University of Virginia Library

THE MONOPOLY
AND
THE PEOPLE'S LINE.

—Milton.

—Franklin.

—Proverb.

The proprietors of steamboats, rail-roads and
stage-coaches, not unfrequently carry the spirit of
competition to a ruinous and ridiculous extent. A
few years ago, we went to Albany and were “found”
for half a dollar! and it is within the recollection of
everybody that Gibbons, for a long period, run his
boats from New-York to New-Brunswick for twelve
and a half cents! More recently, Mr. Vanderbilt,

a large capitalist, and doubtless an enterprising man,
with a view of breaking down what has been denominated
the “odious eastern monopoly,” has placed
several swift and commodious steamers on the Boston
line, and you may now take a trip from New-York
to Providence for the trifling consideration of
one dollar, lawful currency! Whether the publick
—the misused, flattered, cajoled, long-suffering and
indulgent publick—is ultimately benefited by these
reductions of the fare to an inadequate price, or
otherwise, is not for us to determine; and we, therefore,
leave the investigation of the subject, now and
for ever, to those more skilled and curious in such
matters. Yet we have a right to an opinion; and,
as this is certainly a free country, we presume no
one will quarrel with us—if we keep it entirely to
ourselves. In a crowded steamer, however, whose
deck and cabin are thronged with what the great
bard calls “all sorts of people,” there is no more
comfort than there is said to be in a badly-governed
family of small innocents and antiquated maiden
ladies, on a washing-day; when, the old ballad
tells us, all is topsy-turvy and most admired confusion.
Yet we would not be understood as raising
our feeble voice in defence of any monopoly
under the sun; but more especially that of steamboats.
Far be it from us. We are patriots; but,
what is a greater evidence of our honesty and disinterestedness,
we have no stock in them whatever;
and, as we are nothing but a “waif upon the world's
wide common,” or, in less figurative phraseology,
nothing but a poor devil of a weakly editor, we
never expect to have any; unless our delinquent
subscribers should pay up their arrearages: or we
should draw a prize in the lottery, or some unknown
or unheard of rich relation should die, and unexpectedly
shower his bounties upon us; or any other
unimaginable, improbable, and impossible thing
should occur, of which we have not the remotest
conception at this present writing. We, therefore,
of course, prefer a spirited and liberally managed
opposition in all cases, whenever the number of
travellers will warrant such an arrangement; and
when mere angry feelings, jealousy, hatred, and all
uncharitableness, are not the governing motive and
groundwork of the competition. But we have often
noted, that the great contending parties have generally
some concealed motive, some private end in
view, and that, while they are endeavouring, like
the Hibernian cats, to eat each other up—“all up!”
—they profess the most profound respect and regard
for that publick, which, in the main, they are constantly
striving to humbug and overreach. The
publick, however, like a re-publick, is proverbially
ungrateful; and, seeing the pains that people take
to impose upon each other, it does not hesitate, in its
turn, to impose upon everybody. Our reminiscences
furnish us with a case in point.

Not many years ago, there lived on Long-Island,
a jolly, well-to-do, honest, old Dutchman, who drove
a stage from Brooklyn to Jamaica for two dollars a
passenger. This had been the charge since Adam
was an urchin, or since the time whereof the memory
of man “runneth not to the contrary.” It was sanctioned
by immemorial usage, and had all the crust of
antiquity about it. Nobody thought of disputing the
matter. It was settled, like the laws of the Medes
and Persians, and was a thing not to be sacrilegiously
meddled with, or altered on any account
whatever. The proprietor's great-grandfather had
driven the same route, and so had all his other ancestors,
and none of them had managed to realize more

than enough to make both ends meet when Christmas
came round. But it was left for these degenerate
days, and for modern innovators, to work wonderful
changes in the destinies of Jamaica, which was then
a mere dot on the unexplored map of Long-Island.
You might have held it in the hollow of your hand,
or Major Noah could have put it into his breeches
pocket. It has assumed vast consequence since
that period—which was before the discovery of
lithography, unqestionably the most magnificent and
imposing art of modern times—and is an incorporated
city—in embryo!—with its mayor and its
aldermen—its commodious edifices—its steeples,
domes, and court-houses—its spacious taverns and
its heaven-aspiring liberty-rods, and all the other
requisites of a thriving American metropolis! If
the future greatness of Jamaica may be gathered
from the thousands of building-lots that have been
laid out and disposed of for slow notes of hand, and
if one may at all rely upon the prophecies of the
eloquent and disinterested speculators of Wall-street,
“who look into the seeds of time, and say which
place shall grow and which shall not,” then is Jamaica,
without the shadow of a doubt, predestined
to become the capital of the world!

