University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The history of the Jew in all ages—whether a
wanderer beneath the burning sun of the tropics, or
performing his pilgrimage in the ice-fettered regions
of the north, is associated with images of melancholy
interest.

Under the despotic governments of the old world,
his political and personal rights have ever been the
football of tyranny and cupidity; and here, where
in the letter and spirit of the constitution he enjoys
those privileges which are dispensed with an equal
hand to all,—yet bowing beneath the weight of that
anathema, which has gone forth against his race,
and still reverberates through the earth with fearful
distinctness, the lofty spirit that of old swept as with
an eagle's wing the realms of literature and science,
and with prophetic gaze pierced the arcana of futurity;
is now powerless to effect total emancipation

from the dominion of national and individual prejudice.
For ourselves we deem the lonely descendant
of God's chosen people not unworthy the sympathy
and admiration of the Christian and the philanthropist.

Self-isolated from the multitude that surrounds
him—he remains “deaf to the voice of the Christian
charmer, charm he never so wisely”—and constant
to his faith amid the mutations of centuries, he presents
an image of stern and melaneholy grandeur
—towering in its pride of place, unshaken by the
moral convulsions beneath whose mighty throes
the less stable monuments of human will are overthrown.

Well are we aware that the holy zeal which sustained
his ancestors in the wilderness, has long been
quenched—that the genius which poured forth the
language of inspiration now wastes its energies upon
the details of petty traffick,—that the sublime
conceptions of an Isaiah and a Jeremiah no longer
glow in the bosoms of their successors. Still over
all the halo of former glory sheds its undying lustre,
and around the brow of the most insignificant scion
of the once noble race, yet lingers the shadow of that
beauty whose perfections were concentrated in the
features of the Redeemer.

It was about noon of the day last alluded to, that
an elderly member of the tribe of Judah was sitting
with pen in hand, at a low, worm-eaten oaken desk,
in a small apartment on the third floor of an antiquated

store house, in a portion of the city near
Wall street—and of course contiguous to that Rialto
of New York known as the “Exchange,” where
as of old in Venice the “merchants most do congreate.”

A slight wooden railing—on which the accumulated
dust of years was suffered to repose in undisturbed
quietude—divided the room, serving as a barrier
against the intrusion of impertinent curiosity,
when the occupant was engaged in inspecting his
books and papers—and a rusty lock, the key of
which was ever turned on such occasions, closed the
narrow gate which alone formed the point of ingress
to the sanctum sanctorum of Isaac Samuel.

If the eye wandered around this office or counting
room, it would fail to discover aught but two or three
pine stools, a massive iron chest, and the desk at
which the Jew was seated—while the dingy cobwebs
that entirely veiled the cornice, and hung in
festoons upon the ceiling and along the walls, were
the only drapery that relieved the barren nakedness
of the apartment.

The individual now introduced was a spare, attenuated
being, who had nearly numbered three
score years, and as—on the entrance of a visitor
who was recognized as Edward de Lyle—he arose
from his sitting position, and turned toward the door,
he presented a striking illustration of the fearful inroads
that iron hearted avarice makes upon the
frame and spirit of its worshippers. The dark and

intelligent but anxious and sunken eye—the dilapidated
frame-work of features, which in their fulness
were marked by beauty and regularity,—the forehead
thickly furrowed with wrinkles, ploughed by
the operation of intense thought and care—the form
bowed with the weight of accumulated years and
anxieties—the tremulous nerves prematurely shattered
by continual apprehension of pecuniary loss—
were evidences strong as proofs of holy writ, that the
inordinate pursuit of gain was forever to prey upon
his spirit like the horse leech at the vein “which
crieth give—give, but never saith, it is enough.”

His dress was composed of a brown frock whose
outré cut and threadbare seams attested its antiquity,
a pair of pantaloons of the same color and equally
venerable for their years—a vest which tradition
affirmed to have been originally silk velvet, but
which time and hard service had despoiled of its
downy surface—a pair of broken lace boots, and a
hat whose nap and color had long since been consigned
to the “tomb of the Capulets.”

As he arose, his thin gray hairs straggling over
his furrowed cheek, his long wasted fingers clasping
a bundle of folded papers, and the tremulous helplessness
of his manner, would have designated him
to a stranger as an object on which wealth might
worthily bestow a portion of its abundance, rather
than the envied possessor of millions in the funds.

If, however, such would have been the impression,
first conveyed on viewing this singular personage, a

few moments observation on the present occasion
would have completely dispelled the illusion. No
sooner had he recognized by the aid of his spectacles
the person of his visitor, than the contrast between
him and De Lyle—whose pride not unfrequently
bordered on insolence in the presence of his inferiors
—was no less striking than incomprehensible to the
uninitiated. Depositing his papers in the iron chest,
and deliberately unlocking the little gate of his enclosure,
he walked up to De Lyle—who tendered
him a most obsequious and cringing salutation—
and inquired with no little sternness and asperity of
manner, “Mr. De Lyle, have you come prepared to
pay the note that reached maturity yesterday? My
payments this morning are heavy, and I must request
its prompt liquidation, as you are aware I
have already suffered not a little inconvenience from
former delays on your part, and trust that on the
present occasion you will be more tenacious of fulfiling
your engagement.”

