University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

A pause succeeded this little opening, during which the
assembly was waiting for the arrival of Ursula Malbone,
and that semi-savage guardian that “set” so much by her,
as not to leave her out of sight for a moment. All that
time Thousandacres was ruminating on his own plans;
while old Andries was probably reflecting on the singular
circumstance that “wonters shoult pe so wonterful!” At
length a little bustle and movement occurred near the door,
the crowd collected in it opened, and Dus walked into the
centre of the room, her colour heightened by excitement,
but her step firm, and her air full of spirit. At first, the
blazing light affected her sight, and she passed a hand over
her eyes. Then looking around I met her gaze, and was
rewarded for all my anxiety by one of those glances, into
which affection knows how to infuse so much that is meaning
and eloquent. I was thus favoured for a moment only;
those eyes still turning until they met the fond answering
look of Chainbearer. The old man had arisen, and he now
received his niece in his arms as a parent would embrace a
beloved child.

That outpouring of feeling lasted but a little while. It
had been unpremeditated and impulsive, and was almost as
suddenly suppressed. It gave me, however, the happiness
of witnessing one of the most pleasant sights that man can
behold; that of youth, and beauty, and delicacy, and female

tenderness, pouring out their feelings on the bosom of age—
on the ruder qualities of one, hardened in person by the
exposures of a life passed in the forest. To me the contrast
between the fair, golden hair of Dus, and the few straggling,
bleached locks of her uncle; the downy, peach-like cheek
of the girl, and the red, wrinkled, and sun-dried countenance
of Chainbearer, was perfectly delightful. It said how deep
must lie those sympathies of our nature, which could bring
together so closely two so differently constituted in all things,
and set at defiance the apparent tendencies of taste and
habit.

Dus suffered herself to be thus carried away by her feelings
for only a moment. Accustomed in a degree, as she
certainly was, to the rough associations of the woods, this
was the first time she had ever been confronted with such
an assembly, and I could see that she drew back into herself
with womanly reserve, as she now gazed around her,
and saw in what a wild and unwonted presence she stood.
Still, I had never seen her look so supremely lovely as she
did that evening, for she threw Pris. Bayard and Kate, with
all their advantages of dress, and freedom from exposure,
far into the shade. Perhaps the life of Ursula Malbone had
given to her beauty the very completeness and fulness, that
are most apt to be wanting to the young American girl, who
has been educated in the over-tender and delicate manner
of our ordinary parental indulgence. Of air and exercise
she had already enjoyed enough, and they had imparted to
her bloom and person, the richness and development that are
oftener found in the subordinate than in the superior classes
of the country.

As for Thousandacres, though he watched every movement
of Ursula Malbone with jealous interest, he said nothing
to interrupt the current of her feelings. As soon as
she left her uncle's arms, however, Dus drew back and took
the rude seat that I had placed for her close at Chainbearer's
side. I was paid for this little act of attention, by a sweet
smile from its subject, and a lowering look from the old
squatter, that admonished me of the necessity of being
cautious of manifesting too much of the interest I felt in the
beloved object before me. As is usual in assemblages composed
of the rude and unpractised, a long, awkward pause

succeeded this introduction of Dus to our presence. After
a time, however, Aaron resumed the subject in hand.

“We 've met to settle all our difficulties, as I was sayin',”
observed Thousandacres, in a manner as deliberative and
considerate as if he were engaged in one of the most blameless
pursuits of life, the outward appearances of virtue and
vice possessing a surprising resemblance to each other —
“When men get together on sich a purpose, and in a right
spirit, it must be that there 's a fault somewhere, if what 's
right can't be come at atween 'em. What 's right atwixt
man and man is my creed, Chainbearer.”

“What 's right petween man ant man is a goot creet,
T'ousantacres; ant it 's a goot religion, too,” answered Andries,
coldly.

“That it is! — that it is! and I now see that you 're in a
reasonable temper, Chainbearer, and that there 's a prospect
of business in you. I despise a man that 's so set in his
notions that there 's no gettin' him to give in an inch in a
transaction—don't you hold to that too, captain Andries?”

“T'at tepents on what t'e notions pe. Some notions do
nopoty any goot, ant t'e sooner we 're rit of 'em t'e petter;
while some notions pe so fery excellent t'at a man hat pest
lay town his life as lay t'em town.”

