University of Virginia Library

LETTER I.

Dear Aunt:—I s'pose you begin to think by this
time it's a good while since I writ to you; but the
truth is, any body might as well try to write a letter
in a hornet's nest as to try to write one in New
York any time for a month before the first of May,
especially if they live in a hired house and expect
to have to move when May-day comes round; and
that I take it is the case with jest about one half
the New Yorkers about every year. It's an awful
custom, and where it come from I can't find out;
but it has used me up worse than building forty
rods of stone wall, or chopping down ten acres of
trees. I haint had my clothes off for a week, and
I haint had a quiet night's rest for a month; and
the way my bones have ached would be enough to
make a horse cry his eyes out.

I couldn't write anything to-day but about house-hunting
and moving if I should try. Jest to give
you a little insight into the common run of this ere
business, I'll lay down some of the outlines of it
before I undertake to tell you how we got through
the scrape outselves. There's two sorts of folks in

this city; and it's such an everlastin' great concern
you may well suppose ther's about as many as
you could shake a stick at of both sorts. One sort
is them that lets houses, and t'other sort is them
that hires. They call 'em here, landlords and tenants.
And the way they use each other up isn't
slow, I can tell you. They have a regular war
every year. The manuvering and twisting, and
crowding, and quarrelling, begins to come on in
February, and it grows hotter and hotter till the
first day of May, when they have the great regular
pitched battle. And then sich a rumpus, and sich
a route I don't think the world ever see any where
else. The children of Israel, that we read about
in the Bible, going out of Egypt with their flocks
and their little ones, wasn't no touch to it. The
landlords generally lead, because they have the
most money to carry on the war; but that don't
discourage the tenants so but that they renew the
fight again the next year as hard as ever. The
tussle is all about the price of rents; the landlords
want to get 'em up higher, and the tenants want to
get 'em down lower; and when so many thousand
of 'em on both sides fairly come to the scratch,
they make hot work of it.

The landlords have a way here sich as I don't
think they have any where else in the world, of letting
their houses for just exactly one year from the
first day of May, twelve o'clock at noon. And
they make the tenants hire the houses in February
for the next year. And if they don't hire 'em then,
and agree to pay what the landlord asks, he puts a
handbill on to the house, saying “this house to let,”
and the first day of May, at twelve o'clock, if the
tenant isn't out, an officer goes and puts him into
the street neck and heels, with his wife and children,
and all his housen-stuff, whether they have any
place to put their heads in or not—that is, if the

tenant has paid up his rent; if he hasn't, the landlord
nabs the housen-stuff and sells it at vandue.

They build all sich great costly houses here, that
nobody but smart folks that's got plenty of money
can live in a whole house to themselves; so common
sort of folks have to take parts of houses.
We've been living most of the time since we've
been here, in the third story of one of 'Squire
Sharp's houses. 'Squire Sharp is a little black-eyed,
slender, peaked-nosed man, that looks as
though he might crawl through a square of seven
by nine glass, if the glass was fairly out, and not
squeeze him neither. Now most of the great rich
folks, that own so many houses here, are large, fat,
red-faced men, that ride about in their carriages
most of the time, and when they walk look as
though they'd step right over common folks' heads.
They get most of their rents, because their tenants
are so awful 'fraid of 'em, that they about as lieves
die as not to pay 'em. But it aint so with 'Squire
Sharp. Somehow, nobody don't seem to be afraid
of him, and yet he don't loose hardly any of his
rents. He's the keenest hand to make a bargain
that ever I see, and he gets his rents by looking after
'em; he fairly dogs it out of his tenants; and
if any of 'em happen to give him the slip, he's as
keen as a bloodhound to scent 'em out, and he'll
follow 'em day and night till he gets it. He's as
thin as a bed-post, and always looks as holler as if
he hadn't eat any thing for a week. But he's a rich
man for all that. He owns the whole block where
we've been living, seven or eight great three story
brick houses, besides ever so many more round the
city.

