University of Virginia Library

MR. BEVERLEY LEE.

MR. BEVERLEY LEE;
OR,
THE DAYS OF THE SHIN-PLASTERS.

—Churchill.

—Massinger.

—Shakspeare.

Wall-street was in commotion. The pavements
of that busy, bustling mart were crowded
with brokers, bank-directors, merchants, speculators,
politicians, editors, and all the other representatives
of the commercial metropolis. Care and anxiety
were written on every countenance. It was a time

of unusual embarrassment. Commerce, trade, and
all the resources of the country were paralyzed.
Discontent and murmurings were heard in every
quarter. There was a panic.

“General Jackson had destroyed the country!”
said a whig.

“Mr. Biddle has curtailed our discounts!” said
a conservative.

“All confidence is lost!” said a reformer.

“And every merchant in New-York must fail!”
said a loco-foco.

“We are on the eve of a revolution!” ejaculated
a patriotic little stock-jobber, the chairman of a ward
meeting; “and if we don't do away with the government,
the government will do away with us;
therefore, I say, down with the government!”

“Down with the bank!” responded an administration
worthy near him, with equal fervour and
patriotism.

“Neither the government nor the bank are answerable
for the present condition of things,” said
a meddling little secretary of an insurance company,
who stepped in as mediator between the contending
parties.

“To what is it owing, then?” asked they.

“To the great fire of the sixteenth of December,
which destroyed one section of our city and twenty
millions of property.”

“Not at all,” said the editor of a political journal,
who was supposed to know everything, past, present
and to come. “Our calamities are owing to the
enormous speculations which have taken place in
real estate. We needed a check of some sort. We
were buying lots in the moon and laying out lithographic
cities in the stars, and the consequence is a
revulsion unparalleled in our annals.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the
news that some twenty new bankruptcies had occurred
among the oldest mercantile houses in the
city; that one bank had stopped payment, and that
a run had been commenced on the others. All was
confusion and dismay. Individuals were seen hurrying
to and fro with bags of coin upon their shoulders,
of which they had just been draining the banks.
Idle rumours were everywhere circulated.

The president of one of the banks had committed
suicide, and others had absconded with the moneys
committed to their trust. Mobs were forming to lay
waste all the monied institutions of the city, and to
tumble the buildings about the ears of their officers.
The mayor had called out the military to preserve
the public peace. The police patroled the streets
by day, and the watch was doubled by night. The
citizens of New-York were in dread of fire and the
sword.

The hour of three, P.M., when all business ordinarily

ceases in Wall-street, at length arrived. The
omnibusses, those most convenient things in the
world, (only when you want them, particularly on
rainy days, they are either full or going the wrong
way,) rumbled over the pavements. The multitude
began to scatter; but, long after the money depositories
were closed, might be seen lingering around
the bulletins of the newspaper-offices, knots of anxious,
discontented spirits, talking over the events of
the day and anticipating the horrors of the morrow.

It was in one of these little assemblies that Mr.
Beverley Lee, a handsome, fashionable, light-hearted
young fellow, a contributor to the periodicals and
an author of no mean celebrity, became a participator
in the all-engrossing conversations of the times.
Mivins, an opulent, influential broker, who was accounted
“a good man” on 'change, and proudly
denominated in that vicinity “a bear,” took him by
the button, and pointing out the ruins of a building
that had fallen to the ground not long before, said,

“That, sir, is now all that remains of those who
were nick-named the Rothschilds of this country.”

“I am sorry for their misfortunes,” said Lee.

“Sorry!” rejoined the broker, “if my wish could
be realized, not only they, but all the Jews in New-York
should be buried in the ruins.”

“Why so?” said Belmont, a calm, dignified, silvery-haired,
feeble old gentleman, who stood next

to Lee, and who had been listening to their discourse
without taking any part in it.

“Because,” said Mivins, raising his voice, and
clenching his hand with strong emotion, “in my
opinion, it's part of the religious creed of a Jew to
cheat a Christian.”