This answer puzzled Thousandacres, who had no idea of
a man's ever dying for opinion's sake; and who was probably
anxious, just at that moment, to find his companion
sufficiently indifferent to principle, to make some sacrifices
to expediency. It was quite evident this man was disposed
to practise a ruse on this occasion, that is often resorted to
by individuals, and sometimes by States, when disposed to
gain a great advantage out of a very small right; that of
demanding much more than they expect to receive, and of
making a great merit of yielding points that they never had
the smallest claim to maintain. But, this disposition of the
squatter's will make itself sufficiently apparent as we proceed.

“I don't see any use in talkin' about layin' down lives,”
Thousandacres returned to Chainbearer's remark, “seein'
this is not a life and death transaction at all. The most that
can be made of squattin', give the law its full swing, is trespass
and damages, and them an't matters to frighten a man

that has stood out ag'in 'em all his days. We 're pretty
much sich crittur's as sarcumstances make us. There be
men, I don't question, that a body can skear half out of
their wits with a writ, while a whull flock of sheep, skins
and wool united, wunt intimidate them that 's use to sich
things. I go on the principle of doin' what 's right, let the
law say what it will of the matter; and this is the principle
on which I wish to settle our present difficulty.”

“Name your tarms — name your tarms!” cried Chainbearer,
a little impatiently; “talkin' ist talkin', all t'e worlt
ofer, ant actin' ist actin'. If you haf anyt'ing to propose,
here we are reaty ant willin' to hear it.”

“That 's hearty, and just my way of thinkin' and feelin',
and I 'll act up to it, though it was the gospel of St. Paul
himself, and I was set on followin' it. Here, then, is the
case, and any man can understand it. There 's two rights
to all the land on 'arth, and the whull world over. One of
these rights is what I call a king's right, or that which depends
on writin's, and laws, and sich like contrivances; and
the other depends on possession. It stands to reason, that
fact is better than any writin' about it can be; but I 'm
willin' to put 'em on a footin' for the time bein', and for the
sake of accommodatin'. I go all for accommodatin' matters,
and not for stirrin' up ill blood; and that I tell Chainbearer,
b'ys, is the right spirit to presarve harmony and fri'ndship!”

This appeal was rewarded by a murmur of general approbation
in all that part of the audience which might be
supposed to be in the squatter interest, while the part that
might be called adverse, remained silent, though strictly attentive,
old Andries included.

“Yes, that 's my principles” — resumed Thousandacres,
taking a hearty draught of cider, a liquor of which he had
provided an ample allowance, passing the mug civilly to
Chainbearer, as soon as he had had his swallow — “Yes,
that 's my principles, and good principles they be, for them
that likes peace and harmony, as all must allow. Now, in
this matter afore us, general Littlepage and his partner
ripresents writin's, and I and mine ripresent fact. I don't
say which is the best, for I don't want to be hard on any
man's rights, and 'specially when the accommodatin' spirit
is up and doin'; but I 'm fact, and the gin'ral's pretty much

writin's. But, difficulties has sprung up atwixt us, and it 's
high time to put 'em down. I look upon you, Chainbearer,
as the fri'nd of the t'other owners of this sile, and I'm now
ready to make proposals, or to hear them, just as it may
prove convenient.”

“I haf no proposals to make, nor any aut'ority to offer
t'em. I 'm nut'in here, put a chainpearer, wit' a contract
to survey t'e patent into small lots, ant t'en my tuty ist tone.
Put, here ist General Littlepage's only son, ant he ist empoweret,
I unterstant, to do all t'at ist necessary on t'is
tract, as t'e attorney—”

“He is and he isn't an attorney!” interrupted Thousandacres,
a little fiercely for one in whom `the accommodatin'
spirit was up.' At one moment he says he 's an attorney,
and at the next he isn't. I can't stand this onsartainty any
very great while.”

“Pooh, pooh! T'ousantacres,” returned Chainbearer,
coolly, “you 're frightenet at your own shatow; ant t'at
comes, let me telt you, from not lifing in `peace ant harmony,'
as you call it, youself, wit' t'e law. A man hast a
conscience, whet'er he pe a skinner or a cow-boy, or efen a
squatter; ant he hast it, pecause Got hast gifen it to him,
ant not on account of any sarfices of his own. T'at conscience
it is, t'at makes my young frient Mortaunt, here, an
attorney in your eyes, when he ist no more of a lawyer t'an
you pe yourself.”

