the objects of commiseration?—and would the law
slumber for years over their rebellions and depredations,
until two or three murders aroused public indignation? Let
them answer that know. As a landlord, I should be sorry
to incur the ridicule that would attend even a public complaint
of the hardships of such a case. A common sneer
would send me to the courts for my remedy, if I had one,
and the whole difference between the “if and ifs” of the two
cases would be that a landlord gives but one vote, while his
tenants may be legion.[6]

“He be d—d,” muttered the plain-speaking Injin, as
long as I could hear him. As soon as released from his
presence, Streak of Lightning continued his examination,
though a little vexed at the undramatical character of the
interruption.

“Sartain no spy, eh? — sartain gubbernor no send him,
eh? — sartain come to sell watch, eh?”

“I coomes, as I tell ye, to see if vatches might be solt,
und not for der gobbernor; I neffer might see der mans.”

As all this was true, my conscience felt pretty easy on
the score of whatever there might be equivocal about it.

“What folks think of Injin down below, eh?—what folks
say of anti-rent, eh?—hear him talk about much?”

“Vell, soome does dink anti-rent ist goot, und soome
does dink anti-rent ist bad. Dey dinks as dey wishes.”

Here a low whistle came down the road, or rather down
the bushes, when every Injin started up; each man very
fairly gave back the watch he was examining, and in less
than half a minute we were alone on the log. This movement
was so sudden that it left us in a little doubt as to the
proper mode of proceeding. My uncle, however, coolly set
about replacing his treasures in their box, while I went to

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the horse, which had shaken off his head-stall, and was quietly
grazing along the road-side. A minute or two might
have been thus occupied, when the trotting of a horse and
the sound of wheels announced the near approach of one
of those vehicles which have got to be almost national; a
dearborn, or a one-horse wagon. As it came out from behind
a screen of bushes formed by a curvature in the road,
I saw that it contained the Rev. Mr. Warren and his sweet
daughter.

The road being narrow, and our vehicle in its centre, it
was not possible for the new-comers to proceed until we got
out of the way, and the divine pulled up as soon as he
reached the spot where we stood.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Mr. Warren, cordially,
and using a word that, in his mouth, I felt meant all it expressed.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Are you playing
Handel to the wood nymphs, or reciting eclogues?”

“Neider, neider, Herr Pastor; we meet wid coostomers
here, und dey has joost left us,” answered uncle Ro, who
certainly enacted his part with perfect àplomb, and the most
admirable mimicry as to manner. “Guten tag, guten tag
Might der Herr Pastor beein going to der village?”

“We are. I understand there is to be a meeting there
of the misguided men called anti-renters, and that several
of my parishioners are likely to be present. On such an
occasion I conceive it to be my duty to go among my own
particular people, and whisper a word of advice. Nothing
can be farther from my notions of propriety than for a clergyman
to be mingling and mixing himself up with political
concerns in general, but this is a matter that touches morality,
and the minister of God is neglectful of his duty who
keeps aloof when a word of admonition might aid in preventing
some wavering brother from the commission of a
grievous sin. This last consideration has brought me out
to a scene I could otherwise most heartily avoid.”

This might be well enough, I said to myself, but what
has your daughter to do in such a scene? Is the mind of
Mary Warren, then, after all, no better than vulgar minds
in general?—and can she find a pleasure in the excitement
of lectures of this cast, and in that of public meetings? No
surer test can be found of cultivation, than the manner in

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which it almost intuitively shrinks from communion unnecessarily
with tastes and principles below its own level;
yet here was the girl with whom I was already half in love—
and that was saying as little as could be said, too—actually
going down to the “Little Neest” to hear an itinerant lecturer
on political economy utter his crudities, and to see
and be seen! I was grievously disappointed, and would at
the moment have cheerfully yielded the best farm on my
estate to have had the thing otherwise. My uncle must
have had some similar notion, by the remark he made.

“Und doost das jung frau go to see der Injins, too; to
bersuade 'em dey ist fery vicked?”

Mary's face had been a little pale for her, I thought, as
the wagon drew up; but it immediately became scarlet. She
even suffered her head to droop a little, and then I perceived
that she cast an anxious and tender glance at her father. I
cannot say whether this look were or were not intended for
a silent appeal, unconsciously made; but the father, without
even seeing it, acted as if he fancied it might be.

“No, no,” he said, hurriedly; “this dear girl is doing
violence to all her feelings but one, in venturing to such a
place. Her filial piety has proved stronger than her fears
and her tastes, and when she found that go I would, no argument
of mine could persuade her to remain at home. I
hope she will not repent it.”

The colour did not quit Mary's face, but she looked grateful
at finding her true motives appreciated; and she even
smiled, though she said nothing. My own feelings underwent
another sudden revulsion. There was no want of
those tastes and inclinations that can alone render a young
woman attractive to any man of sentiment, but there was
high moral feeling and natural affection enough to overcome
them in a case in which she thought duty demanded the
sacrifice! It was very little probable that anything would
or could occur that day to render the presence of Mary
Warren in the least necessary or useful; but it was very
pleasant to me and very lovely in her to think otherwise,
under the strong impulses of her filial attachment.

Another idea, however, and one far less pleasant, suggested
itself to the minds of my uncle and myself, and almost
at the same instant; it was this: the conversation was

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carried on in a high key, or loud enough to be heard at
some little distance, the horse and part of the wagon interposing
between the speakers; and there was the physical
certainty that some of those whom we knew to be close at
hand, in the bushes, must hear all that was said, and might
take serious offence at it. Under this apprehension, therefore,
my uncle directed me to remove our own vehicle as
fast as possible, in order that the clergyman might pass.
Mr. Warren, however, was in no hurry to do this, for he
was utterly ignorant of the audience he had, and entertained
that feeling towards us that men of liberal acquirements are
apt to feel when they see others of similar educations reduced
by fortune below their proper level. He was consequently
desirous of manifesting his sympathy with us, and
would not proceed, even after I had opened the way for
him.

“It is a painful thing,” continued Mr. Warren, “to find
men mistaking their own cupidity for the workings of a
love of liberty. To me nothing is more palpable than that
this anti-rent movement is covetousness incited by the father
of evil; yet you will find men among us who fancy they
are aiding the cause of free institutions by joining in it,
when, in truth, they are doing all they can to bring them
into discredit, and to insure their certain downfall, in the
end.”

This was sufficiently awkward; for, by going near enough
to give a warning in a low voice, and have that warning
followed by a change in the discourse, we should be betraying
ourselves, and might fall into serious danger. At the
very moment the clergyman was thus speaking I saw the
masked head of Streak o' Lightning appearing through an
opening in some small pines that grew a little in the rear of
the wagon, a position that enabled him to hear every syllable
that was uttered. I was afraid to act myself, and trusted
to the greater experience of my uncle. Whether the last
also saw the pretended chief was more than I knew, but he
decided to let the conversation go on, rather leaning to the
anti-rent side of the question, as the course that could do no
serious evil, while it might secure our own safety. It is
scarcely necessary to say all these considerations glanced

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through our minds so swiftly as to cause no very awkward
or suspicious pause in the discourse.

“B'rhaps dey doosn't like to bay rent?” put in my uncle,
with a roughness of manner that was in accordance with
the roughness of the sentiment. “Beoples might radder haf
deir landts for nuttin', dan bay rents for dem.”

“In that case, then, let them go and buy lands for themselves;
if they do not wish to pay rent, why did they agree
to pay rent?”

“May be dey changes deir minds. Vhat is good to-day
doosn't always seem goot to-morrow.”

“That may be true; but we have no right to make others
suffer for our own fickleness. I dare say, now, that it might
be better for the whole community that so large a tract of
land as that included in the Manor of Rensselaerwyck, for
instance, and lying as it does in the very heart of the State,
should be altogether in the hands of the occupants, than have
it subject to the divided interest that actually exists; but it
does not follow that a change is to be made by violence, or
by fraudulent means. In either of the latter cases the injury
done the community would be greater than if the present
tenures were to exist a thousand years. I dare say much
the larger portion of those farms can be bought off at a
moderate advance on their actual money-value; and that is
the way to get rid of the difficulty; not by bullying owners
out of their property. If the State finds a political consideration
of so much importance for getting rid of the tenures,
let the State tax itself to do so, and make a liberal offer, in
addition to what the tenants will offer, and I 'll answer for
it the landlords will not stand so much in their own way as
to decline good prices.”

“But, maybes dey won't sell all der landts; dey may
wants to keep some of dem.”