“The Christian religion does not teach you that
precept,” said Belmont, mildly, a slight flush passing
over his fine countenance as he turned upon his heel
to depart.

“Stop, sir,” said Mivins, placing his hand upon
the old gentleman's shoulder and detaining him, “if
you mean any thing by what you have just said, you
mean to insult me, and thus I resent it,” added he,
furiously, spitting upon his garments.

Belmont instantly rushed upon his assailant, and
Lee, perceiving his danger, flung himself between
the parties just in time to receive the blow aimed at
his new acquaintance full upon his own stalworth
bosom. A scuffle ensued; but the parties were
soon separated. Not, however, until cards had been
exchanged, and the residence of each individual
ascertained. That evening Mivins was waited upon
with a cartel, and a meeting appointed for the morning.
Lee did not retire to rest until late that night;
his mind was filled with contending emotions. It
was the first time his person had ever been profaned
by a blow, and he was on the eve of washing out

the stain upon his honour with his blood. Of all
characters on earth, he detested that of a duellist
most; but he was young, ardent, and full of those
false notions of honour which have deprived the
world of some of its brightest ornaments. The few
hours that were left him before the meeting, were
employed in making his testament, and in writing to
one who was dearer to him than life. To her he
enclosed a lock of his hair, and a tear fell upon its
glossy brightness at the thought that they might
never meet again.

At the break of day, which was cold, comfortless
and misty, two small boats were seen shooting
across the Hudson river towards the Jersey shore.
They arrived at nearly the same time. Lee and
Mivins stood upon the bloodstained spot where
Hamilton fell. As the parties were about taking
their stations, they were interrupted by the sudden
appearance of the venerable Belmont, who had been
the innocent cause of their meeting. Approaching
Lee, he said—

“Young man, this quarrel is mine;” and, turning
to Mivins, he continued, “from you, sir, I expect
atonement for the affront you offered me yesterday.”

“I came here,” replied Mivins, “to fight, not to
talk. Finding myself in the wrong, however, I am
willing to make such atonement as is in my power.
Of you, sir, I ask pardon for what was done in a

moment of excitement, and which, I hope, your
generosity will forgive.”

Mr. Belmont received his apology, and they approached
Mr. Lee, who stood pistol in hand, waiting
the result of their conversation.

“Mr. Lee,” said the broker, “if a voluntary
apology will be accepted by you for an insult which
I certainly never intended, I am prepared to make
one.”

“Proceed, sir,” said Lee.

“The blow, sir, was not directed at you, but at
this gentleman. I sincerely regret what has happened;
and as an evidence of my conviction that I
was to blame, allow me to state in the presence of
these gentlemen, that had not this interruption taken
place, I intended to have received your fire unreturned;
and, if I were living, to have made the
concessions which I now freely tender.”

Lee took the broker's proffered hand, and they all
returned to the boat of Mr. Belmont. When they
were seated, Belmont said to Mr. Lee—

“You, sir, have done me a service, and I have
registered it, `where every day I'll turn the leaf to
read it.' Like the Indian missionary, `injuries I
write on sand, but benefits upon marble.”'

Lee did not reply; but there was something in
Mr. Belmont's tone and manner that strangely interested
him, and he returned the pressure of his
hand with all the warmth of glowing friendship.

But little of moment occurred on the water except
meeting, when about half way across, a mysterious
looking craft running foul of a schooner in the mist,
which it was afterwards ascertained contained the
burly person of Old Hays and a posse of police
officers, making their clumsy way to the scene of
action; but, as usual, these worthies were too late to
prevent the violation of the law or a breach of the
peace.

After the veritable events, which, like faithful
chroniclers we have just recorded, a scene of confusion
took place in the city of New-York which baffles
all description. The banks suspended specie payments;
gold and silver were at a high premium.
The town was inundated with a species of small paper

currency, issued by every individual wishing to
make money, specimens of which have been preserved
as curiosities to the present day. These were
small pieces of pasteboard, commonly called “shin-plasters,”
having printed thereon in Roman capitals,
“good for six and a quarter cents,” or any other
sum which seemed good to the person issuing the
same, and having his own christian and sirname
legibly written in the right hand corner of the paper.
These circulated as freely among the community as
omnibus tickets or bank notes, and possessed really
about as much intrinsic value.

