CHAPTER XVII.
Ike Turtle in his Office.—The Author consults him on Point of Law.—Taxes of Non-Residents.—Law in Puddleford.—Mr. Bridget's Case.—Legal Discussion.—The Case settled.
We very often get an idea of a community by fathoming its leading men. We stick our stakes at that point, and reason, by comparison, downward; not that prominent individuals make the community, any more than the community makes them; but both act and react upon each other, until a standard is formed—and that standard is just high enough for the occasion—the necessities of the present. Water never rises above its level.
You have, respected reader, already seen much—perhaps too much—of Ike Turtle. You must recollect, however, as I have before declared, that he was an embodiment of the spirit of his time. He was the presiding genius of Puddleford, and had been as much moulded by it as he had moulded Puddleford.
Turtle, as we have seen, was a host in law—that is, he was a host in Puddleford law. He was just as useful and mighty in his sphere as Webster ever was in his. It must in candor be admitted that there was a difference in spheres; but that in no way affects the principle—and principle is what we are contending for.
I have thus far exhibited to you Turtle under excitement, as an advocate in the case of Filkins vs. Beadle, defending his country against what he called an "abolition lecter," struggling in the cause of education; but we cannot always probe a great man to the bottom, and disinter the latent jewels of mind, unless we know and observe him unruffled by passion, and unswayed by feeling. The line and lead must be cast into still waters to sound the depths of the ocean.
I had occasion to consult Turtle on a point of law. The question was, whether a certain woman who claimed dower in my land could probably show a state of facts that would legally entitle her to recover.
Mr. Turtle's office was in one of the upper rooms of a tumble-down tailor's shop in the village. Outside his sign swung to and fro: "I. Turtle, 'Torney in all Courts." Inside, it was garnished with three chairs without backs, a pine table, whittled into pieces by the loungers, a number of loose papers lying in an old flour-barrel, an ink-bottle with a yellow string around its nose, a copy of the statutes, a stub of a pen, volume two of Blackstone, and no law-book beside, all of which were enveloped in dirt and cobwebs. Mr. Turtle himself, when I entered, sat in one chair, his two feet stretched wide apart, each in another, like the two extremities of a letter A; and Ike himself was very philosophically smoking a pipe, and blowing the whiffs out of the window.
"Is this Mr. Turtle's office?" inquired I.
"I should rayther think it was," answered Ike, drawing out his pipe, and pointing to a chair.
"I have a little business," said I.
"Most people do have," said he. "I'm chuck full on't myself."
"Suppose," said I, "a man dies, and leaves a widow, and that widow should claim—"
"Hold on, right there!" exclaimed Ike, laying down his pipe. "Hold on, old fellow; this s'posin' don't do in this 'ere office. I never gives opinions on fancy cases. Time's little too precious. I want the raal facts on the matter, jest as they happened; and, besides, Mr. ——, fust thing I know I shall give an opinion right butt agin one of my clients—(I have reg'lar clients, you see, that I've got ter stand up for, if it busts me),—and this wheelin' round and taking a back track spiles one's reputation, and tears his conscience, awful to behold!"
"Well," I continued, "as I was goin' to say—"
"No, sir-ee! you ain't goin' to say. Who died? who's the widow? Them are the startin' pints in a new country."
"But," continued I, "that will not affect the principle."
"Won't it, though?" answered Ike. "What are principles to folks in a new country? What are residents to non-residents? Why, you take a resident widow, a little good-lookin', and she can hold all the land she claims agin a non-resident. Juries have feelin's, and are human like other people."
"O, I see!" said I.
"Jest so," said he.
"Well, then," I continued, "the widow is a resident of Puddleford, and so am I; and the widow claims a life interest in one third of my land."
Ike pondered, and rubbed his head, and looked for a long time steadily at the toes of his boots. At last a thought struck him.
"Has she any children?" inquired he.
"She has."
"Young?"
"Twelve and fourteen."
"Bad age for you," said Ike; "worse than two positive witnesses swearin' straight inter yer favor."
"But what have children to do with a principle of law?" I exclaimed, somewhat animated.
"You're green," exclaimed Ike; "you'll sprout if you get catched in a shower. What has law got ter do with a widder and two children out here? Don't you know the widder and the two children will be put right straight to the jury, and that they'll swamp you and your case, and all the la' you can bring agin 'em?"
"Very likely," said I; "but is Puddleford law all made for widows, babies, and residents?" inquired I.
"You see," continued Ike; "you hain't lived long here. A new country is a kind of self-sustainin' machine. We've all got-ter go in for ourselves. When folks take the brunt of settlin' wild land, somebody's got-ter and ought-ter suffer. Non-residents have ter pay all taxes. They have to pay onto the value, and onto our takin' care of their lands. We can't afford to scare off the animals and bring their property into market for nothin'. Why, old Sykes, who lives away down to the east'ard, pays half the taxes of Puddleford, and don't own more than four sections of land. The 'sessors kind-er look at the spirit of the law when they lay taxes, and the spirit of our tax-law stretches 'cordin' to circumstances. India-rubber ain't nothin' to it. Jest so in la' matters. The la' is favorable to Puddlefordians; our courts lean that way—it's kind-er second nater to 'em—a kind-er law of self-preservation—primary law of natur', you know—a duty; and therefore I was particular to know who the person was who claimed your land."