“Why has he called himself an attorney, then, and why
do you call him one. An attorney is an attorney, in my
eyes, and little difference is there atween 'em. Rattlesnakes
would fare better in a clearin' of Thousandacres', than the
smartest attorney in the land!”

“Well, well, haf your own feelin's; for I s'pose Satan
has put 'em into you, ant talkin' won't pring t'em out. T'is
young gentleman, however, ist no attorney of t'e sort you
mean, olt squatter, put he hast peen a soltier, like myself,
ant in my own regiment, which wast his fat'ers, ant a prave
young man he ist ant wast, ant one t'at hast fou't gallantly
for liperty—”

“If he 's a fri'nd of liberty, he should be a fri'nd of
liberty's people; should give liberty and take liberty.
Now, I call it liberty to let every man have as much land

as he has need on, and no more, keepin' the rest for them
that 's in the same sitiation. If he and his father be true
fri'nds of liberty, let 'em prove it like men, by giving up all
claims to any more land than they want. That 's what I
call liberty! Let every man have as much land as he 's
need on; that 's my religion, and it 's liberty, too.”[1]

“Why are you so moterate, T'ousantacres? why are you
so unreasonaply moterate? Why not say t'at efery man
hast a right to eferyt'ing he hast need of, ant so make him
comfortaple at once! T'ere is no wistom in toin' t'ings by
hafs, ant it ist always petter to surfey all t'e lant you want,
while t'e compass is set ant t'e chains pe goin'. It 's just as
much liperty to haf a right to share in a man's tollars, as to
share in his lants.”

“I don't go as far as that, Chainbearer,” put in Thousandacres,
with a degree of moderation that ought to put the
enemies of his principles to the blush. “Money is what a
man 'arns himself, and he has a right to it, and so I say let
him keep it; but land is necessary, and every man has a
right to as much as he has need on—I wouldn't give him an
acre more, on no account at all.”

“Put money wilt puy lant; ant, in sharin' t'e tollars, you
share t'e means of puyin' as much lant as a man hast neet

of; t'en t'ere ist a great teal more lant ast money in t'is
country, ant, in gifin' a man lant, you only gif him t'at
which ist so cheap ant common, t'at he must pe a poor tefil
if he can't get all t'e lant he wants wit'out much trouple and
any squattin', if you wilt only gif him ever so little money.
No, no, T'ousantacres — you 're fery wrong; you shoult
pegin to tivite wit' t'e tollars, ant t'at wilt not tisturp society,
as tollars are in t'e pocket, ant go ant come efery day;
whereast lant is a fixture, ant some people lofe t'eir own
hills, ant rocks, ant trees—when t'ey haf peen long in a
family most especially.”

There was a dark scowl gathering on the brow of Thousandacres,
partly because he felt himself puzzled by the
upright and straight-forward common sense of Chainbearer,
and partly for a reason that he himself made manifest in the
answer that he quite promptly gave to my old friend's
remarks.

“No man need say anything ag'in squattin' that wants
to keep fri'nds with me,” Thousandacres put in, with certain
twitchings about the muscles of the mouth, that were
so many signs of his being in earnest. “I hold to liberty
and a man's rights, and that is no reason I should be deflected
on. My notions be other men's notions, I know,
though they be called squatters' notions. Congressmen
have held 'em, and will hold 'em ag'in, if they expect much
support, in some parts of the country, at election time. I
dare say the day will come, when governors will be found
to hold 'em.[2] Governors be but men a'ter all, and must
hold doctrines that satisfy men's wants, or they won't be
governors long. But all this is nuthin' but talk, and I want
to come to suthin' like business, Chainbearer. Here 's this
clearin', and here 's the lumber. Now, I 'm willin' to settle
on some sich tarms as these: I 'll keep the lumber, carryin'
it off as soon as the water gets to be high enough, agreein'
to pay for the privilege by not fellin' another tree, though I
must have the right to saw up sich logs as be cut and hauled
already; and then, as to the land and clearin', if the writin'
owners want 'em, they can have 'em by payin' for the betterments,
leavin' the price out to men in this neighbourhood,

sin' city-bred folks can't know nothin' of the toil and labour
of choppin', and loggin', and ashin', and gettin' in, and croppin'
new lands.”