The term shin-plaster originated with an old soldier
of the revolutionary war, who, after fighting the
battles of his country, was left to penury and want
by a government, who paid him for his services in
what was commonly denominated, “continental
money,” which, after the peace, it refused to redeem.
This old soldier had received a wound upon the leg
at the battle of “Bunker Hill;” and believing that
the money was printed upon paper of an adhesive
quality, and knowing it to be good for nothing else,
he was in the habit of dressing his wound with the
rags, and calling them “shin plasters;” hence the
name, which will always stick to them to the end of
the world.

The city, as we said, was in commotion. The inhabitants
seemed beside themselves. Every one appeared
to be acting a part in the great comedy of
“Frightened to Death.” The example set by the
merchant was followed by all other classes. Stopping
payment was universal. All business was at a stand
still. Men assembled in clusters on the corners of
the streets. Argument ran high, and the everlasting
words of General Jackson—Tammany-Hall—The
Monster—Bribery and Corruption—Nick Biddle—
Veto—Pewter Mug—Ruin—Loco-Foco—Real Estate—Henry
Clay—The People—Fanny Wright—
and other villanous compounds of the alphabet, were

dinned into the ears of all who would listen to
them. Enormous hand-bills were posted about the
city, calling public-meetings in the Park. Committees
were appointed to go to Washington and
Albany. Processions of tatterdemalions moved
through the streets with bands of music and colours
flying. Those who had notes to pay were
shinning it to borrow the money. If they succeeded,
the notes were paid; if not, they were laid over,
and nothing more was thought of the matter. Men
of all professions, callings, and occupations, were
idle, except the notaries, who fattened on the distresses
of all around them, and were busy from the
time the banks closed until late in the evening, protesting
the notes of all unfortunate makers of the
same who were unable to cancel them as they had
promised.

Woful were the misgivings of the merchants;
woful were the forebodings of the mechanic; and
woful were the apprehensions and countenances of
all misguided victims who had speculated in building
lots and lithographic cities!

Mr. Beverley Lee, we are sorry to say, was one
of this latter class. On his leaving college, he came
into possession of fifty thousand dollars. Being an
embryo author, whose craft taught him to build castles
in the air—a man of fancy—young, ardent, and
inexperienced, and hearing what immense fortunes

had been amassed by speculating in lots, in an evil
hour he attended a sale of real estate at the “Merchants
Exchange.”

He bought lots on the Avenues—he bought lots at
Harlem—he bought lots at New-Brighton—he bought
lots at Skaneateles—he bought lots at Jamaica—he
bought lots at Buffalo—he bought lots at Cahawba
—he bought lots in Texas—and, in short, he bought
lots everywhere. He had building lots, and water
lots, and all sorts of lots. He was the owner of
towns, villages, and counties.

To obtain these invaluable privileges, he had paid
every farthing of his fifty thousand dollars, had
given his notes for several hundred thousand, and
mortgaged his estate to an unimaginable amount.
He was a great landholder—one of the lords of the
soil. His word was good on 'change. Bank directors
took their hats off to him. Dealers in fancy
stock greeted him with smiles; and Mr. Beverley
Lee was a man estimated to be worth millions of
dollars. While this delusion lasted, everything
went on swimmingly. What the people thought of
Mr. Beverley Lee, Mr. Beverley Lee thought of
himself. It was an exceedingly agreeable thing to
be rich—very rich, enormously rich, and to become
so too all of a sudden, and without the least exertion.
Mr. Beverley Lee purchased a town-house, a country-house,
a villa on the banks of the Hudson, and

he embellished his mansions with gorgeous furniture.
He gave entertainments to his friends, and regaled
them with costly viands. He rolled in riches. It
was pleasant—very.

