UNHAPPY EVENT IN THE LIFE OF NICODEMUS HANDY—CONSTERNATION OF QUODLIBET—DISASTERS AMONG THE DIRECTORS—EXPLOSION OF THE BANK—CONVERSATION BETWEEN THEODORE FOG AND MR. GRANT—FOG'S VIEWS OF THE QUESTION OF DISTRESS—COMPLIMENT TO JESSE FERRET.

I know not which way to turn. Auribus teneo lupum. I can scarcely compose myself to write. Such an event! Many things have happened in this world to excite wonder, many grief, many indignation, many wailing, lamentation, and moans; but we have had an incident in the Borough which overmasters all these emotions by the height and the depth, the length and the breadth, the stupendous magnitude of the amazement which it has spread through all minds.

The investigation of the affairs of the bank, under the direction of Mr. Hardbottle, lasted more than a fortnight. They were not yet brought to a close, when—— Let the following paragraph from an extra Whole Hog, issued on the spur of the moment, tell the rest. I have no nerve for such a disclosure.

The sensation produced in the Borough by this intelligence is not to be described. The flight of Mr. Handy was the only topic of conversation for a week. An officer followed him to Thorough Blue, whence, it was rumored, the fugitive had shaped his course for Texas: other reports assigned Canada as his place of refuge—all was uncertainty. Legal measures were taken to secure his property. This consisted of his elegant mansion on Copperplate Ridge, sundry rows of warehouses, and other buildings in Quodlibet, a large number of which had been left for two years past in an unfinished state. Upon investigation it was ascertained that the whole of this estate had been converted into money; our worthy representative, the Hon. Middleton Flam, having an absolute conveyance for Handy House, its furniture, and appurtenances, and certain political friends, connected with the custom-house in New York, rank Whigs, having mortgages on all the rest of the property. The consequence was, the bank was able to secure nothing.

One of our first proceedings, after the flight of the Cashier, was to call together the New-Light Club, where resolutions were passed denouncing his fraud as the necessary consequence of his Whig principles, censuring the bank, in the strongest terms, as a swindling Whig concern, and avowing an unalterable devotion to the Independent Treasury, as the only sound, genuine, New-Light Democratic experiment which it was proper for the government to make, in the present condition of affairs—unless the President should change his mind and find out something still more Democratic; in which event the New-Light Club pledged itself to give that other measure their cordial and patriotic support.

In the course of a fortnight, the inhabitants of the Borough were surprised to read from a New York paper, in the list of passengers who sailed for Liverpool by the packet of the first of October, among the names of sundry fashionables, those also of Mrs. and Miss Handy; and we were, not long afterward, relieved from all doubt as to the Cashier's destination, by seeing it publicly announced that he had gone to Havre, from which point, as soon as he could be joined by his interesting and distressed family, he designed making the tour of Europe.

From the period of the elopement of Mr. Handy, we had a series of convulsions. The first incident of importance that followed it, was the failure of the whole Board of Directors; each of whom, according to his own showing, had lost so much money by the absconding Cashier as to be totally unable to pay up his liabilities to the bank. The next disaster was the explosion of the bank itself. The abduction of so large an amount of its funds, as well as its unfortunate list of bad debts from the Directors, rendered this inevitable. Then came riots among the holders of its paper, who besieged the door for several days, and even threatened to pull down the building. Never was a community in a more unhappy commotion than ours at this eventful epoch.

Mr. Grant visited the Borough frequently during the prevalence of these disorders. One day he met Theodore Fog, who seemed to be rather pleasurably excited by the events which occupied and engrossed the public attention—for Theodore, as he was in the habit of remarking, had nothing to lose by these domestic convulsions, and everything to gain. The election was at hand, and he was again the True-Grit candidate; but on this occasion there was no opposition from his own party, and the chance of electing a Whig was deemed hopeless. That side made no nomination; and Fog, therefore, with his two colleagues of the last year, was in a fair way to walk over the course without a contest. The interests of the election, consequently, were altogether absorbed in the other incidents of the day. Still, Theodore was not inattentive to the voters, and was, as usual, loquacious and voluble.