“They have a right to say yes or no, while we have no
right to juggle or legislate them out of their property. The
Legislature of this State has quite lately been exhibiting
one of the most pitiable sights the world has seen in my day.
It has been struggling for months to find a way to get round
the positive provisions of laws and constitutions, in order to

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make a sacrifice of the rights of a few, to secure the votes
of the many.”

“Votes ist a goot ding, at election dime — haw, haw,
haw!” exclaimed my uncle.

Mr. Warren looked both surprised and offended. The
coarseness of manner that my uncle had assumed effected
its object with the Injins, but it almost destroyed the divine's
previous good opinion of our characters, and quite upset his
notions of our refinement and principles. There was no
time for explanations, however; for, just as my uncle's
broad and well-acted “haw, haw, haw” was ended, a shrill
whistle was heard in the bushes, and some forty or fifty of
the Injins came whooping and leaping out from their cover,
filling the road in all directions, immediately around the
wagons.

Mary Warren uttered a little scream at this startling
scene, and I saw her arm clinging to that of her father, by
a sort of involuntary movement, as if she would protect him
at all hazards. Then she seemed to rally, and from that
instant her character assumed an energy, an earnestness,
a spirit and an intrepidity that I had least expected in one
so mild in aspect, and so really sweet in disposition.

All this was unnoticed by the Injins. They had their
impulses, too, and the first thing they did was to assist Mr.
Warren and his daughter to alight from their wagon. This
was done, not without decorum of manner, and certainly not
without some regard to the holy office of one of the parties,
and to the sex of the other. Nevertheless, it was done neatly
and expeditiously, leaving us all, Mr. Warren and Mary,
my uncle and myself, with a cluster of some fifty Injins
around us, standing in the centre of the highway.

eaf077v1.n5

[5] Absurd as this may seem, it is nevertheless true, and for a reason
that is creditable, rather than the reverse — a wish to help along the
unfortunate. It is a great mistake, however, as a rule, to admit of any
other motive for selecting for public trusts, than qualification.—Editor.

eaf077v1.n6

[6] This is no invented statement, but strictly one that is true, the
writer having himself a small interest in a property so situated; though
he has not yet bethought him of applying to the Legislature for relief.—
Editor.

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CHAPTER XIV.

“No toil in despair,
No tyrant, no slave,
No bread-tax is there,
With a maw like the grave.”

[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]

All this was so suddenly done as scarce to leave us time
to think. There was one instant, notwithstanding, while
two Injins were assisting Mary Warren to jump from the
wagon, when my incognito was in great danger. Perceiving
that the young lady was treated with no particular disrespect,
I so far overcame the feeling as to remain quiet,
though I silently changed my position sufficiently to get
near her elbow, where I could and did whisper a word or
two of encouragement. But Mary thought only of her father,
and had no fears for herself. She saw none but him,
trembled only for him, dreaded and hoped for him alone.

As for Mr. Warren himself, he betrayed no discomposure.
Had he been about to enter the desk, his manner could not
have been more calm. He gazed around him, to ascertain
if it were possible to recognise any of his captors, but suddenly
turned his head away, as if struck with the expediency
of not learning their names, even though it had been
possible. He might be put on the stand as a witness against
some misguided neighbour, did he know his person. All
this was so apparent in his benevolent countenance, that I
think it struck some among the Injins, and still believe it
may have had a little influence on their treatment of him.
A pot of tar and a bag of feathers had been brought into the
road when the gang poured out of the bushes, but whether
this were merely accidental, or it had originally been intended
to use them on Mr. Warren, I cannot say. The offensive
materials soon and silently disappeared, and with
them every sign of any intention to offer personal injury.

“What have I done that I am thus arrested in the public
highway, by men armed and disguised, contrary to law?”
demanded the divine, as soon as the general pause which

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succeeded the first movement invited him to speak. “This
is a rash and illegal step, that may yet bring repentance.”

“No preachee now,” answered Streak o' Lightning;
“preachee for meetin', no good for road.”

Mr. Warren afterwards admitted to me that he was much
relieved by this reply, the substitution of the word “meeting”
for “church” giving him the grateful assurance that
this individual, at least, was not one of his own people.

“Admonition and remonstrance may always be useful
when crime is meditated. You are now committing a felony,
for which the State's prison is the punishment prescribed by
the laws of the land, and the duties of my holy office direct
me to warn you of the consequences. The earth itself is
but one of God's temples, and his ministers need never hesitate
to proclaim his laws on any part of it.”

It was evident that the calm severity of the divine, aided,
no doubt, by his known character, produced an impression
on the gang, for the two who had still hold of his arms released
them, and a little circle was now formed, in the centre
of which he stood.

“If you will enlarge this circle, my friends,” continued
Mr. Warren, “and give room, I will address you here, where
we stand, and let you know my reasons why I think your
conduct ought to be—”

“No, no—no preachee here,” suddenly interrupted Streak
o' Lightning; “go to village, go to meetin'-'us'—preachee
there.—Two preacher, den.—Bring wagon and put him in.
March, march; path open.”

Although this was but an “Injin” imitation of “Indian”
sententiousness, and somewhat of a caricature, everybody
understood well enough what was meant. Mr. Warren offered
no resistance, but suffered himself to be placed in Miller's
wagon, with my uncle at his side, without opposition.
Then it was, however, that he bethought himself of his
daughter, though his daughter had never ceased to think of
him. I had some little difficulty in keeping her from rushing
into the crowd, and clinging to his side. Mr. Warren
rose, and, giving her an encouraging smile, bade her be
calm, told her he had nothing to fear, and requested that
she would enter his own wagon again and return home,

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promising to rejoin her as soon as his duties at the village
were discharged.

“Here is no one to drive the horse, my child, but our
young German acquaintance. The distance is very short,
and if he will thus oblige me, he can come down to the village
with the wagon, as soon as he has seen you safe at our
own door.”

Mary Warren was accustomed to defer to her father's
opinions, and she so far submitted, now, as to permit me to
assist her into the wagon, and to place myself at her side,
whip in hand, proud of and pleased with the precious charge
thus committed to my care. These arrangements made,
the Injins commenced their march, about half of them preceding,
and the remainder following the wagon that contained
their prisoner. Four, however, walked on each side
of the vehicle, thus preventing the possibility of escape. No
noise was made, and little was said; the orders being given
by signs and signals, rather than by words.

Our wagon continued stationary until the party had got
at least a hundred yards from us, no one giving any heed
to our movements. I had waited thus long for the double
purpose of noting the manner of the proceedings among the
Injins, and to obtain room to turn at a spot in the road a
short distance in advance of us, and which was wider than
common. To this spot I now walked the horse, and was
in the act of turning the animal's head in the required direction,
when I saw Mary Warren's little gloved hand laid
hurriedly on the reins. She endeavoured to keep the head
of the horse in the road.

“No, no,” said the charming girl, speaking earnestly,
as if she would not be denied, “we will follow my father to
the village. I may not, must not, cannot quit him!”

The time and place were every way propitious, and I determined
to let Mary Warren know who I was. By doing
it I might give her confidence in me at a moment when she
was in distress, and encourage her with the hope that I
might also befriend her father. At any rate, I was determined
to pass for an itinerant Dutch music-grinder with her
no longer.

“Miss Mary, Miss Warren,” I commenced, cautiously,

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and with quite as much hesitation and diffidence of feeling
as of manner, “I am not what I seem — that is, I am no
music-grinder.”

The start, the look, and the alarm of my companion,
were all eloquent and natural. Her hand was still on the
reins, and she now drew on them so hard as actually to stop
the horse. I thought she intended to jump out of the vehicle,
as a place no longer fit for her.

“Be not alarmed, Miss Warren,” I said, eagerly, and, I
trust, so earnestly as to inspire a little confidence. “You
will not think the worse of me at finding I am your countryman
instead of a foreigner, and a gentleman instead of a
music-grinder. I shall do all you ask, and will protect you
with my life.”

“This is so extraordinary! — so unusual! — The whole
country appears unsettled! Pray, sir, if you are not the
person whom you have represented yourself to be, who are
you?”

“One who admires your filial love and courage — who
honours you for them both. I am the brother of your friend,
Martha — I am Hugh Littlepage!”

The little hand now abandoned the reins, and the dear
girl turned half round on the cushion of the seat, gazing at
me in mute astonishment! I had been cursing in my heart
the lank locks of the miserable wig I was compelled to wear,
ever since I had met with Mary Warren, as unnecessarily
deforming and ugly, for one might have as well a becoming
as a horridly unbecoming disguise. Off went my cap, therefore,
and off went the wig after it, leaving my own shaggy
curls for the sole setting of my face.