Time, however, that rigid schoolmaster, taught
Mr. Beverley Lee a lesson, which it would have been
better for him had he sooner learned. He knew he
became suddenly rich, but it never occurred to him
that he might become suddenly poor. True, he had
read that riches take to themselves wings and fly
away; but he had read that passage as applicable to
other men, not to himself. When the veto came,
he opened his eyes, and began to look about him.
He feared there would be a storm, but he did not
look for a tornado. First came the assessors, and
demanded of him a thumping sum of money for opening
streets and improving his property. This Mr.
Beverley Lee paid, thinking it very kind in them to
take such good care of his interests, considering he
had not the honour of their acquaintance. Next
came the tax-gatherers, with large demands, which
Mr. Beverley Lee cancelled with rather a sorry
grace. Then came the holders of mortgages for
their interest, which drained Mr. Beverley Lee of
his last shilling, and he was obliged to have recourse
to the banks for a new discount to keep up appearances.

This he readily obtained, and things went on
very well with Mr. Beverley Lee, until the banks
were compelled to deny him further favours. Then
his difficulties began to thicken. The notes he had
given for his property fell due one after the other,
and were protested. In walked the auctioneer, and
began to knock down his beautiful furniture, his library,
his racing-stud, his country-house, his town-house,
and everything that was his, real or imaginary.
His lots, building and water, reverted to their
original owners; and Mr. Beverley Lee, was, in the
year eighteen hundred and thirty-six, obliged to
“waddle” out of Wall-street as “lame a duck” as was
ever hatched in that nest of disappointment and
speculation.

In an elegantly finished mansion near the Battery,
about a year after the events just related, a family
were seated round the evening fireside. Emily
Withers was reclining on an ottoman, listening to
the conversation of her parents and Mr. Larence
Payne, a young attorney of small practice, but large
expectations, who professed a great regard for the
Withers in general, and the young lady in particular,
who had on several occasions given him the most
unequivocal proofs of her utter aversion. He, however,
was not easily discouraged, and continued his
visits, in the hopes of one day possessing not only

the heart, but, what was of more consequence to
him, the fortune of the lady.

Emily, was a lovely, dark-eyed girl, perfect in
form and feature, and the reigning belle and beauty
of the town. She was an only child, and the sole
hope of her fond and doating parents. She was very
beautiful, and throngs of admirers had sought her
hand in vain. On her first entrance into society,
she was a light-hearted, merry creature, full of mirth
and good-humour; but of late and wherefore, none
could tell, a sad depressing melancholy had taken
possession of her thoughts; and, as she leaned her
head upon her hand, which was buried in her luxuriant
tresses, the most casual might observe that
all was not at ease about her heart. She was
listening, we said, to the conversation; and when
Mr. Lee's name was mentioned, a crimson flush
stole over the pearly texture of her face and bosom,
which spoke more truly than words, that she listened
with an interest she in vain endeavoured to conceal.

“I do not think,” said Mr. Withers, “that Mr.
Lee is the man you represent him.”

“I am sure he is not,” said his wife; and the
eyes of Emily kindled with emotion as her mother
spoke.

“What!” said Payne, “did he not cheat all his
creditors, and run away?”

“I have heard that his failure was owing to the
fall of real estate,” said Mr. Withers.

“And from whom did you hear that?” inquired
Payne.

“From my friend Mivens, the broker, with whom
you may recollect he had a duel, which—”

“Ended in smoke,” said the attorney, with a
smirk, intended to convey a stronger meaning than
his words expressed.

“Yet, in that affair, Mivins said he behaved like
a man of the strictest honour.”

“Honour!” said the attorney, emphatically; yet,
at the same time, drawling out the word Iago-like,
as `though there was some hidden monster in his
thought.'

“Yes, sir, honour. Mivins says that affair bound
him to Lee for ever, and that he would endorse his
honour with his life. He also declared that, when
he heard of Lee's embarrassments, he would have
assisted him to the utmost extent of his means, if he
could have found him; but he had disappeared, and
no one knew whither he had gone.”

