The Bay State Monthly. Volume 2, No. 6, March, 1885

Gems From The Easy Chair

Christmas. There is nothing in the deepest and best sense human which in the truest and highest sense is not also Christian. The characteristic feeling about Christmas, as it is revealed in literature and tradition and association, is the striking and beautiful tribute to the practicability of Christianity.

Sermons. It is doubtless very unjust to the clergy to suppose that they turn the barrel of sermons to save themselves the trouble of writing new ones. Nothing but the levity of the pews could be guilty of such a suspicion. The preacher knows that one squeezing does not take all the juice out of an orange; and how much jucier a fruit is a good sermon! Moreover, the pews are so pachydermatous, so rhinoceros-skinned, that nothing but an incessant pelting upon the same spot makes an impression.

America. Whoever has seen a self-possessed and sagacious orator handling a tumultuous meeting as Phoebus-Appollo handles his madly plunging steeds, has seen the symbol of popular government, and understands why the sole fact of numerical force and brute power does not explain it. He who watches the ocean rising into every bay and creek in obedience to celestial attraction, sees in outward nature the law that governs the associated life of men, and which gives the American people faith in their own government, whether they can give a reason, for their faith or not.

National Bank Failures

By George H. Wood

Occasionally the attention of the daily press of the country is called to the provisions of the National Banking Law by the announcement of the failure of some national banking association, and immediately it teems with comments, and recommendations as to amendments which should be made to render the law effective. These recommendations and comments usually show the most lamentable ignorance, both as to the actual existing provisions of the law and its practical working, and as regards banking matters generally. In the case of the failure of the Middletown National Bank of New York, the advice which has been given in the columns of the press seems of itself to be sufficient, if it had been given sooner, to have prevented the disaster. The Directors have been blamed, very justly too, for they looked on while their President run them into all its difficulties, and as usual the Bank Examiners have been held responsible for the disaster. Some have even gone so far as to suggest that a provision be added to the National Banking Laws punishing Examiners who do not detect irregularities in the banks which they examine.

The provisions of the National Bank Act as they now stand are as perfect, theoretically, as they can be drawn, to protect both the depositors and the stockholders. The law provides for the publication of sworn reports, from time to time, of the condition of each national bank. These reports must be sworn to by the President, or Cashier, and their correctness must be attested by the signatures of at least three Directors. These reports are required five times a year and it is impossible to see how, if the Directors do their duty fully and honestly, any delinquency on the part of the officers of the bank can fail to be detected by them. Under the law, the stockholders elect the Directors, at least five in number. The officers of the bank are elected or appointed by the directors and are subject to them. Thus far the protection the Act provides is based upon what, so far as financial matters are concerned, is one of the great controlling influences of human nature, viz: self-interest. The stockholders, in order to protect themselves, are expected to elect Directors who will look out for the interests of all.

The sworn reports made to the Comptroller of the Currency are published in the newspapers where the banks are located, and a copy sent to that officer that he may know that the law in this respect has been complied with. The stockholders can inspect them at any time as they appear, and can note any changes which occur in them from time to time. The stockholders are also at perfect liberty to make any inquiries that they may deem fit, in any direction which their intelligence may suggest to them.

In addition to the protection which the law gives to the stockholders, and also to the depositors, by requiring the publication of reports of the condition of the national banks, Bank Examiners are provided in the law; these Bank Examiners are appointed by the Comptroller of the Currency, and make their examinations at any time that he may deem fit.

A Bank Examiner to afford perfect security for the real merit of his examination, has a disagreeable duty to perform. He enters a bank, which by all the world is supposed to be well conducted and solvent, and to be managed by honorable men, respected and looked up to by the whole community. His position, however, is that of a Censor, and it does not permit him to assume what the world supposes. On the contrary, to make a good examination, he must take nothing for granted, and quietly act on the ground that something is wrong. "Suspicions are the sinews of the mind" in this case, and an examiner without them cannot expect to detect mismanagement or defalcation. The position requires tact as well as technical skill—tact not to offend unnecessarily or disturb friendly relations, and skill to bring to light all that should be discovered—and undoubtedly requires a high class of mind in the one that fills it well. Bank examinations are not the only security provided in the law, and it is ridiculous to assert that the Directors, stockholders and depositors should throw aside or neglect to use all the other means which the law provides to enable them to protect themselves, and rely entirely upon the Government examinations, which in the nature of things must depend for success on the sagacity of one individual.