Oh, Lithography! let me apostrophize thee! Thou
art indeed a mighty wizard—and hast performed
more miracles in our day and generation than all

the soothsayers, seers, and necromancers of the olden
time! There is no obstacle that thou canst not
overcome—no difficulty that thou canst not surmount!
Does a mountain oppose thy onward march
—one wave of thy wand, and it hides its diminished
head and disappears for ever! Is a valley too deep
and broad for thy lofty purposes—another flourish
of thy potent staff, and lo! it is as level as the plain!
Is a river inconvenient to ford, and does it endeavour
to frustrate thy plans, thou hast but to will it—and,
presto! its waters recede, and the warm and genial
earth, beautifully checkered and converted into
streets, avenues, spacious squares and desirable
building-lots, remains in its stead! Thou canst
people the wilderness—for the woods, like those of
Birnam, will “unfix their earth-bound roots,” and
move before thee—and thou canst command the
“desert to bud and blossom like the rose,” and it is
even so! Thou canst found settlements, villages,
towns, and cities wherever thou listeth—in the interiour,
by the running river, the quiet lake, or on the
more boisterous borders of the ocean? 'Tis all the
same to thee, Lithography. Thou canst do anything—every
thing—all things—on paper!

But I am wandering from my subject; and must
take care that, in my admiration for the most sublime
of all modern inventions—always save and excepting
the “noble science of money-making”—I do

not lose the reader as well as myself in the labyrinths
of imagination and metaphor.

In the course of time, travelling increased on the
Jamaica turnpike; the Dutchman had his stage full
every trip, and began to thrive. But the star of his
good fortune, although it had risen clear and unclouded,
was not long in the ascendant; for, one
fine morning, there came another stage driver, the
owner of a new turn out, as fine as a fiddle, who put
in his claims for patronage.

He was a full-grown stripling, of little credit, but
some ready money, and he secretly resolved upon
bearing off the palm from the quiet, but covetous
Dutchman. At first he demanded the usual rates,
and divided the business with his old-established
rival; but finding that he had less custom, that he

was looked upon as an interloper, and that all faces
were set against him, he resolved to cut down the
fare to a single dollar—and he did so, greatly to the
satisfaction of the applauding multitude.

This was a sad blow to the prospects of the poor
old Dutchman, whose carriage was instantly deserted,
all the fickle populace instinctively flocking to
the glossy vehicle of his adversary, who cracked his
whip in high glee as he dashed along the dusty and
unpaved streets of Brooklyn. At first Mynheer did
not know what to make of the matter, so he lighted
his pipe and looked to St. Nicholas for the solution
of a mystery, altogether too profound for his comprehension.
One day, however, a friend unravelled
it to him, and suggested the propriety of a reduction
also of his price; whereupon the whole truth flashed
upon him in the twinkling of an eye, and he instantly
resolved in defiance of the good examples of his forefathers,
to humble himself to the insignificant fare of
his pestilent competitor. Now all was right again,
and things went on as swimmingly as before, until
the new-comer again lowered the fare—called his
omnibus the “People's Line,” and branded his opponent's
“The Monopoly;” upon which the Dutchman
flew into a violent passion, broke his pipe into
a thousand pieces, and swore by all the saints in the
calendar, that he would thereafter carry his passengers
for nothing! And so strange was his demeanor,

flying hither and yonder in a hurricane of hot haste
and hotter disdain, that all his neighbours stigmatised
him as the “Flying Dutchman;” a name which
he has never been able to get clear of to this very
hour.

The “People's Line,” not in the least disconcerted
by this unexpected calamity, also came down to
nothing! and painted on the panels of the carriage
the figure of a fiery old man addressing a multitude,
and begging them to ride in his carriage gratis, with
the motto,