"A pretty considerable upheaving of the elements of social life, Mr. Grant," said he, upon encountering the old gentleman on Ferret's steps at the front door of The Hero.

"I think so," replied Mr. Grant; "you have brought your pigs at last to a fine market."

"Our pigs!" exclaimed Fog, with an excellent representation of surprise:—"well, that beats M'Gonegal, and he beat the devil. The whole litter comes from a Whig mother: it is the spawn of that aristocracy, against which the intelligence, the honor, and the virtue of the nation have been waging war ever since the Reign of Terror;—but, sir, it is down; the intelligence and firmness of the people have triumphed at last."

"You allude, I suppose, to your Democratic bank here," said Mr. Grant.

"No doubt," replied Fog, "the Whigs will attempt to shuffle the bank off their shoulders and buckle it on the Democrats. But that won't do, sir; that's too stale a trick to deceive the people. The Whigs, sir, are men of property; the Democrats are poor, sir. Banks are not made by poor men, Mr. Grant; there's the logic of the case."

"And this Patriotic Copperplate Bank of Quodlibet was not set on foot by Nicodemus Handy and Theodore Fog?" returned Mr. Grant.

"By Nicodemus Handy," replied Fog, "not by me. Sir, Nicodemus was always a Whig; and, what's more, attempted to beguile me into his scheme. He took advantage of my unsuspecting temper—endeavored to lull into security my artless, confiding nature; essayed, sir, but in vain, to seduce me from my allegiance to the Democratic faith, by tempting offers of the presidency of the bank—but, sir, my virtue was too stern for his treacherous arts. I saw the gilded bait and spurned it. It was—I say it myself—a rare example of successful resistance to the fascinations of the tempter. Many a Democrat has fallen into the snare of the Whigs under less allurement. I pride myself on this evidence of self-command. I have reason to be proud of it."

"You have a short memory," said Mr. Grant.

"Why as to that, old friend," replied Fog with a good-natured laugh, at the same time laying his hand on Mr. Grant's shoulder, "you can't call that a fault. Every politician has a short memory—he'd be no politician without it. Mine's no shorter than the rest. Sir, let me tell you, the great secret of the success of the immutable, New-Light, Quodlibetarian Democracy, is in the shortness of the memory. Still, I would like to know what you mean by the remark."

"I mean to say," replied Mr. Grant, "that when you and Nicodemus Handy were endeavoring to persuade me to take an interest in your bank, you didn't think it so undemocratic as you seem to do to-day."

"It is impossible for me to remember what I said on the occasion to which you allude, sir," returned Fog; "but my principles have always been the same. I could not have gone against them, sir; morally impossible."

"And I told you that your bank was a humbug," continued Mr. Grant.

"Ay, ay," rejoined Fog; "that's the old song. You Whigs are monstrous good at prophesying after the result is known."

"You admit, I suppose," said Mr. Grant, "that this Bank of Quodlibet has exploded?"

"Burst, sir, into a thousand tatters," replied Fog.

"You admit that there is a large amount of paper money afloat?"

"A genuine Whig crop," answered Fog: "enough to make a stack as large as the largest in your barnyard."

"You admit the derangement of values all over the country?"

"Yes, and of the people too, if you make it a point."

"The failures of traders and of banks?"

"Yes."

"This is reasonable, Mr. Fog. Now, you shall judge whether the Whigs prophesy before or after the result," said Mr. Grant, as he thrust his hand into his skirt pocket and drew forth a pamphlet. "I expected to meet you to-day, and I have brought you a document for your especial perusal. It is the speech of a Whig member of Congress, made in 1834, upon the Removal of the Deposits;—you will find the leaf turned down at page 32; and, as you are a good reader, I wish you would favor this company by reading it aloud, where you see it scored in the margin."