We had two rooms and two bedrooms, as I said
afore, in the third story. Cousin Nabby and the
two youngest children slept in one bedroom, and
Jacky and Ichabod in t'other bedroom, and wife

and I in one of the large rooms. T'other room we
had to cook and eat in. I paid eighty dollars a
year rent. When I went to hire it, I wasn't dressed
very slick, and 'Squire Sharp looked at me as
much as five minutes, and eyed me from top to toe
before he give me any answer. At last, says he,

“Who's your security?”

Says I, “I never asked any body to be bondsman
for me yet in my life, and I shan't begin to-day,
I guess.”

So I turned round and was going to clear out.
But says he,

“Stop, Mister! I don't know as it will make
much odds; for I always let them third stories
payable weekly in advance; and you can have it
in that way for eighty dollars a year.”

As I couldn't do any better jest then, I concluded
to take it; so we moved in. Every Monday morning
for three weeks the 'Squire come round as
regular as clock-work, and took his week's advance.
But about the middle of the fourth week, which was
the second or third day of February, he come in
and says he,

“Major Downing, I've come to see if you are going
to engage this tenement for the next year?”

“Well, 'Squire,” says I, “I guess I can tell you
that better when this year is out. And besides,
'Squire, you know I don't hire your house by the
year; I hire it by the week.”

“It isn't so,” says he; “you hire it by the year,
and pay by the week.”

“But how can I hire by the year,” says I, “when
you told me, at the time I hired it, that you couldn't
engage it only till the first of May?”

“Why,” says he, “all our rent years begin the
first of May, and I let it to you for the balance of
the year. Now, if you are a mind to engage it for
a year from the first of May, payable weekly in

advance, you can have it; and I'll draw up the
writings and have 'em fixed to-day.”

“But, 'Squire,” says I, “now, how onreasonable
that is! Only jest think of it: Here it is three months
before the first of May, and who knows but what
we may all be dead before that time? And besides
I may have some business to do somewhere else by
that time, and shan't want to live here any longer.
No, no, 'Squire; let these three months run out, and
then, if I want to stay here, and we can agree, I'll
hire it again.”

At that the 'Squire colored up a little, and says
he, “Major Downing, I can't do any sich thing. If
you want the house next year, you must engage it
now, and sign the papers; if not, I shall put a bill
on the house, `to let.' I can't break over any of
our rules.”

“Well,” says I, “'Squire, I never was drove yet
by any man in my life, and I guess I shan't be to-day.
You may do as you like; but as for hiring a
house before I know whether I shall want it or not,
I shan't do no sich thing.”

At that the 'Squire cleared out and went off. The
next morning I heard a little hammering on the side
of the house, and I looked out, and there was the
'Squire, nailing up a bill, with large letters on it,
“THIS HOUSE TO LET.” And I looked along, and I
see there was jest sich a bill on every house in the
block. Thinks I, what's to pay now? I guess some
terrible overturn has happened to the 'Squire or his
tenants, to break 'em all up in a heap so. I felt
kind of uneasy about it; so, after breakfast, I took
my hat, and went out, and walked a mile or two
about the city. And I soon found that whatever
the trouble might be between the 'Squire and his
tenants, the same trouble had spread all over the
city; for in every street I went through, it seemed
to me one half the houses had bills on 'em, to let.

Well, thinks I, I'm glad I didn't engage that house
of 'Squire Sharp, for there's sich an everlastin'
sight of houses to let now, it's a wonder to me if I
don't find one pretty cheap. So I went home, and
told Polly all New York was to let, and I guessed
we should find a house next year cheap enough.

I hadn't hardly got sot down after I come in, before
I heard a knock at the door; and says I “come
in.” And in come a great, stout, fat, squaddy woman,
and says she, “I see this tenement in the third
story, is to let, and I jest want the privilege of looking
at it a little to see if I can make it do for my
family.”

“Certainly, marm,” says I, for I always pride myself
in bein perlite to the ladies. “Polly, jest show
the lady the rooms.” So Polly went round to show
her the house.

“Which is the parlor?” said the fat lady.

“This is the fore-room,” said Polly; “but we
use it to sleep in as we are rather scant of room.”

“Oh, marcy,” said the fat lady; “how can anybody
think of living without a parlor? It must be
dreadful vulgar. Well, which is the kitchen?”