This was evidently intended as a hit at the “Flying
Dutchman,” who retorted by staining the “Interloper,”
as he always persisted in designating the
“People's Line,” with certain Dutch epithets, which
respect for our readers prevents us from translating
into veritable English. Fierce were the animosities
—bitter the feuds—and arduous the struggles that
ensued between the belligerents. Long they lasted,
and fatal promised to be the consequences to both.
Every expedient was resorted to; but as neither
would yield an inch of ground to the other, they both
went on, season after season, running the stages at
their own expense, and annoying everybody who
would listen to them, with a full and particular recital
of their wrongs, their wrath, and their wranglings.
At last, the owner of the “People's Line,”
fairly wearied out by the obstinacy and perseverance
of the redoubtable Dutchman, caused a mammoth
handbill to be struck off and posted from the East-River
to the Atlantic Ocean, in which he stated, in
ponderous capital letters, that he would not only
carry his passengers for nothing, but that he would
actually pay each and every one the sum of twenty-five
cents for going! To the unhappy Dutchman this
was the drop too much; and it effectually did the
business for his now unpopular and detested “Monopoly,”
which was denounced at every tavern by
the road side, as a paltry, mean, and “unconstitutional”
concern, while the “People's Line” was
lauded to the third heavens for its liberality and
publick spirit. The Flying Dutchman flew no more.
His spirit was evidently broken as well as his prospects,
and his horses crawled daily to and from
Jamaica at a snail's pace, equally unmindful of whip
or rein—evidently sympathizing in their master's
disappointment and discomfiture. Yet go the Dutchman
would—he had become accustomed to the
occupation—it was second nature to him; and, as
he could not easily overcome the force of habit, he
preferred working for nothing and finding himself, to
relinquishing the road entirely to his indefatigable
annoyer. “His shirtless Majesty!” as some audacious
poet has impertinently called the sovereign
people! however, generally gave its countenance
and support to its own line, which still kept up its
speed and its reputation. It speaks volumes—
volumes, did I say? it speaks ten thousand libraries
—for the intelligence and good feeling of our locomotive
countrymen; and, as faithful chroniclers,
we are bound to record the fact, that not a single
individual ever applied for the two shillings, that
had been so generously and disinterestedly tendered,
every one being actually contented with going the
whole distance gratis, and with being thanked into
the bargain!

One day, however, a long, thin, lank-sided, mahogany-faced
downeaster chanced to read the mammoth
bill with the ponderous capitals; and without
a moment's hesitation, he decided upon bestowing
his corporeal substance snugly in the back seat of

the “People's Line;” and it so fell out that he was
the only passenger.

The down-easter was a talkative, prying, speculative,
jimcrack of a fellow, who propounded more
questions in a single minute than one could answer
in a whole hour; and, in less time than you could
say Jack Robinson, he was at the bottom of all the
difficulty, and in possession of every particular respecting
the rival lines. He was “free of speech
and merry;” joked with the proprietor; ridiculed
the flying Dutchman, called him a cockalorum, and
finally denounced him as an inflated, overgrown,
purse-proud capitalist, who advocated a system of
exclusive privileges contrary to the spirit of our
glorious institutions, and dangerous to the liberties
of the country?—and he even went so far as to recommend
that a town meeting should be immediately
called to put the old blockhead down, and banish
him from the sunshine of the publick favour forever!

“I will put him down!” said the driver.

“And he shall stay put, when he is down!” replied
Jonathan, with an approving nod of the head.

At the various stopping-places, Jonathan—who
was not a member of any of the temperance societies,
for those institutions were not founded at the
time of which we are writing—to show his good
fellowship, but with no other motive, did not scruple
to drink sundry villanous bar-room compounds, at

the expense of his new acquaintance, who, that day,
was so overjoyed to find that the stage of the “Monopoly”
was compelled to go the whole route
entirely empty, that his hilarity and flow of boisterous
humour knew no bounds, and he snapped his
fingers, and said he did not care a fig for the expense
—not he?

“Here's to the People's Line!” drank Jonathan.

“The People's Line for ever!” shouted the driver.

“And confusion to the Monopoly!” rejoined the
down-easter.

“With all my heart!” echoed the friend of the
people.

“The Flying Dutchman is deficient in publick
spirit!” said the landlord, a warlike little fellow,
who was a major in the militia.

“Behind the age we live in!” remarked a justice
of the peace.

“And he deserves to run the gauntlet from Brooklyn
to Jamaica for violating the constitution!” responded
all the patriotick inmates of the bar-room.

“I say, mister! you're a fine specimen of a liberal
fellow,” said Jonathan, as his companion paid the
reckoning, resumed the ribands, and touched up the
leaders gayly. “You deserve encouragement, and
you shall have it. I promise it to you, my lad,”
continued he, as he slapped the “People's Line” on
the shoulder like an old and familiar friend, “and
that's enough. The Flying Dutchman, forsooth!
why, he's a hundred years at least behind the grand
march of improvement, and, as he will never be
able to overtake it, I shall henceforward look upon
him as a mere abstract circumstance, unworthy of
the least regard or notice.”

Jonathan weighed every word of the last sentence
before he pronounced it, for he was, upon the whole,
rather a cute chap, and had no notion of letting his
friendship for the one party involve him in a law-suit
for a libel on the other.

The overjoyed proprietor thanked him heartily for
his good wishes, and for the expression of his contempt
for the old “Monopoly,” and the lumbering
vehicle thundered on toward Jamaica.

Arrived, at last, at the termination of the journey,

the driver unharnassed the horses, watered them,
and put them up for the night. When he turned to
take his own departure, however, he observed that
Jonathan, who, after all said and done, candour
compels us to acknowledge, had rather a hang-dog
sort of look, seemed fidgetty and discontented; that
he lingered about the stable, and followed him like
a shadow wherever he bent his steps.