“Mivins, you know, my dear,” said he to his
wife, “though an impetuous, hasty man, has a noble,
generous heart.”

“He has, indeed, my dear,” replied Mrs. Withers.
During the last part of this conversation, Emily had,
unperceived by any one, unfolded a small billetdoux,
which contained a lock of dark glossy hair;
and a liquid pearl shot into her eye as she recalled

the image of him who had sent it, and read over the
kind words of affection that accompanied the treasured
relick. Looking up, she noticed that the eyes
of the attorney were riveted upon her; she hastily
concealed the note in her bosom, and turned upon
him a glance of cold contempt and indignation.

“Do you know, Mr. Payne,” inquired Mrs. Withers,
“what became of Mr. Lee after his failure?”

“I know nothing more than I have told you,” said
Payne. “I could not keep the run of him. He gave
me leg-bail for the last suit I brought against him,
which I believe was all the bail he had to give. I
wish I could catch him now.”

“What for?” asked Withers.

“To lock him up.”

“Why?”

“Because I never liked him.”

“What offence has he given you?”

“None; but I always considered him a man of
shallow parts—a self-conceited, inflated coxcomb—
a bankrupt, who defrauded honest people out of their
just demands, and who proved himself a coward,
by running away from those whom he had not the
courage to face.”

Emily rose from her seat, her eyes flashing fire,
and her lip quivering like a rose-leaf in a storm.

“Silence, sir! I wonder you do not blush to slander
the innocent in their absence. I am ashamed to

have remained here so long to hear him abused.
`A man of shallow parts!' If you possessed but a
moiety of his mind, you might be a gentleman. `A
coward,' sir! It would be more than your pernicious
soul is worth, to breathe that in his presence.
O shame upon you, to make his misfortunes your
triumph! I'll not hear you, sir,” continued Emily,
as the crest-fallen attorney was about to reply.
“You have slandered the absent, and insulted those
present; and I wonder my parents have listened to
you so long.” As she spoke these words, she quitted
the apartment, leaving her father and mother in
mute astonishment, and the attorney riveted to the
spot.

The feelings of Payne may be imagined. He had
missed the mark at which he aimed, and wounded
the heart he hoped to win. He left the house shortly
afterwards sunk in his own estimation, and seriously
meditating a jaunt to Texas.

On the following afternoon, just before five, the
wharf at the foot of Courtlandt-street was filled with
people of all descriptions, making their way out of
the city. It was near the hour for the departure of
the steamboats, and consequently carts, carriages,
and omnibusses—men, women, and children—
wheelbarrows, porters, carriers and news-boys, were
crowded together promiscuously.

“Here's the Courier and Enquirer, sir.”

“Here's the Star, sir; buy the good old major,
sir, for a trifle.”

“Three Americans for sixpence, sir.”

“Sun, Transcript, Herald, and New Era.”

“Baggage for West-Point, sir.”

“That's your bandbox, ma'am, which the porter
smashed. I'll take care of it for you, ma'am.”

“Do, Peter, that's a good lad.”

“All ashore that's going.”

“Haul in the plank.”

Whiz—phiz—whiz.

“Let go that line—haul in.”

And away darted the North America, like a foaming
steed let loose, boldly and gallantly, out into the
sparkling river.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling—“All those as has not settled
their fare, step to the capting's office and do it
there.” Ding-a-ling.

And by the time the passage is paid and the luggage
recovered, the passengers find themselves
splashing and dashing beneath the Palisades, some
miles on their way to Albany.

The departure of the steamboats from the city, on
a clear summer's afternoon, is a beautiful sight.
They all leave at the same hour, and they shoot from
the innumerable piers out into the glassy stream in
such numbers, that one would think half the population

were slipping away, and wonder how it is
they are not missed from the metropolis.