So Polly showed her the kitchen, though she was
jest cooking dinner, and the dinner things was all
round jest as it happened. I see Polly felt a little
uneasy about it, and colored up when she asked to
go into the kitchen, for you know, Aunt, that Polly,
though I say it myself, was always as neat as waxwork,
and never could bear to have anybody look
into the kitchen unless everything was put up as
neat as a pin. Howsomever, she opened the door,
and the fat lady marched in.

“Oh, marcy on us,” said she, “this'll never do for
my family at all. There's no convenience about it;
only one little stived up closet. Oh, it'll never do
for me at all; how can you get along with it?”

Polly told her it wasn't so handy as some kitchens,
but we made out to do with it very well.

“Well” said she, “let me see the sleeping rooms.”

So Polly opened the bed-room doors; and the
fat lady lifted up her hands and declared she would
as soon sleep in a pig's pen and done with it, as to
go into sich little mean stived up places as them.
Then she went back again into the kitchen, and
looked into the closet, and examined the dishes of
bread and butter, and cold meat that was left the
day before, and said it was a shame for landlords
to build sich ill-contrived houses. Then she took
a chair and sot down, for she had talked so much
she began to grow a little wheezy. At last she
declared she wouldn't live in the house if they would
give it to her. I begun to get a little riled, and told
her I guessed she better not think of hiring it then,
for I was pretty sure she would find it an awful
tiresome business to go up and down three pair of
stairs. At that she got up and went out, and slammed
the door tu pretty hard after her, and never
said boo to one of us.

Well, this was only just the beginning of trouble,
for arter that there was a steady stream of folks
coming in to look at the house for about two
months, commonly as much as five or six a day and
sometimes more; and you may guess a little from
the account of the fat lady what sort of a time we
had of it. At last, about the first of April, I looked
out one day and I see Squire 'Sharp come and take
down the bill of third story to let. And though I
knew then I should have to move, whether or no,
I felt glad the bill was down, because it would stop
that everlasting stream of folks coming in and botherin
of us so every day. Polly began to grow uneasy
now, because we hadn't got no house, and
said I ought to go a house hunting jest as every body
else did, or else we should be turned out of doors
bime by. So I told her I'd go at it next day, and
make a business of it, and follow it up till I got a

house. Accordingly the next day I went at it, and
I found it a pesky sight worse job than I expected.
The bills wasn't near so thick as they was two or
three weeks before; but still I thought they was so
plenty, there would be no trouble in finding a house.
I went round the upper part of the city, because
folks said rents was a good deal cheaper up there
than down in town. At last I found part of a house
that I thought looked as if it would do nicely; and
looked at the bill and it said inquire sich a number
in Wall street. Well, I started off to Wall street,
and after walking about two miles and a half I got
there and found the place, and come to inquire the
rent, it was two hundred and fifty dollars. I couldn't
afford to give more than eighty or a hundred dollars
rent, so back I went to take another hunt. At
last I found one that looked as though it might be
a good deal cheaper, and I looked at the bill, and
that said inquire at another number in Wall street.
So I posted down again and found the place and
inquired the rent. It was a hundred and fifty dollars.
I was studying the matter over to see if it
would do for me to think of giving so much, when
the man asked me how much family I had. I told
him there was myself and wife and cousin Nabby
and six children. At that, says he, “We never let
it to children;” and he shot the door and went in.
So there I found I was up a tree again. I had got
so tired by this time, and it had got to be towards
night, that I thought I would give it up for a bad
days work, and go home. When I got home I
found Polly almost tired to death, for she had felt
so uneasy for fear we should be turned out of doors
bime by, that she had been out most all day house-hunting
too. But she hadn't made out any better
than I did. I told Polly she better stay at home
and take care of the children, and not worry herself
about it, and I'd foller the business up till I got
a house at some rate or other. So the next morning
I started again, and I trampoosed the city from
one end to 'tother, lengthways, and crossways, and
cornerways; but I didn't make out any better than
I did the day before. In the morning I would find
a bill on a house that looked as if it might do, and
come to read it, it would say, to be seen only from
two to five in the afternoon; and in the afternoon I
would find a bill that would say, to be seen only
from ten to twelve in the morning. And then again
I would see a house that looked about right, and I
would step up to the door and ask if I might look at
it, and they would say, that they had so much
trampling over the house they couldn't have any
more of it, and shet the door and go in. Wherever
I went I see the streets was full of folks house-hunting,
and half the time when I went to look at a bill,
there would be so many others bobbing up onto
the steps before me that I would have to wait most
half an hour before I could get a chance to read
it. And when I did get up to it, as likely as
not it would say, “This house to let to a small, genteel
family, without children;” so there I would be
dished again. Once I stood on the steps, reading a
bill, and there was a great, fat, greasy-faced woman
stood right afore me, facing it, reading it tu.
She was a cross, sour-looking thing, and looked as
if she had lived on hog's fat all her life—and I think
it is pretty likely she had, for the city is full of hogs.
You would see more hogs here, in walking the
streets for half an hour, than you would see in
Downinville for a whole year. Well, as I stood
opposite that old grease spot, reading the bill, there
come up sich a crowd behind me to read the bill
tu, that they knocked my head right into her bonnet.
By the gracious if my ears didn't ring again!
She slapped her great square hand against the side of
my head so hard, it almost knocked me off the steps.

