University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“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

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

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

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

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.[1]

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

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.”

“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 anti-rentism
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

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

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

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

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 anti-rentism,
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!”

“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

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 justice-dispensing
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.[2]

“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.”

“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.”

“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

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

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.