Mary made a slight exclamation as she gazed at me, and
the deadly paleness of her countenance was succeeded by a
slight blush. A smile, too, parted her lips, and I fancied
she was less alarmed.

“Am I forgiven, Miss Warren?” I asked; “and will you
recognise me for the brother of your friend?”

“Does Martha — does Mrs. Littlepage know of this?”
the charming girl at length asked.

“Both; I have had the happiness of being embraced by
both my grandmother and my sister. You were taken out

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of the room, yesterday, by the first, that I might be left
alone with the last, for that very purpose!”

“I see it all, now; yes, I thought it singular then, though
I felt there could be no impropriety in any of Mrs. Littlepages'
acts. Dearest Martha! how well she played her
part, and how admirably she has kept your secret!”

“It is very necessary. You see the condition of the
country, and will understand that it would be imprudent in
me to appear openly, even on my own estate. I have a
written covenant authorizing me to visit every farm near
us, to look after my own interests; yet, it may be questioned
if it would be safe to visit one among them all, now
that the spirits of misrule and covetousness are up and
doing.”

“Replace your disguise at once, Mr. Littlepage,” said
Mary, eagerly; “do—do not delay an instant.”

I did as desired, Mary watching the process with interested,
and, at the same time, amused eyes. I thought she
looked as sorry as I felt myself when that lank, villanous
wig was again performing its office.

“Am I as well arranged as when we first met, Miss Warren?
Do I appear again the music-grinder?”

“I see no difference,” returned the dear girl, laughing.
How musical and cheering to me were the sounds of her
voice in that little burst of sweet, feminine merriment. “Indeed,
indeed, I do not think even Martha could know you
now, for the person you the moment before seemed.”

“My disguise is, then, perfect. I was in hopes it left a
little that my friends might recognise, while it effectually
concealed me from my enemies.”

“It does — oh! it does. Now I know who you are, I
find no difficulty in tracing in your features the resemblance
to your portrait in the family gallery, at the Nest. The
eyes, too, cannot be altered without artificial brows, and
those you have not.”

This was consoling; but all that time Mr. Warren and
the party in front had been forgotten. Perhaps it was excusable
in two young persons thus situated, and who had
now known each other a week, to think more of what was
just then passing in the wagon, than to recollect the tribe

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that was marching down the road, and the errand they were
on. I felt the necessity, however, of next consulting my
companion as to our future movements. Mary heard me in
evident anxiety, and her purpose seemed unsettled, for she
changed colour under each new impulse of her feelings.

“If it were not for one thing,” she answered, after a
thoughtful pause, “I should insist on following my father.”

“And what may be the reason of this change of purpose?”

“Would it be altogether safe for you, Mr. Littlepage, to
venture again among those misguided men?”

“Never think of me, Miss Warren. You see I have
been among them already undetected, and it is my intention
to join them again, even should I first have to take you
home. Decide for yourself.”

“I will, then, follow my father. My presence may be
the means of saving him from some indignity.”

I was rejoiced at this decision, on two accounts; of which
one might have been creditable enough to me, while the
other, I am sorry to say, was rather selfish. I delighted in
the dear girl's devotion to her parent, and I was glad to have
her company as long as possible that morning. Without
entering into a very close analysis of motives, however, I
drove down the road, keeping the horse on a very slow gait,
being in no particular hurry to quit my present fair companion.

Mary and I had now a free, and, in some sense, a confidential
dialogue. Her manner towards me had entirely
changed; for, while it maintained the modesty and retenue
of her sex and station, it displayed much of that frankness
which was the natural consequence of her great intimacy at
the Nest, and, as I have since ascertained, of her own ingenuous
nature. The circumstance, too, that she now felt
she was with one of her own class, who had opinions, habits,
tastes and thoughts like her own, removed a mountain of
restraint, and made her communications natural and easy.
I was near an hour, I do believe, in driving the two miles
that lay between the point where the Injins had been met
and the village, and in that hour Mary Warren and I became
better acquainted than would have been the case, under
ordinary circumstances, in a year.

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In the first place, I explained the reasons and manner of
my early and unexpected return home, and the motives by
which I had been governed in thus coming in disguise on
my own property. Then I said a little of my future intentions,
and of my disposition to hold out to the last against
every attempt on my rights, whether they might come from
the open violence and unprincipled designs of those below,
or the equally unprincipled schemes of those above. A spurious
liberty and political cant were things that I despised,
as every intelligent and independent man must; and I did
not intend to be persuaded I was an aristocrat, merely because
I had the habits of a gentleman, at the very moment
when I had less political influence than the hired labourers
in my own service.

Mary Warren manifested a spirit and an intelligence that
surprised me. She expressed her own belief that the proscribed
classes of the country had only to be true to themselves
to be restored to their just rights, and that on the
very principle by which they were so fast losing them. The
opinions she thus expressed are worthy of being recorded.

“Everything that is done in that way,” said this gentle,
but admirable creature, “has hitherto been done on a principle
that is quite as false and vicious as that by which they are
now oppressed. We have had a great deal written and said,
lately, about uniting people of property, but it has been so
evidently with an intention to make money rule, and that
in its most vulgar and vicious manner, that persons of right
feelings would not unite in such an effort; but it does seem
to me, Mr. Littlepage, that if the gentlemen of New York
would form themselves into an association in defence of
their rights, and for nothing else, and let it be known that
they would not be robbed with impunity, they are numerous
enough and powerful enough to put down this anti-rent project
by the mere force of numbers. Thousands would join
them for the sake of principles, and the country might be
left to the enjoyment of the fruits of liberty, without getting
any of the fruits of its cant.”

This is a capital idea, and might easily be carried out.
It requires nothing but a little self-denial, with the conviction
of the necessity of doing something, if the downward
tendency is to be ever checked short of civil war, and a

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revolution that is to let in despotism in its more direct form;
despotism, in the indirect, is fast appearing among us, as
it is.

“I have heard of a proposition for the Legislature to appoint
special commissioners, who are to settle all the difficulties
between the landlords and tenants,” I remarked, “a
scheme in the result of which some people profess to have
a faith. I regard it as only one of the many projects that
have been devised to evade the laws and institutions of the
country, as they now exist.”

Mary Warren seemed thoughtful for a moment; then her
eye and face brightened, as if she were struck with some
thought suddenly; after which the colour deepened on her
check, and she turned to me as if half doubting, and yet
half desirous of giving utterance to the idea that was uppermost.

“You wish to say something, Miss Warren?”

“I dare say it will be very silly—and I hope you won't
think it pedantic in a girl, but really it does look so to me—
what difference would there be between such a commission
and the Star-Chamber judges of the Stuarts, Mr. Littlepage?”

“Not much in general principles, certainly, as both would
be the instruments of tyrants; but a very important one in
a great essential. The Star-Chamber courts were legal,
whereas this commission would be flagrantly illegal; the
adoption of a special tribunal to effect certain purposes that
could exist only in the very teeth of the constitution, both
in its spirit and its letter. Yet this project comes from men
who prate about the `spirit of the institutions,' which they
clearly understand to be their own spirit, let that be what it
may.”

“Providence, I trust, will not smile on such desperate
efforts to do wrong!” said Mary Warren, solemnly.

“One hardly dare look into the inscrutable ways of a
Power that has its motives so high beyond our reach. Providence
permits much evil to be done, and is very apt to be,
as Frederic of Prussia expressed it, on the side of strong
battalions, so far as human vision can penetrate. Of one
thing, however, I feel certain, and that is that they who are
now the most eager to overturn everything to effect present

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purposes, will be made to repent of it bitterly, either in their
own persons, or in those of their descendants.”

“That is what is meant, my father says, by visiting `the
sins of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and
fourth generations.' But there is the party, with their prisoners,
just entering the village. Who is your companion,
Mr. Littlepage?—One hired to act as an assistant?”

“It is my uncle, himself. You have often heard, I should
think, of Mr. Roger Littlepage?”

Mary gave a little exclamation at hearing this, and she
almost laughed. After a short pause she blushed brightly,
and turned to me as she said—

“And my father and I have supposed you, the one a
pedlar, and the other a street-musician!”

“But bedlars and moosic-grinders of goot etications, as
might be panishet for deir bolitics.”