“You saucy, good for nothing brute,” says she,
and her eyes were starting out of her head as big
as an ox's eyes when he's drawing a heavy load—
“haint you no more manners?” says she, “set out
to kiss me so, right here in the street tu, and afore
all these folks?”

I told her upon my word and honor it was no
sich thing. 'Twas the folks behind me that pushed
me, and I hadn't the least thought in the world of
kissing her. At that I thought she looked crosser
than she did afore, and I jumped off the steps and
got away as fast as I could. I went home that
night pretty well tired out, and most discouraged
about finding a house. But I see Polly grew more
uneasy; so I started again next morning, and kept
it up right and tight every day for pretty near a
fortnight, till I got the bottoms of my shoes all wore
off. Then I stopped one day and got 'em tapped
and rested upon 't, and then I went at it again. At
last, in the course of my travels, I found three
houses that I thought might do, if I couldn't do any
better. But the rents was a little too high. They
asked me $90 to $100 a-piece for 'em. I thought
they hadn't ought to be more than $80. And folks
told me that them that didn't let their houses till
about the first of May would have to put their rents
down. So I concluded to watch these 'ere three
houses, and hold on till the last day of April. One
was way over towards the North River, pretty
well up town, on a cross street leading out of Greenwich
street. Two rooms and two bedrooms, on
the second floor. The next was away over 'tother
way, beyond the Bowery, towards the East River,
and pretty well up towards the Dry Dock. One
room in the basement, three in the third story, and
one in the attic, if wanted. But the basement was
awful wet. 'Tother one was away up the Third
avenue, not far from the Alms House. It took me

about half the day, every day for a fortnight, to go
round to these three houses and see that the bills
were still on. For I thought as long as I could have
my choice of the three I was safe. Well, when it
come to be the last day of April, I thought it was
time to bring matters to a close. So in the course
of the forenoon I walked away up to the Third avenue;
that house being a little the cheapest rent I
thought on the whole, bein times was very dull, I
better take that. They asked ninety-five dollars,
but would take ninety for a good tenant. I walked
along, thinking I'd try 'em pretty hard for eighty
dollars; and if I couldn't get it for that, I'd offer
'em eighty-five; and if they wouldn't let it for that,
I'd take it for ninety.

At last I came in sight of the house, and looked,
but I couldn't see no bill on it. I went up and asked
if the house was let, and they said yes, it was let
about an hour ago. I turned about and quickened
my steps, and walked away down towards the East
River house, and thought I'd take it right off, if I
had to give as much as ninety-five dollars for it.
Or even I didn't know as I should stick at a hundred.
When I got in sight of that house, the bill
was off of that too. This made me feel a little
streaked, and the sweat started out on my forehead
pretty fast. I stepped up and asked them if the
house was let. They said yes, it was let that
morning, and they could a let two or three more
jest like it if they'd had 'em. I begun to be afraid
now I'd got into rather a bad box. I didn't dare
to go home and tell Polly how things looked; and
as it was now but little arter noon, I thought I'd run
round two or three streets, and see if I couldn't
hunt up some houses. So I pulled foot, and hunted
and sweat, till I got so tired I couldn't but jest
stand. There was a good many bills up, but somehow
I couldn't find any that would seem to do.