Among those on board the North America, were
Mr. and Mrs. Withers and their lovely daughter,
who had just commenced the fashionable tour of the
season. But their presence was forgotten or unnoticed,
in the circulation of a report which spread
like a panic among the passengers, that a notorious
individual, of whom everybody had heard, but whom
nobody had seen, was on board. This person had
made more noise in the city of New-York, than any
one who had lived since the abdication of Peter
Stuyvesant. He of the Iron-mask—the author of
Junius—the Great Unknown—had not excited more
curiosity in their day and generation, than the mysterious
being of whom we are now writing. To
that strange character had been attributed all the
manifold disasters of the country: the hard times—
the suspension of specie payments—the troubles of
abolition, and every other evil that threatened the
safety of the republic. He possessed a wonderful
faculty for doing mischief, and what was more wonderful
still, a sort of magical ubiquity, for he was
here, there, and everywhere at the same time. At
one moment he was in Wall-street, levelling the
banks with staves and bludgeons; at another, he
was assaulting the arsenal of the state, (where, by
the way, it is said he captured and imprisoned the

commissary-general, his son George, and Cornelius
the carpenter.) He was a great “agitator,” and his
name struck terror to the hearts and souls of the
Gothamites.

“Who could he be?” asked everybody; but nobody
knew.

From what we have just said, the reader will at
once perceive that “the man in the claret-coloured
coat” was on board the steamer.

But where he was, or what he was, or who he
was, remained as profound a mystery as the philosopher's
stone.

The shades of evening thickened among the High-lands,
and the dew-dropping clouds hung like misty
veils over the hill-tops, concealing their beauty and
shrouding them from the sight. The passengers retired
to their cabins, and, notwithstanding the curiosity
of all, the man in the claret-coloured coat was
nowhere to be seen, although it was ascertained to a
certainty that he was on board. The North America
arrived in Albany before the break of day, and
long ere any of the sleepers were stirring, that
shadowy, invisible spirit had gone on shore and
“vanished into thin air.”

Some said he was on his way to Canada to join
the patriots; and, for the peace of the good city of
New-York, we not only hope the story is true, but

that the arch-fiend in human shape may be shot there,
and trouble our worthy fellow-citizens no more.

At Albany, Emily Withers and her parents took
the cars for Saratoga, where we shall leave them to
drink the hygeian-waters, and pass away the sultry
months of summer.

Seated in a gloomy apartment in a remote part of
the town, was a poor author—pale and emaciated,
and just recovering from a protracted indisposition,
that had nearly brought him to the grave. He was
completing a new work of fiction for the press of
Lea and Blanchard, who, with a liberality usual
with those enlightened bibliopoles, when they discover
undoubted genius and unemployed talent, had
paid for the work in advance, and thus prevented
the author from starving while he wrote. A table,
a few chairs, writing materials, the works of Shakspeare,
Walter Scott and Washington Irving, were
the principal articles in his room. The author's
loose morning-gown, like himself, had seen better
days; and his shirt-collar being unbuttoned and
falling on his shoulders, disclosed a throat and head
that might have furnished a study for the sculptor.
His pale features were occasionally lighted with a
smile, and fire kindled in his thoughtful eye as the
rich treasures of his mind were poured upon the
paper. The work was finished. He laid aside his

pen, and leaning his head upon his hand, communed
with himself.

“My task is accomplished. The desire of my
heart is at length fulfilled, and though times have
sadly changed with me, and the blind goddess
proven herself a fickle jade, yet I feel that by industry
and my pen, I may yet retrieve my sunken fortunes.
Well, the past were pleasant days, but they
have vanished, and with them all the hopes they
inspired. Pain, penury, and disease have long exiled
me from the world; but I shall return to it
again, a wiser, and I trust a better man. O Emily,
why does your bright image mingle with all my
fondest recollections of by-gone times? You have
forgotten me now; yet, how devotedly have I loved.
Proud, passionate and wealthy, the world is all before
you where to choose; and, though in the hours
of my prosperity, hope flattered me with the belief
that you would one day be mine, it would be presumption
now. No, Emily, that golden dream is
over—my heart is breaking at the thought that you
never, never can be mine!”

