University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

King Richard II.

In one respect, there is a visible improvement in the goodly
town of Manhattan, and that is in its architecture. Of its
growth, there has never been any question, while many have
disputed its pretension to improvement. A vast expansion of
mediocrity, though useful and imposing, rarely satisfies either
the judgment or the taste; those who possess these qualities,
requiring a nearer approach to what is excellent, than can ever
be found beneath the term just mentioned.

A town which is built of red bricks, that are faced with white
marble, the whole garnished with green blinds, can never have
but one outward sign — that of tawdry vulgarity. But this
radical defect is slowly disappearing from the streets of Manhattan;
and those who build, are getting to understand that
architecture, like statuary, will not admit of strong contrasts in
colours. Horace Walpole tells us of a certain old Lord Pembroke,
who blackened the eyes of the gods and goddesses in the
celebrated gallery at Wilton, and prided himself on the achievement,
as if he had been another Phidias. There have been
thousands of those who have laboured in the spirit of this Earl

of Pembroke in the streets of all the American towns; but travelling,
hints, books and example, are slowly effecting a change;
and whole squares may now be seen in which the eye rests with
satisfaction on blinds, facings and bricks, all brought to the same
pleasing, sober, architectural tint. We regard this as the first
step, in advance, that has been made in the right direction, so
far as the outward aspect of the town is concerned, and look forward,
with hope, to the day when Manhattan shall have banished
its rag-fair finery altogether, and the place will become as remarkable
for the chaste simplicity of its streets, as they have hitherto
been for their marked want of taste.

With this great town, mottled as it is, in people as well as in
hues, with its native population collected from all parts of this
vast republic, and its European representatives amounting to
scores of thousands, we shall have much to do in the succeeding
pages. Our researches, however, will be bestowed more on
things moral than on things physical; and we shall endeavour
to carry the reader with us through scenes that, we regret to say,
are far more characteristic than novel.

In one of the cross streets that communicate with Broadway,
and below Canal, stands a dwelling that is obnoxious to all the
charges of bad taste to which there has already been allusion, as
well as to certain others that have not yet been named, at all.
A quarter of a century since, or within the first twenty years of
its own existence, the house in question would have been regarded
as decidedly patrician, though it is now lost amid the thousands
of similar abodes that have arisen since its own construction.
There it stands, with its red bricks periodically painted redder;
its marble facings, making a livery of red turned up with white;
its green blinds, its high stoop, its half-buried and low basement,
and all its neatness and comfort, notwithstanding its flagrant
architectural sins. Into this building we now propose to enter,
at the very early hour of eight in the morning.

The principal floor was divided, as usual, between a dining and
a drawing-room, with large communicating doors. This was the
stereotyped construction of all Manhattanese dwellings of any
pretension, a quarter of a century since; and that of Mr. Thomas
Dunscomb, the owner and occupant of the house in question,
had been built in rigid conformity with the fashion of its day.
'Squire Dunscomb, as this gentleman was termed in all the
adjacent country counties, where he was well known as a reliable
and sound legal adviser; Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, as he was
styled by various single ladies, who wondered he never married;
or Tom Dunscomb, as he was familiarly called by a herd of unyoked
youths, all of whom were turned of sixty, was a capital
fellow in each of his many characters. As a lawyer, he was as
near the top of the bar as a man can be, who never had any pretensions
to be an orator, and whose longest effort seldom exceeded
half an hour. Should the plan of placing eloquence in hobbles
reach our own bar, his habit of condensing, his trick of getting
multum in parvo, may yet bring him to the very summit; for
he will have an immense advantage over those who, resembling
a country buck at a town ball, need the whole field to cut their
flourishes in. As a man of the world, he was well-bred, though
a little cynical, very agreeable, most especially with the ladies,
and quite familiar with all the better habits of the best-toned
circles of the place. As a boon companion, Tom Dunscomb
was an immense favourite, being particularly warm-hearted, and
always ready for any extra eating or drinking. In addition to
these leading qualities, Dunscomb was known to be rich, having
inherited a very tolerable estate, as well as having added much
to his means, by a large and lucrative practice. If to these circumstances
we add that of a very prepossessing personal appearance,
in which age was very green, the reader has all that is
necessary for an introduction to one of our principal characters.