They was all too high rent, or they wouldn't take
children, or something or other was in the way. I
felt pretty bad. So I thought I'd go home and tell
Polly the worst on't, and go up and see if the Greenwich
house was gone too. When I come to tell
her about it, she showed a little dander.

“Now, Jack,” says she, “if you have delayed so
long that we've lost the chance of getting a house,
and have to be turned out of doors to-morrow, I
shall lay it all to you, every bit of it. I must say
you might a known better.”

Now Polly doesn't hardly ever give me a hard
word, and come to have this from her, poured right
on top of the trouble I was in about a house, made
me feel bad, aunt Keziah, I can tell you. But I told
Polly, frettin wouldn't help the matter a bit, and if
she'd give me a mouthful of bread and butter, I'd
go and try once more. At that she come tu a little,
and sot on some bread and butter, and then we
started off together. We went all round over the
place they call Greenwich village, though if I was
to die I couldn't tell it from the city; but we didn't
find a single house or part of a house that would
seem to do, till we got up to a cross street, where
the house was that I'd picked out afore. As soon
as we turned round the corner, and come in sight
of that are house, I looked and the bill was on. If
I'd a had a half a ton weight took off my shoulders
I couldn't a felt lighter than I did that minit. It
was about sunset, and the last day of April. The
old folks that owned the house, and lived in the
lower part of it, were standing out on the steps and
looking very wistfully, first up the street and then
down the street, and I knew by their looks they felt
as if it was their last chance, for if they didn't let it
that night, may be they wouldn't let it for the whole
year. I give Polly's arm a jerk, and whispered to
her, and says I, “Now do you keep still as a mouse

and not appear as though we wanted a house much,
and I'll get that house for lower rent yet.”

We walked along up in a careless kind of a way,
as if we wasn't looking for any thing. Then we
stopped a little and looked up to the house, and
says I,

“Mister, you've got to let your house lay over
this year, haven't you?”

“Well,” says he, “I don't know; the man that
talked of taking it hasn't come yet; but he may be
here this evening.”

“Well, Mister,” says I, “what'll you take for
them rooms in the second story?”

“Aint you suited yet?” says he, eyeing us very
sharp, and stepping down off the steps.

“Not exactly,” says I. “If I could get your
house low enough, I don't know but I might take
it.”

“Well,” says he, “I've calculated to get a hundred
dollars for it; but bein it's getting late I'll let
it go for ninety.”

I told him I couldn't give that, but if he'd a mind
to let it go for seventy I'd take it. He said he
couldn't think of that; though he didn't know, for
a good tenant and good security, he might say
eighty, to a quiet family without children.

At that, Polly couldn't help putting in a word in
spite of all I'd said to her; and says she,

“I should like to know how the New Yorkers
expects folks to get along in this world without
children.”

“Ah, then you have children,” said the old gentleman,
changing his manner in a moment. “Well,
there's a great difference in children. Some families
keep 'em very quiet, while in others they are
desput troublesome. I dare say you keep yourn in
good order.”

“Well,” says I, “I must be agoin; I can't think

of paying eighty dollars.” And I began to edge
along a little.

“Mister,” says he, “if you take the house, what
kind of security will you give me?”

“Oh,” says I, “I'll pay the rent every week in
advance, if you want it. But I can't give eighty
dollars.”

“Well,” says he, “you may have it for seventy-five,
and that's the lowest.”

“I'll take it,” says I, “and here's a silver dollar
to bind the bargain till I move in.”

At that the old man took down the bill, and Polly
and I turned to go home to get ready for the great
battle the next day.

And now, Dear Aunt Keziah, I've got to break
right off short, for the printer says I've spun my
yarn out so long he can't wait for any more. But
I'll try to give you an account of the moving in my
next letter. Give my love to Uncle Joshua, and I
remain your loving nephew,