“Mortaunt, t'at proposal ist for you. I haf nut'in' to do
wit' t'e clearin' put to surfey it; and t'at much will I perform,
when I get as far ast t'e place, come t'ere goot, or
come t'ere efil of it.”

“Survey this clearin'!” put in Tobit, with his raven
throat, and certainly in a somewhat menacing tone. “No,
no, Chainbearer—the man is not out in the woods, that
could ever get his chain across this clearin'.”

“T'at man, I tell you, is Andries Coejemans, commonly
called Chainpearer,” answered my old friend, calmly. “No
clearin', ant no squatter, ever stoppet him yet, nor do I
t'ink he will pe stoppet here, from performin' his tuty. Put
praggin' is a pat quality, ant we 'll leaf time to show t'e
trut'.”

Thousandacres gave a loud hem, and looked very dark,
though he said nothing until time had been given to his
blood to resume its customary current. Then he pursued
the discourse as follows—evidently bent on keeping on good
terms with Chainbearer as long as possible.

“On the whull,” he said, “I rather think, Tobit, 't will
be best if you leave this matter altogether to me. Years
cool the blood, and allow time to reason to spread. Years
be as necessary to judgment as a top to a fruit-tree. I kind
o' b'lieve that Chainbearer and I, being both elderly and
considerate men, will be apt to get along best together. I
dare say, Chainbearer, that if the surveyin' of this clearin'
be put to you on the footin' of defiance, that your back
would get up, like any body else's, and you 'd bring on the
chain, let who might stand in your way. But, that's neither
here nor there. You 're welcome to chain out just as much
of this part of the patent as you see fit, and 't will help us
along so much the better when we come to the trade. Reason
's reason; and I 'm of an accommodatin' spirit.”

“So much t'e petter, T'ousantacres; yes, so much t'e
petter,” answered old Andries, somewhat mollified by the
conciliatory temper in which the squatter now delivered himself.
“When work ist to pe performet, it must be performet;
ant, as I'm hiret to surfey and chain t'e whole

estate, t'e whole estate must pe chainet ant surfeyet. Well,
what else haf you to say?

“I 'm not answered as to my first offer. I 'll take the
lumber, agreein' not to cut another tree, and the valie of the
betterments can be left out to men.”

“I am the proper person to answer this proposal,” I
thought it now right to say, lest Andries and Thousandacres
should get to loggerheads again on some minor and immaterial
point, and thus endanger every hope of keeping the
peace until Malbone could arrive. “At the same time, I
consider it no more than right to tell you, at once, that I
have no power that goes so far as to authorize me to agree
to your terms. Both colonel Follock and my father have a
stern sense of justice, and neither, in my opinion, will feel
much of a disposition to yield to any conditions that, in the
least, may have the appearance of compromising any of
their rights as landlords. I have heard them both say that,
in these particulars, `yielding an inch would be giving an
ell,' and I confess that, from all I have seen lately of settlers
and settlements, I 'm very much of the same way of thinking.
My principals may concede something, but they 'll
never treat on a subject of which all the right is on their
own side.”

“Am I to understand you, young man, that you 're on-accommodatin',
and that my offers isn't to be listened to, in
the spirit in which they 're made?” demanded Thousandacres,
somewhat drily.

“You are to understand me as meaning exactly what I
say, sir. In the first place, I have no authority to accept
your offers, and shall not assume any, let the consequences
to myself be what they may. Indeed, any promises made
in duresse are good for nothing.”

“Anan!” cried the squatter. “This is Mooseridge
Patent, and Washington, late Charlotte County—and this
is the place we are to sign and seal in, if writin's pass
atween us.”

“By promises made in duresse, I mean promises made
while the party making them is in confinement, or not
absolutely free to make them, or not; such promises are
good for nothing in law, even though all the `writings' that
could be drawn passed between the parties.'

“This is strange doctrine, and says but little for your
boasted law, then! At one time, it asks for writin's, and
nothin' but writin's will answer; and, then, all the writin's
on 'arth be of no account! Yet some folks complain, and
have hard feelin's, if a man wunt live altogether up to
law!”

“I rather think, Thousandacres, you overlook the objects
of the law, in its naked regulations. Law is to enforce the
right, and were it to follow naked rules, without regard to
principles, it might become the instrument of effecting the
very mischiefs it is designed to counteract.”