Now, indeed, she laughed out, for the long and frank dialogue
we had held together made this change to broken
English seem as if a third person had joined us. I profited
by the occasion to exhort the dear girl to be calm, and not
to feel any apprehension on the subject of her father. I
pointed out how little probable it was that violence would be
offered to a minister of the gospel, and showed her, by the
number of persons that had collected in the village, that it
was impossible he should not have many warm and devoted
friends present. I also gave her permission to, nay, requested
she would, tell Mr. Warren the fact of my uncle's
and my own presence, and the reasons of our disguises,
trusting altogether to the very obvious interest the dear girl
took in our safety, that she would add, of her own accord,
the necessary warning on the subject of secresy. Just as
this conversation ended we drove into the hamlet, and I
helped my fair companion to alight.

Mary Warren now hastened to seek her father, while I
was left to take care of the horse. This I did by fastening
him to the rails of a fence, that was lined for a long distance
by horses and wagons drawn up by the way-side.
Surprisingly few persons in the country, at this day, are
seen on horseback. Notwithstanding the vast difference in
the amount of the population, ten horsemen were to be met
with forty years ago, by all accounts, on the highways of

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the State, for one to-day. The well-known vehicle, called
a dearborn, with its four light wheels and mere shell of a
box, is in such general use as to have superseded almost
every other species of conveyance. Coaches and chariots
are no longer met with, except in the towns; and even the
coachee, the English sociable, which was once so common,
has very generally given way to a sort of carriage-wagon,
that seems a very general favourite. My grandmother, who
did use the stately-looking and elegant chariot in town, had
nothing but this carriage-wagon in the country; and I question
if one-half of the population of the State would know
what to call the former vehicle, if they should see it.

As a matter of course, the collection of people assembled
at Little Nest on this occasion had been brought together in
dearborns, of which there must have been between two and
three hundred lining the fences and crowding the horsesheds
of the two inns. The American countryman, in the
true sense of the word, is still quite rustic in many of his
notions; though, on the whole, less marked in this particular
than his European counterpart. As the rule, he has
yet to learn that the little liberties which are tolerated in a
thinly-peopled district, and which are of no great moment
when put in practice under such circumstances, become oppressive
and offensive when reverted to in places of much
resort. The habits of popular control, too, come to aid in
making them fancy that what everybody does in their part
of the country can have no great harm in it. It was in
conformity with this tendency of the institutions, perhaps,
that very many of the vehicles I have named were thrust
into improper places, stopping up the footways, impeding
the entrances to doors, here and there letting down bars
without permission, and garnishing orchards and pastures
with one-horse wagons. Nothing was meant by all these
liberties beyond a desire to dispose of the horses and vehicles
in the manner easiest to their owners. Nevertheless,
there was some connection between the institutions and
these little liberties which some statesmen might fancy existed
in the spirit of the former. This, however, was a
capital mistake, inasmuch as the spirit of the institutions
is to be found in the laws, which prohibit and punish all
sorts of trespasses, and which are enacted expressly to curb

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the tendencies of human nature! No, no, as my uncle Ro
says, nothing can be less alike, sometimes, than the spirit
of institutions and their tendencies.

I was surprised to find nearly as many females as men
had collected at the Little Nest on this occasion. As for
the Injins, after escorting Mr. Warren as far as the village,
as if significantly to admonish him of their presence, they
had quietly released him, permitting him to go where he
pleased. Mary had no difficulty in finding him, and I saw
her at his side, apparently in conversation with Opportunity
and her brother, Seneca, as soon as I moved down the road,
after securing the horse. The Injins themselves kept a little
aloof, having my uncle in their very centre; not as a prisoner,
for it was clear no one suspected his character, but
as a pedlar. The watches were out again, and near half
of the whole gang seemed busy in trading, though I thought
that some among them were anxious and distrustful.

It was a singular spectacle to see men who were raising
the cry of “aristocracy” against those who happened to be
richer than themselves, while they did not possess a single
privilege or power that, substantially, was not equally shared
by every other man in the country, thus openly arrayed in
defiance of law, and thus violently trampling the law under
their feet. What made the spectacle more painful was the
certainly that was obtained by their very actions on the
ground that no small portion of these Injins were mere
boys, led on by artful and knavish men, and who considered
the whole thing as a joke. When the laws fall so
much into disrepute as to be the subjects of jokes of this
sort, it is time to inquire into their mode of administration.
Does any one believe that fifty landlords could have thus
flown into the face of a recent enactment, and committed
felony openly, and under circumstances that had rendered
their intentions no secret, for a time long enough to enable
the authorities to collect a force sufficient to repress them?
My own opinion is, that had Mr. Stephen Rensselaer, and
Mr. William Rensselaer, and Mr. Harry Livingston, and
Mr. John Hunter, and Mr. Daniel Livingston, and Mr. Hugh
Littlepage, and fifty more that I could name, been caught
armed and disguised, in order to defend the rights of property
that are solemnly guarantied in these institutions, of

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which it would seem to be the notion of some that it is the
“spirit” to dispossess them, we should all of us have been
the inmates of States' prisons, without legislators troubling
themselves to pass laws for our liberation! This is another
of the extraordinary features of American aristocracy, which
almost deprives the noble of the every-day use and benefit
of the law. It would be worth our while to lose a moment
in inquiring into the process by which such strange results
are brought about, but it is fortunately rendered unnecessary
by the circumstance that the principle will be amply
developed in the course of the narrative.

A stranger could hardly have felt the real character of
this meeting by noting the air and manner of those who had
come to attend it. The “armed and disguised” kept themselves
in a body, it is true, and maintained, in a slight degree,
the appearance of distinctness from “the people,” but
many of the latter stopped to speak to these men, and were
apparently on good terms with them. Not a few of the
gentler sex, even, appeared to have acquaintances in the
gang; and it would have struck a political philosopher from
the other hemisphere with some surprise, to have seen the
“people” thus tolerating fellows who were openly trampling
on a law that the “people” themselves had just enacted!
A political philosopher from among ourselves, however,
might have explained the seeming contradiction by referring
it to the “spirit of the institutions.” If one were to ask
Hugh Littlepage to solve the difficulty, he would have been
very apt to answer that the “people” of Ravensnest wanted
to compel him to sell lands which he did not wish to sell,
and that not a few of them were anxious to add to the compulsory
bargains conditions as to price that would rob him
of about one-half of his estate; and that what the Albany
philosophers called the “spirit of the institutions,” was, in
fact, a “spirit of the devil,” which the institutions were expressly
designed to hold in subjection!

There was a good deal of out-door management going on,
as might be seen by the private discussions that were held
between pairs, under what is called the “horse-shedding”
process. This “horse-shedding” process, I understand, is
well known among us, and extends not only to politics, but
to the administration of justice. Your regular “

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horse-shedder” is employed to frequent taverns where jurors stay,
and drops hints before them touching the merits of causes
known to be on the calendars; possibly contrives to get into
a room with six or eight beds, in which there may accidentally
be a juror, or even two, in a bed, when he drops
into a natural conversation on the merits of some matter at
issue, praises one of the parties, while he drops dark hints
to the prejudice of the other, and makes his own representations
of the facts in a way to scatter the seed where he is
morally certain it will take root and grow. All this time
he is not conversing with a juror, not he; he is only assuming
the office of the judge by anticipation, and dissecting
evidence before it has been given, in the ear of a particular
friend. It is true there is a law against doing anything
of the sort; it is true there is law to punish the editor
of a newspaper who shall publish anything to prejudice the
interests of litigants; it is true the “horse-shedding process”
is flagrantly wicked, and intended to destroy most of the
benefits of the jury-system; but, notwithstanding all this,
the “spirit of the institutions” carries everything before it,
and men regard all these laws and provisions, as well as the
eternal principles of right, precisely as if they had no existence
at all, or as if a freeman were above the law. He
makes the law, and why should he not break it? Here is
another effect of the “spirit of the institutions.”

At length the bell rang, and the crowd began to move towards
the “meetin'-us.” This building was not that which
had been originally constructed, and at the raising of which,
I have heard it said, my dear old grandmother, then a lovely
and spirited girl of nineteen, had been conspicuous for her
coolness and judgment, but a far more pretending successor.
The old building had been constructed on the true model of the
highest dissenting spirit—a spirit that induced its advocates
to quarrel with good taste as well as religious dogmas, in
order to make the chasm as wide as possible—which in this,
some concessions had been made to the temper of the times.
I very well remember the old “meetin'-us” at the “Little
Nest,” for it was pulled down to give place to its more pretending
successor after I had attained my sixteenth year.
A description of both may let the reader into the secret of
our rural church architecture.

