New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

by George Lippard

Seated in the shadow of the velvet canopy, from which his voice resounded, the judge again was silent. Israel, dropping his eyes, imitated the silence of the judge. The murmur of the twelve listeners was now accompanied by the sound of their clubs grating against the floor.

"It is as a banker, however, that your appetite for money, made out of human blood, takes its intensest form of baseness. You started with a Savings Fund, chartered by a well-paid legislature, who transformed you into a president and board of directors, and divesting you of all responsibility, as a man, authorized you to coin money out of the blind confidence of the poor. Hard-working men, servant-girls, needle-women, and others of the poor, who gain their pittance by labor that never knows rest, until it sleeps in the grave, deposited that pittance in your hands. A pittance, mark you, not so remarkable for its amount, as for the fact, that it might, in some future hour, become bread to the starving, warmth to the freezing, home to the homeless. And how did you deal with the sacred trust? The earnings of the poor filled the coffers of your Savings Fund, until they counted over a hundred thousand dollars, and then, on the eve of a dreary winter, the Savings Fund failed. That was all. You did not fail; oh, no; but the Savings Fund Corporation (into which a pliant legislature had transformed you),—it failed. And while you pocketed the hundred thousand dollars, you left the poor, who had trusted you, to starve, or beg, or die, as pleased them."

Israel shaded his eyes with his hands; he seemed buried in profound thought.

"This was the corner-stone of your fortunes. Then the Savings Fund swindler grew into the banker. There were legislatures at Albany, at Trenton and at Harrisburgh, eager to do your bidding,—hungry to be bought. For every dollar of real value in your coffers, these legislatures, by their charters, gave you the privilege to create at least fifty paper dollars; in other words, to demand from the toiling people of the land, some millions of dollars' worth of their labor, without any equivalent. Your banks grew; there were sham presidents and boards of directors, but you were the actual owner of them all; your paper was scattered broadcast over the land. It was in the hands of farmers and mechanics, of poor men and poor women, who had taken it in pay for hard labor; and all at once your banks failed. What became of the poor wretches who took your paper, is not known, but as for you, your capital of a hundred thousand now swelled into two millions of dollars. Let the poor howl! Had you not a press in your pay? Why should not the press be purchased, when legislatures are to be bought as so much merchandise?"

The judge paused, and after a moment resumed,—

"There was a clamor for a while, but you laughed in your sleeve, bought houses and lands,—dotted the city with pestilential dens, in which you crowded the poor, like insects in a festering carcass,—and after a time, raised your head once more as a banker. It was Harrisburgh, Albany or Trenton this time,—one of the three, or all of them,—which gave you the right to steal by law. You were now the owner (and behind the scenes, the wire-puller), of three banks. Last night you thought 'the pear ripe.' Your notes were once more scattered broadcast over the land. 'It is a good time to fail,' you thought, and so last night, in the railroad cars (in order to give a color to your failure) you pretended to be robbed of seventy-one thousand dollars."

"Pretended to be robbed? I tell you I was robbed," cried Israel, half-rising from his seat,—"robbed by an old convict and his young accomplice."

"And this morning, in due course, your three banks stopped payment. All day long your victims lined the street, in front of your den of plunder; and to-night found you in this place, seeking for a time, the gratification of one lust in place of another. And now you are in the hands of those who, having 'the might,' will do with you as your crimes deserve. 'Might makes right,' you know."

"But where is the proof of all this? Where are my accusers?" Israel's teeth chattered as he spoke.

"Do you ask for accusers? What accusers are needed more powerful than those voices which now,—and even your seared conscience must hear them,—arise against you from the silence of the grave and the darkness of the dungeon cell?"