Though a bachelor, Mr. Dunscomb did not live alone. He

had a nephew and a niece in his family, the orphan children of a
sister who had now been dead many years. They bore the name
of Wilmeter, which, in the family parlance, was almost always
pronounced Wilmington. It was Jack Wilmington, and Sally
Wilmington, at school, at home, and with all their intimates;
though Mr. John Wilmeter and Miss Sarah Wilmeter were often
spoken of in their little out-door world; it being rather an affectation
of the times to prove, in this manner, that one retains
some knowledge of the spelling-book. We shall write the name
as it is written by the parties themselves, forewarning the reader
that if he desire to pronounce it by the same family standard,
he must take the unauthorized spelling as a guide. We own
ourselves to a strong predilection for old familiar sounds, as well
as old familiar faces

At half-past 8, A. M., of a fine morning, late in May, when
the roses were beginning to show their tints amid the verdure of
the leaves, in Mr. Dunscomb's yard, the three individuals just
mentioned were at the breakfast-table of what it is the fashion
of New York to term a dining-room. The windows were open,
and a soft and fragrant air filled the apartment. We have said
that Mr. Dunscomb was affluent, and he chose to enjoy his
means, not à la Manhattan, in idle competition with the nouveaux
riches, but in a more quiet and rational way. His father had
occupied lots, “running through,” as it is termed; building his
house on one street and his stables on the other; leaving himself
a space in the rear of the former, that was prodigious for a town
so squeezed into parallelograms of twenty-five feet by a hundred.
This open space was of the usual breadth, but it actually measured
a hundred and fifty feet in length, an area that would have
almost justified its being termed a “park,” in the nomenclature
of the town. This yard Sarah had caused to be well garnished
with shrubbery, and, for its dimensions, it was really a sort of
oasis, in that wilderness of bricks.

The family was not alone that morning. A certain Michael
Millington was a guest of Jack's, and seemingly quite at home
in the little circle. The business of eating and drinking was
pretty well through with, though each of the four cups had its
remains of tea or coffee, and Sarah sat stirring hers idly, while
her soft eyes were turned with interest on the countenances of the
two young men. The last had a sheet of writing-paper lying
between them, and their heads were close together, as both
studied that which was written on it in pencil. As for Mr. Dunscomb,
himself, he was fairly surrounded by documents of one
sort and another. Two or three of the morning papers, glanced
at but not read, lay opened on the floor; on each side of his plate
was a brief, or some lease or release; while a copy of the new
and much talked of code was in his hand. As we say in our
American English, Mr. Dunscomb was “emphatically” a common-law
lawyer; and, as our transatlantic brethren would remark
in their sometime cockney dialect, he was not at all “agreeable”
to this great innovation on `the perfection of human reason.'
He muttered occasionally as he read, and now and then he laid
down the book, and seemed to muse. All this, however, was
quite lost on Sarah, whose soft blue eyes still rested on the interested
countenances of the two young men. At length Jack
seized the paper, and wrote a line or two hurriedly, with his
pencil.

“There, Mike,” he said, in a tone of self-gratulation, “I
think that will do!”

“It has one merit of a good toast,” answered the friend, a
little doubtingly; “it is sententious.”

“As all toasts ought to be. If we are to have this dinner,
and the speeches, and all the usual publications afterwards, I
choose that we should appear with some little credit. Pray, sir,”
raising his eyes to his uncle, and his voice to correspond, “what
do you think of it, now?”

“Just as I always have, Jack. It will never do at all. Justice
would halt miserably under such a system of practice. Some
of the forms of pleadings are infernal, if pleadings they can be
called at all. I detest even the names they give their proceeding
— complaints and answers!”

“They are certainly not as formidable to the ear,” returned
Jack, a little saucily, “as rebutters and sur-rebutters. But I
was not thinking of the code, sir; I was asking your opinion of
my new toast.”

“Even a fee could not extract an opinion, unless I heard it
read.”

“Well, sir, here it is: `The constitution of the United States;
the palladium of our civil and religious liberties.' Now, I do
not think I can much better that, uncle Tom!”