"Mine's a case," said I, after Ike concluded his digression, "of Puddleford against Puddleford."
"Puddleford against itself, both residents—a woman and two children against a man?"
"That's the case," said I.
"Well!" said Ike.
"The widow claims a life interest, and yet she signed the deed with her husband."
"Did sign it?" inquired Ike again. "What is she growlin' about, then?"
"She claims she was deranged."
"And didn't know nothin', ha?"
"And she says she can prove it."
"That is, Sile Bates can for her, I s'pose."
Squire Longbow dropped in at this point of the conversation. Ike arose, walked several times swiftly across the floor, turning each time with a jerk, and finally wheeling up in front of me, said his fee for opinions was one dollar.
The fee was paid.
"Now," exclaimed Ike, pushing his fee in his vest pocket, "who's the woman?"
"Old Mrs. Bridget," said I.
"There are just half a dozen defences," exclaimed Ike; "and each one will blow the case sky-high. Nobody can't set up insanity in a new country, because there ain't nothin' here to make anybody insane; and if there was, our judges and juries think a leetle too much of themselves, thick as the bushes are, to 'low a Puddlefordian to prove herself a fool in open court. There is a pride that won't permit it. Yes, sir!" Here Ike slapped the table hard by way of emphasis. "Ain't that la', Squire Longbow?" continued Ike, turning round to the Squire, who was almost magnetized by intense thought.
The Squire gave two or three ahems to clear his throat, and his voice seemed a long time on its way. "That," said the Squire, "is just what the 'mortal Story said; he never would permit a man to make a fool of himself; he went agin all such kind-er things. The 'mortal Story said, if a man don't know nothin', he oughten-ter say nothin', or do nothin'. He very specially said it warn't a safe rule to let crazy folks rip up things, 'cause how do we know, or anybody know, but they are jist as crazy when they rip 'em up, and then they'll have to be ripped over agin; that's the 'thority, sir—page—let me see—but no matter 'bout pages—"
"And, secondly," continued Ike, breaking into the Squire, "it's a rule of law that everybody's stopped by their deed; and if the woman knowed enough to sign and seal it, that 'ere seal is an everlasting and eternal bar to provin' anything agin it. That'll stop a crazy woman; that's laid down in all the books since King Richard got possession of England, and the staterts are full on it, too."
The Squire said "that looked reasonable. How do we know that Andrew Jackson warn't crazy when he signed off the patents for Puddleford. That's an open question yet. And if it warn't for the broad seal—if it warn't for that 'ere spread eagle—some whig President (and the whigs allers did say 'Old Hickory' was crazy) would set it all aside, and throw all the land titles into hotch-potch, kick me out-er house and home, and ruin all Puddleford!"
"Certainly," said I.
"And agin," said Ike, "the woman warn't crazy; I can prove that."
"That will do," said I. "How?"
"When was the deed executed?"
I stated.
"That's jest the time," said Ike, "that old covy, her brother-in-law, used her as a witness to recover his farm."
The Squire said that "the woman was under oath then, and she might tell the truth, if she was a little shattered."
"Th-u-n-der!" exclaimed Ike.
"Witnesses are sworn to tell the truth," said the Squire.
The Squire was evidently getting quizzical. Mr. Turtle begged "he would not interrupt him agin. The case was one of great importance, and it required a power of thought and research to look inter it.
"And now," continued Ike, "there are three more p'ints of la' in your case. You've got the fee of this 'ere land—that is, you've got a deed, and got inter possession; that makes a fee. And as to that, the deed don't matter so much; possession out here is jest as good. I never see a sheriff who could get a man off. 'Tain't pop'lar—won't pay—it costs votes—men don't vote for officers who push 'em; possession is more'n nine p'ints of the la' in Puddleford; it's ninety-nine—it's 'most as good as a patent."
"But that would be a resistance of process, if the widow succeeded," said I.
"There won't be nothin' to resist," answered Ike. "You'll never feel the process; it will always be defective—there'll be a flaw in it somewhere. Settlers on the sile must be protected."
"That," chimed in the Squire, "is la'. That was settled in the constitution. There was blood shed for that."
"But there ain't no use," continued Ike, "in goin' into particulars, and puttin' down every p'int of la'. I can scatter a thousand such cases to the four winds—have done it—can do it agin. Give me Kent and the staterts, and I'll cut my way to daylight in no time."
If there is any one who believes that such an opinion was not given for one dollar, or that hundreds have not been given in the very far West just as absurd, let them inquire further of those persons who have experienced a frontier life. Yet, Mr. Turtle lives and flourishes, gains reputation, and will die as much respected and lamented as any one.