The framers of the National Bank Act, while they did all that they could to protect the depositors and stockholders of national banks, as has been seen, were still not perfectly sure but that failures might sometimes occur. This feeling doubtless arose from a knowledge on their part of the weakness of human nature, and of the imperfections of systems of Government. That they felt in this way, is indicated by the fact that they have provided, also, a method of protecting, as far as possible, the depositors of national banks that do fail. They have provided for the appointment of receivers and for a distribution, under Government control, of such assets as can be collected from the wrecks of the failed banks. The stockholders of such banks are subject to the penalty of being compelled to contribute, if the deficiency in the assets requires it, an amount not exceeding the par value of the shares of stock held by them in addition to the amount already invested in such shares, to the fund necessary to pay depositors. This of itself would seem sufficient to be careful and place a live Board of Directors in charge of a large fund, considering the manner the stockholders of the Pacific National Bank of Boston kicked and squirmed when this provision of the law was applied.

The experience of the past has been that bank officers have concealed all their operations from the proprietors, and when failures have occurred everybody has been astonished. As an additional safeguard to meet this secrecy an organization has just been perfected in New York which is a step farther in commercial agencies than has ever been attempted. From one of their printed circulars it is ascertained that they propose to keep in pay a corps of detectives and other agencies, "as a check upon defalcations and embezzlements by bank Presidents, and Cashiers and other officials." But it is not exactly clear who will watch the detectives.

Elizabeth

A Romance Of Colonial Days

By Frances C. Sparhawk, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."

Chapter XI—Unwelcome News

June was doing its best to make the world content. Little clouds floated through the blue sky, like the light sighs of a mood that must find some expression, and the air for all its softness was invigorating, it was so full of life and purity. This day, like many another, needed only to bring as fair hopes to the lives of those who looked into it as it did to the nature it overbrooded to make the faces its light breezes fanned as bright as the skies were, with only shadows of expression to give the brightness new beauty. But no such light was on Elizabeth Royal's face as she sat at the open window of her room with a piece of delicate embroidery in her hands. Her future had not opened out into life; the winter had killed its buds of promise.

After all, Stephen Archdale had not gone to England. His father and Governor Wentworth had insisted that it was much wiser to send an older and a better business man. "Do you want to make the best of your case?" the Colonel had asked incisively when Stephen hesitated. And the young man had yielded, though reluctantly. It would have been so much easier for him to be away and to be doing something. But at present he must think only of doing the wisest thing.

Elizabeth had not seen him; he had written to her father once, and had promised to write again as soon as he had the slightest news. He had tried his best to be cheerful, and had sent her a message that endeavored to be hopeful; but she saw that courtesy struggled with despair. She knew that they need never meet; but if this thing were true—she could not believe it—but if it were true, then happiness was over. Life in a June day has such possibilities of happiness; and that morning her eyes grew so misty that she took a few wrong stitches in her work, and as footsteps drew near the room, perceived this and began to pick them out with nervous haste. She had not finished, however, when Mrs. Eveleigh came in. As Elizabeth had expected, her first remark was a comment.

"What! another mistake, my dear? You know you made one only yesterday, and you can work so beautifully when you give your mind to it. It is a bad plan to have such a dreamy way with one. For my part, I should think you would have had enough of doing things in dreams and never knowing what they will end in. You would better wake up for the rest of your life."

As Elizabeth had heard the same remark numberless times before, its effect was not startling. In silence she went on picking out her stitches.

"Why not say you think so, too? It would be more dutiful in you," continued Mrs. Eveleigh.

"You take care that I am waked up," returned Elizabeth. "You don't leave one many illusions."

"I hope not. What is the use of illusions?"

"Yes, what?"

"Well, Elizabeth, it is not I that have disturbed them this time; you must thank him for that."

"Him?"

"Yes, he has come. I have just been leaning over the banisters, and saw him come in." Elizabeth did not look dreamy now. "He did not come forward at all in the modest, charming way of the other one, which you know irresistably wins hearts," went on Mrs. Eveleigh; "he marched along straight into the parlor and asked to see you, just as if he owned the house and all that was in it. So he does own somebody in it, I am afraid, poor child."

The girl's face was white, her violet eyes looked black and shadowed by heavy lines.

"Is it—?" she began.

"Oh, yes, my dear, it is your husband. He has come to claim you, no doubt. If he cannot get the wife he wants, he will have somebody at the head of his table. And, then, my dear, you know you are an heiress, not a person of no account."

"Nonsense," returned the other; "the marriage is not proven. He may have come with news."

At this moment a servant brought up Archdale's card. On it he had written a line begging to see her. Elizabeth showed it to her companion.

"See," she said, "you are mistaken. Probably we are free, and he wants to tell me of it first,—first of anyone here, I mean. That is not arbitrary, nor as you said, at all."

"Very well, dear; only, don't crow till you are out of the woods. Would you like to have me receive him with you?"