“I'm very sorry to hear you say so, Jack.”

“Why so, sir? I'm sure it is good American sentiment;
and what is more, it has a flavour of the old English principles
that you so much admire, about it, too. Why do you dislike it,
sir?”

“For several reasons — it would be common-place, which a
toast should never be, were it true; but there happens not to be
a word of truth in your sentiment, sonorous as it may sound in
your ears.”

“Not true! Does not the constitution guaranty to the citizen
religious liberty?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“You amaze me, sir! Why, here, just listen to its language,
if you please.”

Hereupon Jack opened a book, and read the clause on which
he relied to confute one of the ablest constitutional lawyers and
clearest heads in America. Not that Mr. Dunscomb was what
is called an “expounder,” great or small; but he never made a
mistake on the subject in hand, and had often caused the best of

the “expounders” to retrace their steps. He was an original
thinker, but of the safest and most useful sort; one who distinguished
between the institutions of England and America, while
he submitted to the fair application of minor principles that are
so common to both. As for his nephew, he knew no more of the
great instrument he held in his hand, than he had gleaned from
ill-digested newspaper remarks, vapid speeches in Congress, and
the erroneous notions that float about the country, coming from
“nobody knows whom,” and leading literally to nothing. The
ignorance that prevails on such subjects is really astounding, when
one remembers the great number of battles that are annually
fought over this much-neglected compact.

“Ay, here is the clause—just please to hear it, sir,” continued
Jack.—“ `Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment
of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or
abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right
of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government
for a redress of grievances.' There, I think that will go
far towards justifying the whole toast, Mike.”

This was said a little triumphantly, and not a little confidently.
The only answer Mr. Dunscomb condescended to make, was an
expressive “Umph!” As for Michael Millington, he was a little
timid about expressing an opinion, and that for two reasons; he
had often experienced Mr. Dunscomb's superior wisdom, and he
knew that Sarah heard all that passed.

“I wish your uncle would lay aside that code for a minute,
Jack, and let us know what he thinks of our authorities,” said
Michael, in an under tone.

“Come, Uncle Tom,” cried the more hardy nephew — “come
out of your reserve, and face the constitution of your country.
Even Sarah can see that, for once, we are right, and that my
toast is of proof.”

“It is a very good proof-sheet, Jack, not only of your own

mind, but of half the minds in the country. Ranker nonsense
cannot be uttered, however, than to say that the Constitution of
the United States is the palladium of anything in which civil or
religious liberty is concerned.”

“You do not dispute the fidelity of my quotation, sir?”

“By no means. The clause you read is a very useless exhibition
of certain facts that existed just as distinctly before it was
framed, as they do to-day. Congress had no power to make an
established religion, or abridge the freedom of speech, or that of
the press, or the right of the people to petition, before that
amendment was introduced, and consequently the clause itself is
supererogatory. You take nothing by your motion, Jack.”

“I do not understand you, sir. To me, it seems that I have
the best of it.”

“Congress has no power but what has been conceded to it
directly, or by necessary connection. Now, there happens to be
nothing said about granting any such authority to Congress, and
consequently the prohibition is not necessary. But, admitting
that Congress did really possess the power to establish a religion
previously to the adoption of this amendment, the constitution
would not prove a palladium to religious liberty, unless it prohibited
everybody else from meddling with the opinions of the
citizen. Any state of this Union that pleases, may establish a
religion, and compel its citizens to support it.”

“Why, sir, our own state constitution has a provision similar
to this, to prevent it.”

“Very true; but our own state constitution can be altered in
this behalf, without asking permission of any one but our own
people. I think that even Sarah will understand that the
United States is no palladium of religious liberty, if it cannot
prevent a state from establishing Mohamedanism, as soon as a
few forms can be complied with.”

Sarah coloured, glanced timidly at Michael Millington, but

made no reply. She did not understand much of what she had
just heard, though rather an intelligent girl, but had hoped that
Jack and his friend were nearer right than was likely to turn out
to be the case. Jack, himself, being a young limb of the law,
comprehended what his uncle meant, and had the grace to colour,
too, at the manner in which he had manifested his ignorance of
the great national compact. With a view to relieve himself from
his dilemma, he cried, with a ready dexterity,—

“Well, since this won't do, I must try the jury. `The trial
by jury, the palladium of our liberties.' How do you like that,
sir?”