I might have spared myself the trouble of uttering this
fine speech; which caused the old squatter to stare at me in
wonder, and produced a smile among the young men, and a
titter among the females. I observed, however, that the
anxious face of Lowiny expressed admiration, rather than
the feeling that was so prevalent among the sisterhood.

“There 's no use in talkin' to this young spark, Chainbearer,”
Thousandacres said, a little impatiently in the way
of manner, too; “he 's passed his days in the open country,
and has got open-country ways, and notions, and talk;
and them 's things I don't pretend to understand. You 're
woods, mainly; he 's open country; and I 'm clearin'.
There 's a difference atween each; but woods and clearin'
come clussest; and so I 'll say my say to you. Be you,
now, r'ally disposed to accommodate, or not, old Andries?”

“Anyt'ing t'at ist right, ant just, ant reasonaple, T'ousantacres;
ant nut'in' t'at ist not.”

“That 's just my way of thinkin'! If the law, now,
would do as much as that for a man, the attorneys would
soon starve. Wa-a-l, we 'll try now to come to tarms, as soon
as possible. You 're a single man, I know, Chainbearer;
but I 've always supposed 't was on account of no dislike to
the married state; but because you didn't chance to light on
the right gal; or maybe on account of the surveyin' principle,
which keeps a man pretty much movin' about from
tract to tract; though not much more than squattin' doos,
neither, if the matter was inquired into.”

I understood the object of this sudden change from feesimples,
and possessions, and the `accommodatin' spirit,' to
matrimony; but Chainbearer did not. He only looked his

surprise; while, as to myself, if I looked at all as I felt, I
must have been the picture of uneasiness. The beloved,
unconscious Dus, sat there in her maiden beauty, interested
and anxious in her mind, beyond all question, but totally
ignorant of the terrible blow that was meditated against
herself. As Andries looked his desire to hear more, instead
of answering the strange remark he had just heard, Thousandacres
proceeded—

“It 's quite nat'ral to think of matrimony afore so many
young folks, isn't it, Chainbearer?” added the squatter,
chuckling at his own conceits. “Here 's lots of b'ys and
gals about me; and I 'm just as accommodatin' in findin'
husbands or wives for my fri'nds and neighbours, as I am
in settlin' all other difficulties. Anything for peace and a
good neighbourhood is my religion!”

Old Andries passed a hand over his eyes, in the way one
is apt to do when he wishes to aid a mental effort by external
application. It was evident he was puzzled to find out
what the squatter would be at, though he soon put a question
that brought about something like an explanation.

“I ton't unterstant you, T'ousantacres;—no, I ton't understant
you. Is it your tesire to gif me one of your puxom
ant fine-lookin' gals, here, for a wife?”

The squatter laughed heartily at this notion, the young
men joining in the mirth; while the constant titter that the
females had kept up ever since the subject of matrimony
was introduced, was greatly augmented in zest. An indifferent
spectator would have supposed that the utmost good
feeling prevailed among us.

“With all my heart, Chainbearer, if you can persuade
any of the gals to have you!” cried Thousandacres, with
the most apparent acquiescence. “With such a son-in-law,
I don't know but I should take to the chain, a'ter all, and
measure out my clearin's as well as the grandee farmers,
who take pride in knowin' where their lines be. There 's
Lowiny, she 's got no spark, and might suit you well enough,
if she 'd only think so.”

“Lowiny don't think any sich thing; and isn't likely to
think any sich thing,” answered the girl, in a quick, irritated
manner.

“Wa-a-l, I do s'pose, a'ter all, Chainbearer,” Thousandacres

resumed, “we 'll get no weddin' out of you. Threescore
and ten is somewhat late for takin' a first wife; though
I 've known widowers marry ag'in when hard on upon
ninety. When a man has taken one wife in 'arly life, he
has a kind o' right to another in old age.”

“Yes—yes—or a hundred either,” put in Prudence, with
spirit. “Give 'em a chance only, and they 'll find wives
as long as they can find breath to ask women to have 'em!
Gals, you may make up your minds to that—no man will
mourn long for any on you, a'ter you 're once dead and
buried.”