“Do you stop in this town, or do you go further?”
asked the driver.

“I shall go further, when you settle the trifle you
owe me,” replied Jonathan, with a peculiar, knowing,
but serious expression.

“That I owe you?”

“Yes—is there not something between us?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Why, mister, what a short memory you've got
—you should study mnemonicks, to put you in mind
of your engagements.”

“What do you mean? There must be some
mistake!”

“Oh! but there's no mistake at all,” said Jonathan,
as he pulled a handbill from his pocket, unfolded
it with care, and smoothed it out upon the
table. It was the identical mammoth handbill with
the ponderous capitals.

“That's what I mean. Look there, Mr. People's
Line. There I have you, large as life—and no

mistake whatever. That's your note of hand—it's
a fair business transaction—and I will trouble you
for the twenty-five cents, in less than no time; so
shell it out, you 'tarnal crittur.”

“My christian friend, allow me to explain, if you
please. I confess that it's in the bill; but, bless
your simple soul, nobody ever thinks of asking me
for it.”

“Did you ever!” ejaculated Jonathan. “Now,
that's what I call cutting it a leetle too fat! but it's
nothing to me. I attend to nobody's affairs but my
own; and if other people are such ninnyhammers
as to forgive you the debt, that's no reason why I
should follow their bad example. Here are your
conditions, and I want the mopuses. A pretty piece

of business, truly, to endeavour to do your customers
out of their just and legal demands in this manner.
But I can't afford to lose the amount, and I won't!
—What! haven't I freely given you my patronage
—liberally bestowed upon you the pleasure of my
company, and, consequently, afforded you a triumph
over that narrow-contracted `Monopoly?' and now
you refuse to comply with your terms of travel, and
pay me my money, you ungrateful varmint, you!
Come, mister, it's no use putting words together in
this way. I'll expose you to `old Monopoly' and
everybody else, if you don't book-up like an honest
fellow; and I won't leave the town until I am
satisfied.”

“You won't?”

“No.”

“Are you serious?”

“Guess you'll find I am.”

“And you will have the money?”

“As sure as you stand there.”

“What, the twenty-five cents?”

“Every fraction of it.”

“And you won't go away without it?”

“Not if I stay here till doomsday: and you know
the consequence of detaining me against my will.”

“What is it?”

“I'll swinge you, you pyson sarpent, you!”

“You'll what?”

“I'll sue you for damages.”

“You will?”

“Yes; I'll law you to death, sooner than be defrauded
out of my property in this manner; so, down
with the dust, and no more grumbling about it.”

The bewildered and crest-fallen proprietor, perceiving
from Jonathan's tone and manner, that all
remonstrance would be in vain, and that he was
irrevocably fixed in his determination to extract
twenty-five cents from his already exhausted coffers,
at length slowly and reluctantly put into his hand
the bit of silver coin representing that amount of the
circulating medium.

Jonathan, we blush to say, took the money, and
what is more, he put it into his pocket; and, what
is moreover, he positively buttoned it up, as if to
“make assurance double sure,” and to guard it
against the possibility of escape.

“Mister,” said he, after he had gone coolly through
the ceremony, looking all the while as innocently as
a man who has just performed a virtuous action;
“mister, I say, you must not think that I set any
more value on the insignificant trifle you have paid
me, than any other gentleman: a twenty-five cent
piece, after all, is hardly worth disputing about—
it's only a quarter of a dollar—which any industrious
person may earn in half an hour, if he chooses—the
merest trifle in the world—a poor little scoundrel of a

coin, that I would not, under other circumstances,
touch with a pair of tongs—and which I would scorn
to take even now—if it were not for the principle of the
thing! To show you, however, that I entertain a high
respect for the “People's Line,” that I wish old cockalorum
to the devil, and that I do not harbour the
slightest ill-will toward you for so unjustifiably withholding
my legal demands, the next time I come this
way again, I will unquestionably give your stage the
preference—unless the “Flying Dutchman” holds out
greater inducements than you do, in which case, I
rather calculate, I shall feel myself in duty bound to
encourage him!”

Since the veritable circumstances here related,
the Jamaica rail-road has entirely superseded the
necessity of both the “Monopoly” and the “People's
Line” of stages, and their publick-spirited proprietors,
after making a prodigious noise in the world,
have retired under the shade of their laurels, deep
into the recesses of private life. There we shall
leave them, to enjoy whatever satisfaction may be
gathered from the proud consolation of having expended
every farthing they were worth in the world,
for the gratification of a publick that has long ago
forgotten they ever existed!