“Why, my good friend, I may as well open my
budget at once and rely on your kindness, not only
for extending the time of payment for the note due
yesterday, but also for an additional loan of five thousand
dollars. The compensation I intend to allow
is most liberal, and before you pronounce a negative,
I must beg of you to bear in mind that if I fail to
procure the sum I require, it will put me to the
most serious inconvenience—nay, I may add that it
will subject me to pecuniary loss, and what I value

infinitely more, will materially impair my mercantile
credit.'

The piercing dark eye of the usurer dilated to
more than its ordinary dimensions as he observed the
eager solicitude of the borrower,—and while his
gaze was rivetted on De Lyle's countenance, it was
several moments before he replied,

“Mr. de Lyle, this delinquency is, permit me to
say, most unfortunate and discreditable. How do
you suppose that my credit would stand in the market,
if I should offer the same excuse for failing to
fulfil my engagements? Sir, let me tell you, that this
renewed request argues either a deficiency of moral
rectitude, or the most dangerous pecuniary embarrassment.
I shall myself be compelled to borrow to-day at
excessive interest to replace the sum I expected from
you. Briefly, sir, you shall have the amount you
require, on the following terms:—the loan must be
made for not less than nine months, at the interest
of five per cent. per month—the note of the firm
given,—and, to insure the partnership liability, you
must purchase from me some article which it is necessary
to convert to the especial use of your house.
On these conditions, and on no other, will I make
the required advance.”

“Why, my worthy and excellent friend, surely
there can be no doubt of the firm's liability, particularly
as no one but ourselves is privy to the transaction.
I have not the least objection to pursue any
course your superior judgment may point out, but

cannot entirely comprehend the necessity of either
of us being subjected to the trouble your request imposes;
besides in the name of all that is holy, what
have you to dispose of that our firm could find use
for?” said De Lyle.

“Permit me, sir, to judge of the necessity,” said
Mr. Samuel, haughtily, “My advances on your
personal responsibility have already exceeded the
limit which prudence would have dictated. It is,
however, my misfortune to be too liberal in my moneyed
dealings. I have a splendid time piece lying
in my desk, fit for the counting room of any house
in the city. You can purchase it, and have it suspended
in your mercantile office.”

Thus saying, he proceeded to unlock the desk,
and produced a common time piece, worth perhaps
ten dollars.

“This,” he resumed, “is a beautiful article, for
which I shall only charge cost. The price is one
hundred dollars.”

“Oh,” replied the obsequious borrower, “the time-piece
is undoubtedly cheap;” but as Mr. Samuel
momentarily averted his face, he turned up his eyes
in some little astonishment at this exercise of the
usurer's cupidity, notwithstanding his previous knowledge
of the man.

The compact being completed and the note given,
they separated; the plundered roué proceeding to the
indulgence of his dissipated propensities, and the

money-lender hugging himself in the prospect of
excessive gain.

After De Lyle had retired, this votary of the yellow
god carefully inspected the fastenings of his
desk and iron chest, and appearing satisfied of their
security, closed the office, and commenced his daily
visit to that emporium of brokers and stock jobbers,
banks and bankers, bulls and bears, called Wall-street.

As he elbowed his way through the bustling
crowd that during bank hours throngs the pave on
either side of the street, his progress was continually
arrested by applications from some greedy member
of the race of borrowers, seeking temporary relief
from the contents of his strong box.

“Mr. Samuel, how do you do?” said one. “Have
you any spare funds to-day? I'll give you the best
security—United States stock at par—one per cent.
per month—say the word quick, as I must be off.”

The individual who thus addressed him was one
of the least needy of the tribe, and having undoubted
security, was certain of the loan at some rate.

“Why, my good friend,” said Samuel—(borrowers
possessing unquestionable securities were always his
particular friends) “I can get two per cent. for all
my spare funds—poor Blynth is now waiting for a
loan at that rate, but as you are my friend, I'll
accommodate you on bank stock at one and a
half.”

“I'll take twenty thousand at one and a quarter.”

“One and a half is the lowest I can take,” said
the usurer.

“Then I must go farther, Mr. Samuel.”

“It's yours,” he said in reply, and the matter was
thus disposed of.

“My dear sir,” said a miserable and agitated applicant,
who was on the eve of suspending payment,
“I want five thousand to-day, and must have it.
I'll give you three per cent. per month, secured by the
notes of Smetz & Co., and Dallarymple & Brothers.”

“I have no more funds,” replied the money-lender
abruptly, when, whispering in the ear of another
customer, he said, “Mr. Weller you can have the ten
thousand on insurance stocks. I am at my office at
half-past two.”

Thus slowly moving along did the usurer continue
to give audience to the numerous applicants who
beset his path. In truth he was somewhat of a monarch
in his own sphere, holding his daily levées in
Wall street—now cheering the heart of the successful
suppliant, and again consigning the unhappy
possessor of doubtful securities to the lowest depths
of despair.

Far different was the conduct of a noble minded
moneyed operator, whose office was in Wall-street.
Bowing gracefully to his friends on every side, it
was his delight to minister to the necessities of the
agitated individuals whose credit depended on the
procurement of temporary loans; and in every

circle the praise of the kind and liberal Mr.—
formed the theme of conversation. Long may the
sun of prosperity illumine his path, and in the expressive
figure of the Eastern diplomate “may the
shadow of his happiness never be less.”