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The “old Neest meetin'-us,” like its successor, was of a
hemlock frame, covered with pine clap-boards, and painted
white. Of late years, the paint had been of a most fleeting
quality, the oil seeming to evaporate, instead of striking in
and setting, leaving the colouring matter in a somewhat decomposed
condition, to rub off by friction and wash away
in the rains. The house was a stiff, formal parallelogram,
resembling a man with high shoulders, appearing to be
“stuck up.” It had two rows of formal, short and ungraceful
windows, that being a point in orthodoxy at the period
of its erection. It had a tower, uncouth, and in some respects
too large and others too small, if one can reconcile
the contradiction; but there are anomalies of this sort in art,
as well as in nature. On top of this tower stood a long-legged
belfry, which had got a very dangerous, though a
very common, propensity in ecclesiastical matters; in other
words, it had begun to “cant.” It was this diversion from
the perpendicular which had suggested the necessity of
erecting a new edifice, and the building in which the “lecture”
on feudal tenures and aristocracy was now to be delivered.

The new meeting-house at Little Nest was a much more
pretending edifice than its predecessor. It was also of wood,
but a bold diverging from “first principles” had been ventured
on, not only in physical, but in the moral church.
The last was “new-school;” as, indeed, was the first.
What “new-school” means, in a spiritual sense, I do not
exactly know, but I suppose it to be some improvement on
some other improvement of the more ancient and venerable
dogmas of the sect to which it belongs. These improvements
on improvements are rather common among us, and
are favourably viewed by a great number under the name
of progress; though he who stands at a little distance can,
half the time, discover that the parties in progress very often
come out at the precise spot from which they started.

For my part, I find so much wisdom in the bible—so profound
a knowledge of human nature, and of its tendencies—
counsel so comprehensive and so safe, and this solely in reference
to the things of this life, that I do not believe everything
is progress in the right direction because it sets us in
motion on paths that are not two thousand years old! I

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believe that we have quite as much that ought to be kept,
as of that which ought to be thrown away; and while I
admit the vast number of abuses that have grown up in the
old world, under the “spirit of their institutions,” as our
philosophers would say, I can see a goodly number that
are also growing up here, certainly not under the same
“spirit,” unless we refer them both, as a truly wise man
would, to our common and miserable nature.

The main departure from first principles, in the sense of
material things, was in the fact that the new meeting-house
had only one row of windows, and that the windows of that
row had the pointed arch. The time has been when this
circumstance would have created a schism in the theological
world; and I hope that my youth and inexperience
will be pardoned, if I respectfully suggest that a pointed
arch, or any other arch in wood, ought to create another in
the world of taste.

But in we went, men, women and children; uncle Ro,
Mr. Warren, Mary, Seneca, Opportunity, and all, the Injins
excepted. For some reason connected with their policy,
those savages remained outside, until the whole audience
had assembled in grave silence. The orator was in, or on
a sort of stage, which was made, under the new-light system
in architecture, to supersede the old, inconvenient, and
ugly pulpit, supported on each side by two divines, of what
denomination I shall not take on myself to say. It will be
sufficient if I add Mr. Warren was not one of them. He
and Mary had taken their seats quite near the door, and
under the gallery. I saw that the rector was uneasy the
moment the lecturer and his two supporters entered the pulpit,
and appeared on the stage; and at length he arose, and
followed by Mary, he suddenly left the building. In an
instant I was at their side, for it struck me indisposition
was the cause of so strange a movement. Fortunately, at
this moment, the whole audience rose in a body, and one
of the ministers commenced an extempore prayer.

At that instant, the Injins had drawn themselves up
around the building, close to its sides, and under the open
windows, in a position that enabled them to hear all that
passed. As I afterwards learned, this arrangement was
made with an understanding with those within, one of the

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ministers having positively refused to address the throne of
Grace so long as any of the tribe were present. Well has
it been said, that man often strains at a gnat, and swallows
a camel!

CHAPTER XV.

“I tell thee, Jack Cade, the clothier means to to dress the common
wealth, and turn it, and put a new nap upon it.”

King Henry VI.

As I knew Mary must have communicated to her father
my real name, I did not hesitate, as I ought to have done in
my actual dress and in my assumed character, about following
them, in order to inquire if I could be of any service.
I never saw distress more strongly painted in any
man's countenance than it was in that of Mr. Warren, when
I approached. So very obvious, indeed, was his emotion,
that I did not venture to obtrude myself on him, but followed
in silence; and he and Mary slowly walked, side by side,
across the street to the stoop of a house, of which all the
usual inmates had probably gone in the other direction.
Here, Mr. Warren took a seat, Mary still at his side, while
I drew near, standing before him.

“I thank you, Mr. Littlepage,” the divine at length said,
with a smile so painful it was almost haggard, “for, so
Mary tells me you should be called — I thank you for this
attention, sir—but, it will be over in another minute—I feel
better now, and shall be able to command myself.”

No more was then said, concerning the reason of this
distress; but Mary has since explained to me its cause.
When her father went into the meeting-house, he had not the
smallest idea that anything like a religious service would be
dragged into the ceremonies of such a day. The two ministers
on the stage first gave him the alarm; when a most
painful struggle occurred in his mind, whether or not he
should remain, and be a party to the mockery of addressing

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God in prayer, in an assembly collected to set at naught
one of the plainest of his laws — nay, with banded felons
drawn up around the building, as principal actors in the
whole mummery. The alternative was for him, a minister
of the altar, to seem to quit those who were about to join in
prayer, and to do this moreover under circumstances which
might appear to others as if he rejected all worship but that
which was in accordance with his own views of right, a
notion that would be certain to spread far and near, greatly
to the prejudice of his own people. But the first, as he
viewed the matter, involved a species of blasphemy; and
yielding to his feelings, he took the decided step he had, intending
to remain out of the building, until the more regular
business of the day commenced.

It is certain Mr. Warren, who acted under the best impulse
of christian feeling, a reverence for God, and a profound
wish not to be a party in offending him with the
mockery of worship under such circumstances, has lost
much influence, and made many enemies, by the step he
then took. The very same feeling which has raised the
cry of aristocracy against every gentleman who dwells in
sufficiently near contact with the masses to distinguish his
habits from those around him; which induces the eastern
emigrant, who comes from a state of society where there
are no landlords, to fancy those he finds here ought to be
pulled down, because he is not a landlord himself; which
enables the legislator to stand up in his place, and unblushingly
talk about feudal usages, at the very instant he is
demonstrating that equal rights are denied to those he would
fain stigmatize as feudal lords, has extended to religion, and
the church of which Mr. Warren was a minister, is very
generally accused of being aristocratic, too! This charge
is brought because it has claims which other churches affect
to renounce and reject as forming no part of the faith; but
the last cannot remain easy under their own decisions;
and while they shout, and sing that they have found “a
church without a bishop,” they hate the church that has a
bishop, because it has something they do not possess themselves,
instead of pitying its deluded members, if they believe
them wrong. This will not be admitted generally, but
it is nevertheless true; and betrays itself in a hundred ways.

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It is seen in the attempt to call their own priests bishops, in
the feeling so manifest whenever a cry can be raised against
their existence, and in the general character of these theological
rallies, whenever they do occur.

For one, I see a close analogy between my own church, as
it exists in this country, and comparing it with that from which
it sprung, and to those which surround it, and the true political
circumstances of the two hemispheres. In discarding a vast
amount of surplusage, in reducing the orders of the ministry
in practice, as well as in theory, to their primitive number,
three, and in rejecting all connection with the State, the American
branch of the Episcopal Church has assumed the position
it was desirous to fill; restoring, as near as may be, the
simplicity of the apostolical ages, while it does not disregard
the precepts and practices of the apostles themselves. It
has not set itself above antiquity and authority, but merely
endeavoured to sustain them, without the encumbrances of
more modern abuses. Thus, too, has it been in political
things. No attempt has been made to create new organic
social distinctions in this country, but solely to disencumber
those that are inseparable from the existence of all civilized
society, of the clumsy machinery with which the expedients
of military oppressors had invested them. The real
sages of this country, in founding its institutions, no more
thought of getting rid of the landlords of the country, than
the church thought of getting rid of its bishops. The first
knew that the gradations of property were an inevitable
incident of civilization; that it would not be wise, if it were
possible, to prevent the affluent from making large investments
in the soul; and that this could not be done in practice,
without leaving the relation of landlord and tenant.
Because landlords, in other parts of the world, possessed
privileges that were not necessary to the natural or simple
existence of the character, was no reason for destroying
the character itself; any more than the fact that the
bishops of England possess an authority the apostles
knew nothing of, rendered it proper for the American
branch of the church to do away with an office that came
from the apostles. But, envy and jealousy do not pause
to reflect on such things; it is enough for them, in the one
case, that you and yours have estates, and occupy social

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positions, that I and mine do not, and cannot easily, occupy
and possess; therefore I will oppose you, and join my voice
to the cry of those who wish to get their farms for nothing;
and in the other, that you have bishops when we can have
none, without abandoning our present organization and doctrines.