Elizabeth hesitated.

"No. I thank you," she said. "You are very kind, but perhaps it would be better to go by myself."

"As you like." And Mrs. Eveleigh's pride laid a strong hand upon her swelling curiosity, so that with an indifference well acted she sat down to her work. But as she lost the sound of Elizabeth's step on the stairs she rose again and looked breathlessly over the banisters, trying to catch the greeting that went on in the room below. But either through accident, or because the girl knew the character of her companion, the door closed behind Elizabeth, and Mrs. Eveleigh heard nothing. If she had done so, the greeting was so simple that she would have gained from it no clue of what was to follow. Archdale came forward, bowed low, and held out his hand to her as simply as Katie's husband might have greeted Katie's friend, and possibly have brought her some message. Elizabeth felt this as she laid her hand in his for a moment, a smile of relief and anticipation came over her face; and in reply to his question she answered: "Yes, we are all well, thank you." It was after the first moment that the embarrassment began, when at her look of hope and questioning his eyes fell a moment, and when raised again gave no answer to it. Both realized then how hard fate had been to them. But even yet Elizabeth would not quite give up the cause. She steadied herself a little by her hand on the back of the chair before she sat down in it, asking with the smile still on her lips, but not spontaneous as before.

"You have brought good news?"

"No," he said. "I am afraid you will not call it good news." He looked away as he spoke, but after a moment turned toward her, and their eyes met. Each read the meaning in the other's face too plainly to make reserve as to the real state of things possible. "The cause of all this cruel delay is explained at last," he went on. "The Sea-Gull on her way back to England was wrecked. All Bolston's papers are lost. He had a fever brought on by cold and exposure, and after he had lain for weeks in an Irish inn, he waked into life with scarcely his sense of identity come back to him. He writes that he has begun to recover himself, however, and that by the time we send the papers again, new copies, he shall be able to attend to the business as well as ever. For our work, he might as well be at the bottom of the sea."

Elizabeth turned pale.

"When did you learn this?" she asked.

"A fortnight ago. I ought to have told you of it before, but I hated to pain you."

She looked at him firmly. Then smiled a little through her paleness.

"Yes, it does pain me," she said. "But I don't despair. We are not married, you and I, Mr. Archdale, and I wish Katie would throw aside her nonsensical scruples. What matter whether Mr. Harwin was a minister? Why will she not let it go that it was all fun, and marry you? I think she ought."

"I think so, too," he said. He did not add his suspicions that Katie was acting upon the covert suggestions of his father which had so disturbed her conscience that she declared she must be satisfied that the whole thing was a falsehood of Harwin's.

"I wish we could find him," said Elizabeth.

"So do I", answered Archdale under his breath. She looked at him quickly and away again, feeling that her last wish had not been a wise one. "Yet" pursued Archdale, "you see that if Harwin's story is false, the whole matter drops there, and that would make it simpler, to say the least of it. Katie does not like the idea of having the court obliged to decide about it. She says it seems like a divorce."

Elizabeth flushed.

"Do I like it?" she said. "But anything is better than this."

"Yes," he answered, then seemed as if he would like to take back his frank confession. She smiled at him.

"Don't try to soften it, Mr. Archdale. We both mean that. You speak honestly because you are honest and understand what I want, too; because you are wise enough to believe in the absurdity of this whole affair."

"You did not think it absurd at first," he answered.

"I was overwhelmed. I had no time to consider."

"No," he said, "only time to feel."

"Don't speak of that day," and she shuddered. "If I were to live a thousand years, there never could be another so horrible."

He had risen to go. He stood a moment silent. Then:

"You are so reassuring," he said. "Yet, how can either of us be assured? Perhaps you are my wife."

"Never," she said, and looked at him with a sudden coldness in her face.

"If a minister has married us," he answered, "nobody has yet unmarried us."

The gravity of her expression impressed him.

"God has not married us," she said. "I shall never admit that." There was a moment's silence. "Poor Katie!" she added.

"Yes, poor Katie,—and Mistress Royal."

Elizabeth smiled sadly.

"You remember that?" she asked. "It would not be strange if you forgot everybody but Katie, and yourself."

"It would be strange if I forgot you, since you are,—what you are."

"I foresee," she answered, "that we shall be good friends. By and by, when you and Katie are well established in your beautiful new house I shall visit you there; Katie invited me long ago, and you and I are going to be good friends."