“Worse than the other, boy. God protect the country that
has no better shield against wrong, than that which a jury can
hold before it.”

Jack looked at Michale, and Michael looked at Jack; while
Sarah looked at both in turn.

“You surely will not deny, sir, that the trial by jury is one
of the most precious of the gifts received from our ancestors?”
said the first, a little categorically, Sarah brightening up at this
question, as if she fancied that her brother had now got on solid
ground.

“Your question cannot be answered in a breath, Jack,” returned
the uncle. “The trial by jury was undoubtedly a most
precious boon bestowed on a people among whom there existed
an hereditary ruling power, on the abuses of which it was often
a most salutary check.”

“Well, sir, is it not the same check here; assuring to the
citizens independent justice?”

“Who compose the ruling power in America, Jack?”

“The people, to be sure, sir.”

“And who the jurors?”

“The people, too, I suppose,” answered the nephew, hesitating
a little before he replied.

“Well, let us suppose a citizen has a conflict of rights with
the public, which is the government, who will compose the tribunal
that is to decide the question?”

“A jury, to be sure, sir. The trial by jury is guarantied by
the constitution, to us all.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Dunscomb, smiling, “much as are our religious
and political liberties. But according to your own admission,
this is very much like making one of the parties a judge in
his own case. A insists that he has a right to certain lands, for
instance, which the public claims for itself. In such a case, part
of the public compose the tribunal.”

“But is it not true, Mr. Dunscomb,” put in Millington,
“that the popular prejudice is usually against government, in all
cases with private citizens?”

Sarah's face looked brighter now than ever, for she felt sure
that Mike, as her brother familiarly called his friend, had asked
a most apposite question.

“Certainly; you are right as to particular sets of cases, but
wrong as to others. In a commercial town like this, the feeling
is against government in all cases connected with the collection
of the revenue, I admit; and you will see that the fact makes
against the trial by jury in another form, since a judge ought to
be strictly impartial; above all prejudice whatever.”

“But, uncle, a judge and a jury are surely very different
things,” cried Sarah, secretly impelled to come to Michael's
rescue, though she scarce knew anything of the merits of the
subject.

“Quite right, my dear,” the uncle answered, nodding his head
kindly, casting a glance at his niece that caused her to blush under
the consciousness of being fully understood in her motives,
if not in her remark. “Most profoundly right; a judge and a
juror ought to be very different things. What I most complain
of is the fact that the jurors are fast becoming judges. Nay, by

George, they are getting to be legislators, making the law as well
as interpreting it. How often does it happen, now-a-days, that
the court tell the jury that such is the law, and the jury comes
in with a verdict which tells the court that such is not the law?
This is an every-day occurrence, in the actual state of public
opinion.”

“But the court will order a new trial, if the verdict is against
law and evidence,” said Michael, determined that Sarah should
be sustained.

“Ay, and another jury will be quite likely to sustain the old
one. No—no—the trial by jury is no more a palladium of our
liberties, than the Constitution of the United States.”

“Who, or what is, then, sir?” demanded Jack.

“God! Yes, the Deity, in his Divine Providence; if anything
is to save us. It may not be his pleasure to let us perish,
for it would seem that some great plan for the advancement of
civilization is going on, and it may be a part of it to make us
important agents. All things regarded, I am much inclined to
believe such is the fact. But, did the result depend on us,
miserable instruments in the Almighty hands as we are, woeful
would be the end!”

“You do not look at things couleur de rose, Uncle Tom,”
Sarah smilingly observed.

“Because I am not a young lady of twenty, who is well satisfied
with herself and her advantages. There is but one character
for which I have a greater contempt than that of a senseless
grumbler, who regards all things à tort et à travers, and who
cries, there is nothing good in the world.”

“And what is the exception, sir?”

“The man who is puffed up with conceit, and fancies all
around him perfection, when so much of it is the reverse;
who ever shouts `liberty,' in the midst of the direst oppression.”