I dwell on these points at some little length, because the
movements of Mr. Warren and myself, at that moment, had
a direct influence on the circumstances that will soon be
related. It is probable that fully one-half of those collected
in the Little Nest meeting-house, that morning, as they stood
up, and lent a sort of one-sided and listless attention to the
prayer, were thinking of the scandalous and aristocratical
conduct of Mr. Warren, in “goin' out o' meetin' just as
meetin' went to prayers!” Few, indeed, were they who
would be likely to ascribe any charitable motive for the
act; and probably not one of those present thought of the
true and conscientious feeling that had induced it. So the
world wags! It is certain that a malignant and bitter feeling
was got up against the worthy rector on that occasion,
and for that act, which has not yet abated, and which will
not abate in many hundreds, until the near approach of
death shall lay bare to them the true character of so many
of their own feelings.

It was some minutes before Mr. Warren entirely regained
his composure. At length he spoke to me, in his usual benevolent
and mild way, saying a few words that were complimentary,
on the subject of my return, while he expressed
his fears that my uncle Ro and myself had been imprudent
in thus placing ourselves, as it might be, in the lion's
jaws.

“You have certainly made your disguises so complete,”
he added, smiling, “as to have escaped wonderfully well so
far. That you should deceive Mary and myself is no great
matter, since neither of us ever saw you before; but, the
manner in which your nearest relatives have been misled,
is surprising. Nevertheless, you have every inducement to
be cautious, for hatred and jealousy have a penetration that
does not belong even to love.”

“We think we are safe, sir,” I answered, “for we are
certainly within the statute. We are too well aware of our

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miserable aristocratical condition to place ourselves within
the grasp of the law, for such are our eminent privileges as
a landed nobility, that we are morally certain either of us
would not only be sent to the state's prison were he to be
guilty of the felony those Injins are committing, and will
commit, with perfect impunity, but that he would be kept
there, as long as a single tear of anguish could be wrung
from one of those who are classed with the aristocracy. Democracy
alone finds any sympathy in the ordinary administration
of American justice.”

“I am afraid that your irony has only too much truth in
it. But the movement around the building would seem to
say that the real business of the day is about to commence,
and we had better return to the church.”

“Those men in disguise are watching us, in a most unpleasant
and alarming manner,” said Mary Warren, delighting
me far more by the vigilance she thus manifested in my
behalf, than alarming me by the fact.

That we were watched, however, became obviously apparent,
as we walked towards the building, by the actions of
some of the Injins. They had left the side of the church
where they had posted themselves during the prayer, and
head was going to head, among those nearest to us; or, it
would be nearer to appearances, were I to say bunch of
calico was going to bunch of calico, for nothing in the form
of a head was visible among them. Nothing was said to
Mr. Warren and Mary, however, who were permitted to go
into the meeting-house, unmolested; but two of these disguised
gentry placed themselves before me, laying their
rifles across my path, and completely intercepting my advance.

“Who you?” abruptly demanded one of the two;—
“where go—where come from?”

The answer was ready, and I trust it was sufficiently
steady.

“I coomes from Charmany, und I goes into der kerch,
as dey say in mine coontry; what might be callet meetin'-'us,
here.”

What might have followed, it is not easy to say, had not
the loud, declamatory voice of the lecturer just then been
heard, as he commenced his address. This appeared to be

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a signal for the tribe to make some movement, for the two
fellows who had stopped me, walked silently away, though
bag of calico went to bag of calico, as they trotted off together,
seemingly communicating to each other their suspicions.
I took advantage of the opening, and passed into
the church, where I worked my way through the throng,
and got a seat at my uncle's side.

I have neither time, room, nor inclination to give anything
like an analysis of the lecture. The speaker was
fluent, inflated, and anything but logical. Not only did he
contradict himself, but he contradicted the laws of nature.
The intelligent reader will not require to be reminded of the
general character of a speech that was addressed to the
passions and interests of such an audience, rather than to
their reason. He commented, at first, on the particular
covenants of the leases on the old estates of the colony,
alluding to the quarter-sales, chickens, days' work, and durable
tenures, in the customary way. The reservation of
the mines, too, was mentioned as a tyrannical covenant,
precisely as if a landlord were obliged to convey any more
of the rights that were vested in him, than he saw fit; or the
tenant could justly claim more than he had hired! This
man treated all these branches of the subject, as if the
tenants had acquired certain mysterious interests by time
and occupation, overlooking the fact that the one party got
just as good a title as the other by this process; the lease
being the instrument between them, that was getting to be
venerable. If one party grew old as a tenant, so did the
other as a landlord. I thought that this lecturer would have
been glad to confine himself to the Manor leases, that being
the particular branch of the subject he had been accustomed
to treat; but, such was not the precise nature of the job he
was now employed to execute. At Ravensnest, he could
not flourish the feudal grievance of the quarter-sales, the
“four fat fowls,” the “days' works,” and the length of the
leases. Here it was clearly his cue to say nothing of the
three first, and to complain of the shortness of the leases, as
mine were about to fall in, in considerable numbers. Finding
it was necessary to take new ground, he determined it
should be bold ground, and such as would give him the least
trouble to get along with.

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As soon as the lecturer had got through with his general
heads, and felt the necessity of coming down to particulars,
he opened upon the family of Littlepage, in a very declamatory
way. What had they ever done for the country, he
demanded, that they should be lords in the land? By some
process known to himself, he had converted landlords into
lords in the land, and was now aiming to make the tenants
occupy the latter station—nay, both stations. Of course,
some services of a public character, of which the Littlepages
might boast, were not touched upon at all, everything
of that nature being compressed into what the lecturer and
his audience deemed serving the people, by helping to indulge
them in all their desires, however rapacious or wicked. As
everybody who knows anything of the actual state of
matters among us, must be aware how rarely the “people”
hear the truth, when their own power and interests are in
question, it is not surprising that a very shallow reasoner
was enabled to draw wool over the eyes of the audience of
Ravensnest on that particular subject.

But my interest was most awakened when this man came
to speak of myself. It is not often that a man enjoys the
same opportunity as that I then possessed to hear his own
character delineated, and his most private motives analyzed.
In the first place, the audience were told that this “young
Hugh Littlepage had never done anything for the land that
he proudly, and like a great European noble, he calls his
`estate.' Most of you, fellow-citizens, can show your hard
hands, and recall the burning suns under which you have
opened the swarth, through those then lovely meadows
yonder, as your titles to these farms. But, Hugh Littlepage
never did a day's work in his life”—ten minutes before he
had been complaining of the “days' work” in the Manor
leases as indignities that a freeman ought not to submit to—
“no, fellow-citizens, he never had that honour, and never
will have it, until by a just division of his property, or what
he now calls his property, you reduce him to the necessity
of labouring to raise the crops he wants to consume.”

“Where is this Hugh Littlepage at this very moment?
In Paris, squandering your hard earnings in riotous living,
according to the best standards of aristocracy. He lives in
the midst of abundance, dresses richly and fares richly,

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while you and yours are eating the sweat of your brows.
He is no man for a pewter spoon and two-pronged fork!
No, my countrymen! He must have a gold spoon for some
of his dishes, and you will find it hard to believe—plain,
unpretending, republican farmers as you are, but it is not
the less true—he must have forks of silver! Fellow-citizens,
Hugh Littlepage would not put his knife into his
mouth, as you and I do, in eating—as all plain, unpretending
republicans do—for the world. It would choke him;
no, he keeps silver forks to touch his anointed lips!” Here
there was an attempt to get up something like applause, but
it totally failed. The men of Ravensnest had been accustomed
all their lives to see the Littlepages in the social station
they occupied; and, after all, it did not seem so very
extraordinary that we should have silver forks, any more
than that others should have silver spoons. The lecturer
had the tact to see that he had failed on this point, and he
turned to another.