Chapter XII—Perplexities

Although Elizabeth had been so brave before Archdale, yet as soon as he had gone she sank into her chair and covered her face with her hands, as if by this she could shut out the visions of him from her mind. She lived in the land of the Puritans, and Indiana had not been discovered. She knew that those words which ought to have been so sacred but which she had spoken so lightly were no longer light to her, but that in the depths of her heart they weighed like lead and gave her a sense of guilt that she could not throw off. Even if they proved nothing in law, they had already brought a terrible punishment, and if,—if—. With a low cry she started up. Life had grown black again. But she was not accustomed to give way to emotions, still less to forebodings. In a few moments she went back to her embroidery, and to Mrs. Eveleigh.

Archdale left Mr. Royal's house with a new comprehension of the woman he had married in jest. Somehow, he had always considered that Katie and he were really the only sufferers. Young, petted, rich, and handsome, it had not come forcibly home to him before, however much his courtesy might have assumed it, that this young woman whom, though he thought she did well enough, he had no high opinion of, could actually suffer in the idea of being his wife. But he saw it now through all her brave bearing, and his vanity received its death-wound that morning.

Three days afterwards he was at Katie's home; he tried to feel that he had the old right to visit her. "Your friend is so brave," he said, "she puts courage into me. Katie, why don't you feel so, too?"

"Ah!" said the girl looking at him tearfully, "how can you ask that? It is she who has the right to you, and I have not."

"She wants it as little as mortal can," he answered. "I think except as your betrothed she does not even like me very well, although she was so kind when I came away." And he repeated Elizabeth's parting prophesy.

"She and I are the two extremes," returned the girl. "If Mr. Harwin is a minister, it will seem to me, as I told you, just as if you and Elizabeth had been divorced."

"Nonsense, love, you cannot separate what has never been joined together." He kissed away the tears that brimmed over from Katie's eyes. Yet as he did so, he was not sure that he had the right to do it, for the shadow of another woman seemed to come between them. He had confessed his dread to Elizabeth, but to this girl it was impossible; to her he must be all confidence. How different were these two women toward whom he stood in such peculiar relations, betrothed to one, possibly married to the other. If this last were true which of them would suffer the more? A week ago his imagination would not have seized upon Elizabeth's feelings at all; now he was convinced that it would be no less hard for her than for Katie; hard through her friendship and her pride. But this one's tender little heart would break. After all, it was only of her that he could think. The waiting was growing unendurable. Yet he felt that his father was right when he said that the easiest way, the shortest in the end, was to prove if possible that Harwin's story of his vocation was fabricated. Indeed, there was no case for appeal to the Court unless that were established. Let that fall through, and the lovers were free to marry.

"Have you heard" he asked after a time, "that Sir Temple and Lady Dacre have written that they are coming to visit us,—us, Katie? You remember they had an invitation to our wedding,—they shall have another, dearest,—and could not come then, but they propose paying us a visit in our own home at Seascape where they suppose we are living now, you and I. I told you about my staying with them in England and asking them to visit me when I was married. I was thinking then of my chances of being engaged to you, Katie."

"Yes, you told me of them," she said, and after a pause added, "You will have to write them the truth."

"It is too late for that to do any good. They follow close on the heels of the letter; that is, by the next ship."

"Then I suppose Aunt Faith will take them, either at your father's, or at Seascape. Which will it be, Stephen?"

"That house! It can never be opened until you do it, Katie; you know that well enough."

The girl sighed. Yet with all the sadness of her lot it was delightful to be loved and mourned over in this way; mourned over, and yet perhaps not lost.

"I don't know about that being the best way," she returned slowly. "You know Stephen, Uncle Walter is peculiar, and you could not entertain your guests yourself; you would not have freedom. Really, it would not be quite as nice for you."

"Always thinking of me," he cried. "It seems now that the only freedom I care about is the freedom to make you my wife, Katie."

"Yes," she sighed again and was silent a moment. Then she said, "But Stephen, if Aunt Faith is there, you know it won't be like anybody else, and you can show them the house I am going to have. Do you believe that?" she broke out suddenly. "Do you really believe that? This uncertainty is killing me—don't imagine that I could not wait for years, I am not dying for you, Stephen; I should not do such a thing, of course. But not to know! I must know soon; life is unendurable under such a strain."

"Poor little girl, she was not made, surely, to bear suffering," thought Archdale. And he went away assured that she was most of all to be pitied, that she was least protected from the North wind which was blowing against them all three. As to the house, she should certainly have her way about it. He saw that she was sacrificing her own feelings for him. She did not understand that it was making matters a great deal harder, she thought that she was making it pleasanter for him. Well, she should have the satisfaction of believing she had done so. It did not occur to him that the girl had taken the most effectual way of awaking a sentimental interest in the persons who were imagining that they were to be her guests. Katie was one of those people who illustrate the use of the velvet glove, for in spite of her sprightliness, she was considered the gentlest little creature in the Colonies.