I should think this little sally must have been somewhat
common, as neither the “b'ys” nor the “gals” appeared to
give it much attention. These matrimonial insinuations
occur frequently in the world, and Prudence was not the
first woman, by a million, who had ventured to make them.

“I will own I was not so much thinkin' of providin' a
wife for you, Chainbearer, as I was thinkin' of providin' one
for a son of mine,” continued Thousandacres. “Here 's
Zephaniah, now, is as active and hard-workin', upright, honest
and obedient a young man as can be found in this
country. He 's of suitable age, and begins to think of a
wife. I tell him to marry, by all means, for it 's the blessedest
condition of life, is the married state, that man ever
entered into. You wouldn't think it, perhaps, on lookin' at
old Prudence, there, and beholdin' what she now is; but I
speak from exper'ence in recommendin' matrimony; and I
wouldn't, on no account, say what I didn't really think in
the matter. A little matrimony might settle all our difficulties,
Chainbearer.”

“You surely do not expect me to marry your son Zepaniah,
I must s'pose, T'ousantacres!” answered Andries, innocently.

The laugh, this time, was neither as loud nor as general
as before, intense expectation rendering the auditors grave.

“No, no; “I 'll excuse you from that, of a sartainty, old
Andries; though you may have Lowiny, if you can only
prevail on the gal. But, speakin' of Zephaniah, I can r'ally
ricommend the young man; a thing I 'd never do if he didn't
desarve it, though he is my son. No one can say that I 'm
in the habit of ever ricommendin' my own things, even to

the boards. The lumber of Thousandacres is as well known
in all the markets below, they tell me, as the flour of any
miller in the highest credit. It 's just so with the b'ys, better
lads is not to be met with; and I can ricommend Zephaniah
with just as much confidence as I could ricommend
any lot of boards I ever rafted.”

“And what haf I to do wit' all t'is?” asked Chainbearer,
gravely.

“Why, the matter is here, Chainbearer, if you 'll only
look a little into it. There 's difficulty atween us, and pretty
serious difficulty, too. In me the accommodatin' spirit is
up, as I 've said afore, and am willin' to say ag'in. Now,
I 've my son Zeph, here, as I 've said, and he 's lookin'
about for a wife; and you 've a niece here—Dus Malbone,
I s'pose is her name—and they'd just suit each other. It
seems they 're acquainted somewhat, and have kept company
some time already, and that 'll make things smooth.
Now, what I offer is just this, and no more; not a bit of it.
I offer to send off for a magistrate, and I 'll do 't at my own
expense; it shan't cost you a farthin'; and, as soon as the
magistrate comes, we 'll have the young folks married on
the spot, and that will make etarnal peace for ever, as you
must suppose, atween you and me. Wa-a-l, peace made
atween us, 'twill leave but little to accommodate with the
writin' owners of the sile, seein' that you 're on tarms with
'em all, that a body may set you down all as one as bein' of
the same family, like. If gin'ral Littlepage makes a p'int of
any thing of the sort, I 'll engage no one of my family, in
all futur' time, shall ever squat on any lands he may happen
to lay claim to, whether he owns 'em or not.”

I saw quite plainly that, at first, Chainbearer did not fully
comprehend the nature of the squatter's proposal. Neither
did Dus, herself; though somewhat prepared for such a
thing by her knowledge of Zephaniah's extravagant wishes
on the subject. But, when Thousandacres spoke plainly of
sending for a magistrate, and of having the “young folks
married on the spot,” it was not easy to mistake his meaning,
and astonishment was soon succeeded by offended pride,
in the breast of old Andries, and that to a degree and in a
manner I had never before witnessed in him. Perhaps I
ought, in justice to my excellent friend, to add, that his high

principles and keen sense of right, were quite as much
wounded by the strange proposal as his personal feelings.
It was some time before he could or would speak; when he
did, it was with a dignity and severity of manner which I
really had no idea he could assume. The thought of Ursula
Malbone's being sacrificed to such a being as Zephaniah,
and such a family as the squatter's, shocked all his sensibilities,
and appeared, for a moment, to overcome him. On the
other hand, nothing was plainer than that the breed of Thousandacres
saw no such violation of the proprieties in their
scheme. The vulgar, almost invariably, in this country,
reduce the standard of distinction to mere money; and, in
this respect they saw, or fancied they saw, that Dus was
not much better off than they were themselves. All those
points which depended on taste, refinement, education, habits
and principles, were Hebrew to them; and, quite as a matter
of course, they took no account of qualities they could
neither see nor comprehend. It is not surprising, therefore,
that they could imagine the young squatter might make a
suitable husband to one who was known to have carried
chain in the forest.