“But direst oppression is certainly no term to be applied to
anything in New York!”

“You think not? What would you say to a state of society
in which the law is available to one class of citizens only, in the
way of compulsion, and not at all, in the way of protection?”

“I do not understand you, sir; here, it is our boast that all
are protected, alike.”

“Ay, so far as boasting goes, we are beyond reproach. But
what are the facts? Here is a man that owes money. The law
is appealed to, to compel payment. Verdict is rendered, and
execution issued. The sheriff enters his house, and sells his
very furniture, to extort the amount of the debt from him.”

“That is his misfortune, sir. Such things must happen to all
debtors who cannot, or will not, pay.”

“If this were true, I should have nothing to say. Imagine
this very debtor to be also a creditor; to have debts due to him,
of many times the sums that he owes, but which the law will not
aid him in collecting. For him, the law is all oppression — no
protection.”

“But, surely, Uncle Tom, nothing of the sort exists here!”

“Surely, Miss Sarah Wilmeter, such things do exist here in
practice, whatever may be the theory on the subject; what is
more, they exist under the influence of facts that are directly connected
with the working of the institutions. My case is not supposititious,
at all, but real. Several landlords have quite recently
felt all the rigours of the law as debtors, when it was a dead letter
to them, in their character of creditors. This has actually happened,
and that more than once; and it might happen a hundred
times, were the landlords more in debt. In the latter case, it
would be an every-day occurrence.”

“What, sir,” exclaimed Michael Millington; “the law enforce,
when it will not protect?”

“That it does, young man, in many interests that I could

point out to you. But here is as flagrant a case of unmitigated
tyranny as can be cited against any country in Christendom. A
citizen is sold out of house and home, under process of law, for
debt; and when he asks for the use of the same process of law
to collect his undeniable dues, it is, in effect, denied him. And
this among the people who boast that their independence is
derived from a spirit that would not be taxed! A people who
are hourly shouting hosannas in honour of their justice!”

“It cannot be, Uncle Tom, that this is done, in terms,” cried
the astounded nephew.

“If, by terms, you mean professions of justice, and liberty,
and equal rights, they are fair enough; in all those particulars
we are irreproachable. As `professors' no people can talk more
volubly or nearer to the point — I allude only to facts.”

“But these facts may be explained — qualified — are not as
flagrant as they seem under your statement?”

“In what manner?”

“Why, sir, this is but a temporary evil, perhaps.”

“It has lasted, not days, nor weeks, nor months, but years.
What is more, it is an evil that has not occurred in a corner,
where it might be overlooked; but it exists within ten miles of
your capital, in plain sight of your legislators, and owes its impunity
solely to their profound deference to votes. In a word,
it is a part of the political system under which we live; and that
far more so than any disposition to tyranny that might happen to
manifest itself in an individual king.”

“Do not the tenants who refuse to pay, fancy that their landlords
have no right to their estates, and does not the whole difficulty
arise from misapprehension?” asked Michael, a little
timidly.

“What would that have to do with the service of process, if it
were true? When a sheriff's officer comes among these men,
they take his authority from him, and send him away empty.

Rights are to be determined only by the law, since they are
derived from the law; and he who meets the law at the threshold,
and denies it entrance, can never seriously pretend that he resists
because the other party has no claims. No, no, young gentleman—this
is all a fetch. The evil is of years' standing; it is of
the character of the direst oppression, and of oppression of the
worst sort, that of many oppressing a few; cases in which the
sufferer is cut off from sympathy, as you can see by the apathy
of the community, which is singing hosannas to its own perfection,
while this great wrong is committed under its very nose.
Had a landlord oppressed his tenants, their clamour would have
made itself heard throughout the land. The worst feature in
the case, is that which connects the whole thing so very obviously
with the ordinary working of the institutions. If it were merely
human covetousness struggling against the institutions, the last
might prove the strongest; but it is cupidity, of the basest and
most transparent nature, using the institutions themselves to
effect its purpose.”