The next onset was made against our title. Whence
did it come? demanded the lecturer. From the king of
England; and the people had conquered the country from
that sovereign, and put themselves in his place. Now, is it
not a good principle in politics, that to the victors belong
the spoils? He believed it was; and that in conquering
America, he was of opinion that the people of America had
conquered the land, and that they had a right to take the
land, and to keep it. Titles from kings he did not respect
much; and he believed the American people, generally, did
not think much of them. If Hugh Littlepage wished an
“estate,” as he called it, let him come to the people and
“sarve them,” and see what sort of an estate they would
give him.

But there was one portion of his speech which was so
remarkable, that I must attempt to give it, as it was uttered.
It was while the lecturer was expatiating on this subject of
titles, that he broke out in the following language:—“Don't
talk to me,” he bellowed — for by this time his voice had
risen to the pitch of a methodist's, in a camp-meeting —
“Don't talk to me of antiquity, and time, and length of possession,
as things to be respected. They 're nawthin'—jest
nawthin' at all. Possession 's good in law, I 'll admit; and

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I contind that 's jest what the tenants has. They 've got the
lawful possession of this very property, that layeth (not
eggs, but) up and down, far and near, and all around; a
rich and goodly heritage, when divided up among hard-working
and honest folks; but too much, by tens of thousands
of acres, for a young chap, who is wasting his substance
in foreign lands, to hold. I contind that the tenants
has this very, precise, lawful possession, at this blessed moment,
only the law won't let 'em enj'y it. It 's all owing to
that accursed law, that the tenant can't set up a title ag'in
his landlord. You see by this one fact, fellow-citizens, that
they are a privileged class, and ought to be brought down
to the level of gin'ral humanity. You can set up title ag'in
anybody else, but you shau't set up title ag'in a landlord.
I know what is said in the primisis,” shaking his head, in
derision of any arguments on the other side of this particular
point; “I know that circumstances alter cases. I can
see the hardship of one neighbour's coming to another, and
asking to borrow or hire his horse for a day, and then pretendin'
to hold him on some other ketch. But horses isn't
land; you must all allow that. No, if horses was land,
the ease would be altered. Land is an element, and so is
fire, and so is water, and so is air. Now, who will say that
a freeman hasn't a right to air, hasn't a right to water, and,
on the same process, hasn't a right to land? He has, fellow-citizens—
he has. These are what are called in philosophy
elementary rights; which is the same thing as a right to
the elements, of which land is one, and a principal one. I
say a principal one; for, if there was no land to stand on,
we should drop away from air, and couldn't enj'y that; we
should lose all our water in vapour, and couldn't put it to
millin' and manafacterin' purposes; and where could we
build our fires? No; land is the first elementary right, and
connected with it comes the first and most sacred right to
the elements.

“I do not altogether disregard antiquity, neither. No;
I respect and revere pre-emption rights; for they fortify and
sustain the right to the elements. Now, I do not condemn
squattin', as some doos. It 's actin' accordin' to natur', and
natur' is right. I respect and venerate a squatter's possession;
for it 's held under the sacred principle of usefulness.

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It says, `go and make the wilderness blossom as the rose,'
and means `progress.' That 's an antiquity I respect. I
respect the antiquity of your possessions here, as tenants;
for it is a hard-working and useful antiquity — an antiquity
that increases and multiplies. If it be said that Hugh Littlepage's
ancestors — your noble has his `ancestors,' while
us `common folks' are satisfied with forefathers”—[this hit
took with a great many present, raising a very general
laugh] —“but if this Hugh's ancestors did pay anything
for the land, if I was you, fellow-citizens, I'd be gin'rous,
and let him have it back ag'in. Perhaps his forefathers
gave a cent an acre to the king — may be, two; or say sixpence,
if you will. I 'd let him have his sixpence an acre
back again, by way of shutting his mouth. No; I 'm for
nawthin' that 's ungin'rous.”

“Fellow-citizens, I profess to be what is called a Democrat.
I know that many of you be what is called Whigs—but
I apprehend there is'nt much difference between us on the
subject of this system of leasing land. We are all republicans,
and leasing farms is anti-republican. Then, I wish
to be liberal even to them I commonly oppose at elections,
and I will freely admit, then, on the whull, the Whigs have
rather out-done us Democrats, on the subject of this antirentism.
I am sorry to be obliged to own in it, but it must
be confessed that, while in the way of governors, there
hasn't been much difference—yes, put 'em in a bag, and
shake 'em up, and you'd hardly know which would come
out first—which has done himself the most immortal honour,
which has shown himself the most comprehensive, profound
and safe statesman; I know that some of our people complain
of the governors for ordering out troops ag'in the
Injins, but they could not help that—they wouldn't have
done it, in my judgment, had there been any way of getting
round it; but the law was too strong for them, so they
druv' in the Injins, and now they join us in putting down
aristocracy, and in raising up gin'ral humanity. No; I don't
go ag'in the governors, though many doos.”

“But I profess to be a Democrat, and I'll give an outline
of my principles, that all may see why they can't, and
don't, and never will agree with aristocracy or nobility, in
any form or shape. I believe one man is as good as

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another in all things. Neither birth, nor law, nor edication,
nor riches, nor poverty, nor anything else can ever make
any difference in this principle, which is sacred, and fundamental,
and is the chief stone of the corner in true Democracy.
One man is as good as another, I say, and has just the same
right to the enj'yment of 'arth and its privileges, as any
other man. I think the majority ought to rule in all things,
and that it is the duty of the minority to submit. Now, I've
had this here sentiment thrown back upon me, in some
places where I have spoken, and been asked `how is this—
the majority must rule, and the minority must submit—in
that case, the minority is'nt as good as the majority in practice,
and hasn't the same right. They are made to own
what they think ought not to be done?' The answer to this
is so plain, I wonder a sensible man can ask the question,
for all the minority has to do, is to join the majority, to have
things as they want 'em. The road is free, and it is this
open road that makes true liberty. Any man can fall in
with the majority, and sensible folks commonly do, when
they can find it, and that makes a person not only a man,
as the saying is, but a FREEMAN, a still more honourable
title.”

“Fellow-citizens, a great movement is in progress, “Go
ahead!” is the cry, and the march is onward; our thoughts
already fly about on the wings of the lightning, and our
bodies move but little slower, on the vapour of steam—soon
our principles will rush ahead of all, and let in the radiance
of a glorious day of universal reform, and loveliness, and
virtue and charity, when the odious sound of rent will never
be heard, when every man will set down under his own
apple, or cherry tree, if not under his own fig tree.

“I am a Democrat, — yes, a Democrat. Glorious appellation!
I delight in it! It is my pride, my boast, my very
virtue. Let but the people truly rule, and all must come
well. The people has no temptation to do wrong. If they
hurt the state, they hurt themselves, for they are the state.
Is a man likely to hurt himself? Equality is my axiom.
Nor, by equality, do I mean your narrow pitiful equality
before the law, as it is sometimes tarmed, for that may be
no equality at all; but, I mean an equality that is substantial,
and which must be restored, when the working of the

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law has deranged it. Fellow-citizens, do you know what
leap-year means? I dare say some of you don't, the ladies
in partic'lar not giving much attention to astronomy. Well,
I have inquired, and it is this: — The 'arth revolves around
the sun in a year, as we all know. And we count three
hundred and sixty-five days in a year, we all know. But,
the 'arth is a few hours longer than three hundred and sixty-five
days, in making its circuit—nearly six hours longer.
Now, everybody knows that 4 times 6 makes 24, and so a
twenty-ninth day is put into February, every fourth year, to
restore the lost time; another change being to be made a
long distance ahead to settle the fractions. Thus will it be
with Democracy. Human natur' can't devise laws yet, that
will keep all things on an exactly equal footing, and political
leap-years must be introduced into the political calendar, to
restore the equilibrium. In astronomy, we must divide up
anew the hours and minutes; in humanity, we must, from
time to time, divide up the land.”

But, I cannot follow this inflated fool any longer; for he
was quite as much of fool as of knave, though partaking
largely of the latter character. It was plain that he carried
many of his notions much farther than a good portion of
his audience carried theirs; though, whenever he touched
upon anti-rentism, he hit a chord that vibrated through the
whole assembly. That the tenants ought to own their
farms, and pay no more rents, AND POCKET ALL THE BENEFITS
OF THEIR OWN PREVIOUS LABOURS, THOUGH THESE
LABOURS HAD BEEN CONSIDERED IN THE EARLIER RENTS,
AND WERE, INDEED, STILL CONSIDERED, IN THE LOW RATES
AT WHICH THE LANDS WERE LET, was a doctrine all could
understand; and few were they, I am sorry to say, who did
not betray how much self-love and self-interest had obscured
the sense of right.