Little knew Mr. Lee (it was he who spoke,) the
heart of faithful, trusting, doating woman. When
her affections are once bestowed, she smiles at all
the reverses of the world, and her love endures when
all else perishes. Woman's love is like the hardy
evergreen of our own native groves, and looks as

cheerful in the storms of winter as when the genial
airs of spring-time play around its branches, and all
the other trees of the forest dress themselves in
holliday apparel, amid the melody of birds and the
silvery sounds of running waters.

Our author's revery was broken by a knock at the
door of his apartment; he arose to let the intruder
in, and the detested person of Larence Payne stood
before him.

“So,” said the attorney, “I have found you at
last. Snug quarters these—quite out of the way of
the bailiffs, eh, Mr. Lee? Well, this is much better
than paying notes, interest, assessments and taxes.
Everything quite comfortable and snug, I declare.”

“To what,” said Lee, recovering from his surprise,
“am I indebted for this intrusion?”

“Intrusion! Well, I like that phraseology. No
intrusion at all—not in the least. I came by order
of a court of law, and here are two bailiffs with writs
in their pockets for you; so you see you are wanted
and must go.”

“If you were not beneath my notice, I would
throw you out of the window for your impertinence,”
said Lee. “Solely on account of your insignificance,
I let you escape!”

“Excessively glad to hear it,” said Mr. Larence
Payne, as, with an oblique movement, he made the

best of his way down stairs, followed by the sheriffs
and their prisoner.

On their arrival at the City-hall, Mr. Lee was
astonished to learn that every judgment against him
had been cancelled on the record, and that he was
free from debt and at liberty. At this unexpected
news, the attorney, unperceived by any one, skulked
away from the Hall, and was soon in a place of
concealment.

Mr. Lee was lost in amazement at this unlooked-for
stroke of good fortune. He breathed more freely
than he had done for months. It seemed as though
a mountain of difficulty had been rolled from his
mind; he was a new creature. But who was his
benefactor? What generous spirit was it that stepped
forward in his moment of greatest need and released
him from bondage? Was it Mivins the
broker? It must be he. Lee knew no other individual
in the world capable of such an act. It was
like him. It was noble.

Within the last year a change had come over the
destinies of New-York. Commerce once more
spread her snowy pinions to the breeze. The hammer
sounded cheerfully upon the anvil. The banks
resumed the payment of specie. Confidence was
restored. Talent, enterprise and industry again received
their merited reward, and bright hearts and
smiling faces were everywhere to be seen. It seemed

as though the wand of Prospero had been at work
—such a change came over the whole community.
The gay and fashionable had returned from their
summer tour, and Emily Withers was once more in
town, improved in health and radiant in beauty.

It was an autumn evening. A line of carriages
stood in State-street and round the Battery, their
lamps sparkling like fire-flies among the trees, and
illuminating the neighbourhood far and near. The
house of Mr. Withers streamed with light, and was
thronged with company. There was a wedding
there. The guests had all arrived. Among them
the venerable Belmont, who was the presiding genius
of the scene.

When in England, whither he had gone, shortly
after the duel mentioned in the early part of this
narrative, he heard of Lee's misfortunes, and taking
the first packet, he hastened to relieve them. On
his arrival in New-York, he cancelled all his responsibilities,
for his wealth was inexhaustible, and settled
upon Mr. Lee the fifty thousand dollars he had
so thoughtlessly lost in his speculations, and had
hither come to witness the happiness of his friend
in his union with the blooming Emily.

“Why have you taken such an interest in that
young man?” asked Mivins the broker.

“He did me a service, and it is a debt of gratitude
paid by a Jew to a Christian.”

My story is done—“But what,” asks the reader,
“became of little Payne the attorney?”

He did not go to Texas, but to Canada, to fight
the battles of the patriots.

“And died there?”

“Yes, gallantly fighting by the side of THE MAN
IN THE CLARET-COLOURED COAT.”