“I am surprised that something was not done by the last convention
to meet the evil!” said Jack, who was much struck with
the enormity of the wrong, placed before his eyes in its simplest
form, as it had been by his direct-minded and clear-headed
kinsman.

“That is because you do not know what a convention has got
to be. Its object is to push principles into impracticable extremes,
under the silly pretension of progress, and not to abate
evils. I made a suggestion myself, to certain members of that
convention, which, in my poor judgment, would have effectually
cured this disease; but no member had the courage to propose it.
Doubtless, it would have been useless had it been otherwise.”

“It was worth the trial, if such were likely to be its result.
What was your plan, sir?”

“Simply to disfranchise any district in which the law could

not be enforced by means of combinations of its people. On
application to the highest court of the state, an order might be
granted that no polls should be held in one, or more, towns, or
counties, in which combinations existed of a force sufficient to
prevent the laws from being put in force. Nothing could be
more just than to say that men who will not obey the law shall
not have a voice in making it, and to me it really seems that
some such provision would be the best possible expedient to
check this growing evil. It would be choking the enemy with
his own food.”

“Why was it not done, sir?”

“Simply because our sages were speculating on votes, and not
on principles. They will talk to you like so many books touching
the vices of all foreign systems, but are ready to die in defence
of the perfection of their own.”

“Why was it necessary to make a new constitution, the other
day,” asked Sarah, innocently, “if the old one was so very
excellent?”

“Sure enough — the answer might puzzle wiser heads than
yours, child. Perfection requires a great deal of tinkering, in
this country. We scarcely adopt one plan that shall secure
everybody's rights and liberties, than another is broached, to
secure some newly-discovered rights and liberties. With the
dire example before them, of the manner in which the elective
franchise is abused, in this anti-rent movement, the sages of the
land have just given to the mass the election of judges; as beautiful
a scheme for making the bench coalesce with the jury-box,
as human ingenuity could invent!”

As all present knew that Mr. Dunscomb was bitterly opposed
to the new constitution, no one was surprised at this last assertion.
It did create wonder, however, in the minds of all three
of the ingenuous young persons, when the fact — an undeniable
and most crushing one it is, too, so far as any high pretension to

true liberty is concerned — was plainly laid before them, that
citizens were to be found in New York against whom the law
was rigidly enforced, while it was powerless in their behalf.
We have never known this aspect of the case presented to any
mind, that it did not evidently produce a deep impression, for
the moment; but, alas! “What is everybody's business is nobody's
business,” and few care for the violation of a principle,
when the wrong does not affect themselves. These young folk
were, like all around them, unconscious even that they dwelt in
a community in which so atrocious a wrong was daily done, and,
for the moment, were startled when the truth was placed before
their eyes. The young men, near friends, and, by certain signs,
likely to be even more closely united, were much addicted to
speculating on the course of events, as they conceived them to
be tending, in other countries. Michael Millington, in particular,
was a good deal of a general politician, having delivered
several orations, in which he had laid some stress on the greater
happiness of the people of this much favoured land, over those
of all other countries, and especially on the subject of equal
rights. He was too young, yet, to have learned the wholesome
truth, that equality of rights, in practice, exists nowhere; the
ingenuity and selfishness of man finding the means to pervert to
narrow purposes, the most cautious laws that have ever been
adopted in furtherance of a principle that would seem to be so
just. Nor did he know that the Bible contains all the wisdom
and justice, transmitted as divine precepts, that are necessary
to secure to every man all that it is desirable to possess here
below.

The conversation was terminated by the entrance of a fourth
colloquist, in the person of Edward MeBrain, M. D., who was
not only the family physician, but the bosom friend of the
lawyer. The two liked each other on the principle of loving
their opposites. One was a bachelor, the other was about to

marry his third wife; one was a little of a cynic, the other much
of a philanthropist; one distrustful of human nature, the other
too confiding; one cautious to excess, the other absolutely impetuous,
whenever anything strongly interested his feelings.
They were alike in being Manhattanese by birth, somewhat a
novelty in a New Yorker; in being equally graduates of Columbia,
and classmates; in a real love of their fellow-creatures;
in goodness of heart, and in integrity. Had either been wanting
in these last great essentials, the other could not have
endured him.