The lecture, such as it was, lasted more than two hours;
and when it was done, an individual rose, in the character
of a chairman—when did three Americans ever get together
to discuss anything, that they had not a chairman and secretary,
and all the parliamentary forms?—and invited any
one present, who might entertain views different from the
speaker, to give his opinion. Never before did I feel so
tempted to speak in public. My first impulse was to throw

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away the wig, and come out in my own person, and expose
the shallow trash that had just been uttered. I believe even
I, unaccustomed as I was to public speaking, could easily
have done this, and I whispered as much to my uncle, who
was actually on his feet, to perform the office for me, when
the sound of “Mr. Chairman,” from a different part of the
church, anticipated him. Looking round, I recognised at
once the face of the intelligent mechanic, named Hall, whom
we had met at Mooseridge, on our way to the Nest. I took
my seat, at once, perfectly satisfied that the subject was in
good hands.

This speaker commenced with great moderation, both of
manner and tone, and, indeed, he preserved them throughout.
His utterance, accent and language, of course, were
all tinctured by his habits and associations; but his good
sense and his good principles were equally gifts from above.
More of the “true image of his maker” was to be found in
that one individual than existed in fifty common men. He
saw clearly, spoke clearly, and demonstrated effectively.
As he was well known in that vicinity and generally respected,
he was listened to with profound attention, and
spoke like a man who stood in no dread of tar and feathers.
Had the same sentiments been delivered by one in a fine
coat, and a stranger, or even by myself, who had so much
at stake, very many of them would have been incontinently
set down as aristocratic, and not to be tolerated, the most
sublimated lover of equality occasionally falling into these
little contradictions.

Hall commenced by reminding the audience that they all
knew him, and knew he was no landlord. He was a mechanic,
and a labouring man, like most of themselves, and
had no interest that could be separate from the general good
of society. This opening was a little homage to prejudice,
since reason is reason, and right right, let them come whence
they will. “I, too, am a democrat,” he went on to say,
“but I do not understand democracy to mean anything like
that which has been described by the last speaker. I tell
that gentleman plainly, that if he is a democrat, I am none;
and if I am a democrat, he is none. By democracy I understand
a government in which the sovereign power resides
in the body of the nation; and not in a few, or in one. But

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this principle no more gives the body of the people authority
to act wrong, than in a monarchy, in which the sovereign
power resides in one man, that one man has a right to act
wrong. By equality, I do not understand anything more
than equality before the law—now, if the law had said that
when the late Malbone Littlepage died, his farms should go
not to his next of kin, or to his devisee, but to his neighbours,
then that would have been the law to be obeyed,
although it would be a law destructive of civilization, since
men would never accumulate property to go to the public.
Something nearer home is necessary to make men work,
and deny themselves what they like.

“The gentleman has told us of a sort of political leap-year
that is to regulate the social calender. I understand
him to mean that when property has got to be unequal, it
must be divided up, in order that men may make a new
start. I fear he will have to dispense with leap years, and
come to leap months, or leap weeks, ay, or even to leap
days; for, was the property of this township divided up this
very morning, and in this meetin'-us, it would get to be unequal
before night. Some folks can't keep money when
they have it; and others can't keep their hands off it.

“Then, again, if Hugh Littlepage's property is to be
divided, the property of all of Hugh Littlepage's neighbours
ought to be divided too, to make even an appearance of
equality; though it would be but an appearance of equality,
admitting that were done, since Hugh Littlepage has more
than all the rest of the town put together. Yes, fellow-citizens,
Hugh Littlepage pays, at this moment, one-twentieth
of the taxes of this whole county. That is about the
proportion of Ravensnest; and that tax, in reality, comes
out of his pockets, as much the greater part of the taxes of
Rensselaer and Albany counties, if you will except the cities
they contain, are paid by the Rensselaers. It wun't do to
tell me the tenants pay the taxes, for I know better. We
all know that the probable amount of the taxes is estimated
in the original bargain, and is so much deducted from the
rent, and comes out of the landlord if it come out of anybody.
There is a good reason why the tenant should pay
it, and a reason that is altogether in his interest; because
the law would make his oxen, and horses, and carts liable

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for the taxes, should the landlord neglect to pay the taxes.
The collector always sells personals for a tax if he can find
them on the property; and by deducting it from the rent,
and paying it himself, the tenant makes himself secure
against that loss. To say that a tenant don't take any
account of the taxes he will be likely to pay, in making his
bargain, is as if one should say he is non com. and not fit
to be trusted with his own affairs. There are men, in this
community, I am sorry to say, who wish a law passed to
tax the rents on durable leases, or on all leases, in order to
choke the landlords off from their claims, but such men are
true friends to neither justice nor their country. Such a
law would be a tax on the incomes of a particular class of
society, and on no other. It is a law that would justify the
aggrieved parties in taking up arms to resist it, unless the
law would give 'em relief, as I rather think it would. By
removing into another State, however, they would escape
the tax completely, laugh at those who framed it, who would
incur the odium of doing an impotent wrong, and get laughed
at as well as despised, besides injuring the State by drawing
away its money to be spent out of its limits. Think, for
one moment, of the impression that would be made of New
York justice, if a hundred citizens of note and standing were
to be found living in Philadelphia or Paris, and circulating
to the world the report that they were exiles to escape a
special taxation! The more the matter was inquired into,
the worse it must appear; for men may say what they
please, to be ready ag'in election time, as there is but one
piece, or parcel of property to tax, it is an income tax, and
nothing else. What makes the matter still worse is, that
every man of sense will know that it is taxing the same
person twice, substantially for the same thing, since the
landlord has the direct land tax deducted from the rent in
the original bargain.

“As for all this cry about aristocracy, I don't understand
it. Hugh Littlepage has just as good a right to his ways as
I have to mine. The gentleman says he needs gold spoons
and silver forks to eat with. Well, what of that? I dare
say the gentleman himself finds a steel knife and fork useful,
and has no objection to a silver, or, at least, to a pewter

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spoon. Now, there are folks that use wooden forks, or no
forks, and who are glad to get horn spoons; and they might
call that gentleman himself an aristocrat. This setting of
ourselves up as the standard in all things is anything but
liberty. If I don't like to eat my dinner with a man who
uses a silver fork, no man in this country can compel me.
On the other hand, if young Mr. Littlepage don't like a companion
who chews tobacco, as I do, he ought to be left to
follow his own inclination.

“Then, this doctrine that one man 's as good as another
has got two sides to it. One man ought to have the same
general rights as another, I am ready to allow; but if one
man is as good as another, why do we have the trouble and
cost of elections? We might draw lots, as we do for jurors,
and save a good deal of time and money. We all know
there is ch'ice in men, and I think that so long as the people
have their ch'ice in sayin' who shall and who shall not be
their agents, they 've got all they have any right to. So
long as this is done, the rest of the world may be left to
follow their own ways, provided they obey the laws.

“Then, I am no great admirer of them that are always
telling the people they 're parfect. I know this county pretty
well, as well as most in it; and if there be a parfect man in
Washington county, I have not yet fallen in with him. Ten
millions of imparfect men won't make one parfect man, and
so I don't look for perfection in the people any more than I
do in princes. All I look for in democracy is to keep the
reins in so many hands as to prevent a few from turning
everything to their own account; still, we mustn't forget
that, when a great many do go wrong, it is much worse
than when a few go wrong.

“If my son didn't inherit the property of Malbone Littlepage,
neither will Malbone Littlepage's son inherit mine.
We are on a footing in that respect. As to paying rent,
which some persons think so hard, what would they do if
they had no house to live in, or farm to work? If folks
wish to purchase houses and farms, no one can prevent them
if they have money to do it with; and if they have not, is
it expected other people are to provide them with such things
out of their own—”

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Here the speaker was interrupted by a sudden whooping,
and the Injins came pressing into the house in a way to
drive in all the'aisles before them. Men, women and children
leaped from the windows, the distance being trifling, while
others made their escape by the two side-doors, the Injins
coming in only by the main entrance. In less time than it
takes to record the fact, the audience had nearly all dispersed.

END OF VOL. I
Previous section


Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1846], The redskins, or, Indian and Injin. Being the conclusion of the Littlepage manuscripts, volume 1 (Burgess, Stringer & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf077v1].
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