“I pelieve I do pegin to unterstant you, T'ousantacres,”
said the Chainbearer, rising from his chair, and moving to
the side of his niece, as if instinctively to protect her;
“t'ough it ist not a fery easy t'ing to comprehent such a
proposal. You wish Ursula Malpone to pecome t'e wife of
Zephaniah T'ousantacres, ant t'ereupon you wish to patch
up a peace wit' General Littlepage and Colonel Follock, ant
optain an intemnity for all t'e wrong ant roppery you haf
done 'em—”

“Harkee, old Chainbearer; you 'd best be kearful of
your language—”

“Hear what t'at language ist to pe, pefore you interrupt
me, T'ousantacres. A wise man listens pefore he answers.
Alt'ough I haf nefer peen marriet, myself, I know what ist
tecent in pehaviour, ant, t'erefore, I wilt t'ank you for t'e
wish of pein' connectet wit' t'e Coejemans ant t'e Malpones.
T'at tuty tone, I wish to say t'at my niece wilt not haf your
poy—”

“You haven't given the gal a chance to speak for herself,”
cried Thousandacres, at the top of his voice, for he

began to be agitated now with a fury that found a little vent
in that manner. “You haven't given the gal a chance to
answer for herself, old Andries. Zeph is a lad that she
may go farther and fare worse, afore she 'll meet his equal,
I can tell you, though perhaps, bein' the b'y's own father, I
shouldn't say it—but, in the way of accommodatin', I 'm
willin' to overlook a great deal.”

“Zephaniah 's an excellent son,” put in Prudence, in the
pride and feeling of a mother, nature having its triumph in
her breast as well as in that of the most cultivated woman
of the land. “Of all my sons, Zephaniah is the best; and
I account him fit to marry with any who don't live in the
open country, and with many that do.”

“Praise your goots, ant extol your poy, if you see fit,”
answered Chainbearer, with a calmness that I knew bespoke
some desperate resolution. “Praise your goots, ant extol
your poy; I 'll not teny your right to do as much of t'at as
you wish; put t'is gal wast left me py an only sister on her
tyin' pet, ant may Got forget me, when I forget the tuty I
owe to her. She shalt nefer marry a son of T'ousantacres
—she shalt nefer marry a squatter—she shalt nefer marry
any man t'at ist not of a class, ant feelin's, ant hapits, ant
opinions, fit to pe t'e huspant of a laty!”

A shout of derision, in which was blended the fierce
resentment of mortified pride, arose among that rude crew,
but the thundering voice of Thousandacres made itself
audible, even amid the hellish din.

“Beware, Chainbearer; beware how you aggravate us;
natur' cant and won't bear every thing.”

“I want nut'in' of you, or yours, T'ousantacres,” calmly
returned the old man, passing his arm around the waist of
Dus, who clung to him, with a cheek that was flushed to
fire, but an eye that was not accustomed to quail, and who
seemed, at that fearful moment, every way ready and able
to second her uncle's efforts. “You 're nut'in' to me, ant
I 'll leaf you here, in your misteets ant wicket t'oughts.
Stant asite, I orter you. Do not tare to stop t'e brot'er who
is apout to safe his sister's da'ghter from pecomin' a squatter's
wife. Stant asite, for I 'll stay wit' you no longer.
An hour or two hence, miseraple Aaron, you 'll see t'e
folly of all t'is, ant wish you hat livet an honest man.”

By this time the clamour of voices became so loud and
confused, as to render it impossible to distinguish what was
said. Thousandacres actually roared like a maddened bull,
and he was soon hoarse with uttering his menaces and maledictions.
Tobit said less, but was probably more dangerous.
All the young men seemed violently agitated, and bent on
closing the door on the exit of the Chainbearer; who, with
his arm around Dus, still slowly advanced, waving the
crowd aside, and commanding them to make way for him,
with a steadiness and dignity that I began to think would
really prevail. In the midst of this scene of confusion, a
rifle suddenly flashed; the report was simultaneous, and old
Andries Coejemans fell.