"Not I," replied Theodore; "that's four years ago. The statute of limitation bars that."

"He's afeard to read it," said Abel Brawn to some five or six persons, who had collected around the steps during this conversation. "Mr. Grant's mighty particular with his documents, and ain't to be shook off in an argument."

"The., you ain't afeard, old fellow?" said Flan Sucker. "Walk into him, The. Read it."

"Give me the book," said Fog, "and let's see what it is. Speech by Horace Binney—eh? Who's he? I think I have heard the name. Well, for the sake of obliging a friend, I'll read.—Conticuere omnes—which means listen." Fog then read as follows:—

"It is here that we find a pregnant source of the present agony—it is in the clearly avowed design to bring a second time upon this land the curse of an unregulated, uncontrolled State-Bank paper currency. We are again to see the drama which already, in the course of the present century, has passed before us, and closed in ruin. If the project shall be successful——"

"What project?" inquired Fog.

"The destruction of the Bank of the United States, and the refusal to create another in its place," answered Mr. Grant.

Theodore read on—

"A rank forgery," said Theodore Fog, "printed for the occasion."

"That won't do," replied Mr. Grant; "I have been the owner of this pamphlet ever since 1834 myself."

"Then Binney is a Dimmycrat," said Sim Travers, "and you are trying to pass him off on us for a Whig. Sound Dimmycratic doctrine and true prophecy."

"Huzza for Binney!" shouted Flan Sucker, "a tip-top Dimmycrat, whoever he is!—I never heard of him before."

"Yes," said Mr. Grant, "one ounce of his Democracy is worth a ton weight of the best you will find in the Globe. But read on, a little further below, where you see it scored."

"I have an innate and mortal aversion to reading," returned Fog.

"It must be gone through," said Flan Sucker,—"because them sentiments is the rale Dimmocracy, and we want to hear them. So, go it, The!—Yip—listen boys, to the doctrine."

"Well," said Fog, "if you will have it—as the pillory said to the thief, 'lend me your ears.'"

"I'll read no more," said Fog, giving back the book, with a theatrical flourish of his arm, to Mr. Grant; "it is nothing more than stealing our principles from us, and then bringing them up to break our heads."

"It is good Whig prophecy, four years before its fulfillment," said Mr. Grant, "and which has come true to the letter. It shows you that we set our faces against your increase of banks in the very beginning; gave you warning of what was to come; painted the very evils of this day so plainly before your eyes that nothing but willful blindness prevented you from seeing them; and now, when it has all fallen out as it was foretold, you attempt to make us responsible to the people for your measures."

"Sir," said Fog, rather evading the argument, as it is an admirable part of the New-Light system to do when it pinches, "the New-Light Democracy changes its measures, but never its principles. We go, sir, for the will of the people—that's the principle which lies at the bottom of all our actions. If the people are for new measures, we frankly come out with them. Now, sir, the people are against the banks—they are for the Independent Treasury: of course, then, you know where to find us. You can't get round us—there we are."

"I'll not dispute that point with you," replied Mr. Grant; "you have been changing from bad to worse ever since you have had the control of affairs. I only wanted to remind you that the present distress of the country is the work of your own hands, and that you have brought it about with your eyes open."

Saying these words Mr. Grant walked off toward the stable, where he mounted his horse and rode out of the Borough.

As soon as the old gentleman was gone, Theodore Fog remarked that he had not had as dry a talk for some years, and proposed to the company a general visit to the bar.

"They talk of distress," said he. "Mr. Grant has gone off with his head full of that notion of distress; it's a famous Whig argument, that. But what distress is there? Drinking's as cheap; eating's as cheap as ever; so is lying. Eating, drinking, and lying, are the three principal occupations of man. Lying down, I mean, metaphorically for sleeping. Where's the distress, then? Mere panic—false alarm—a Whig invention! The country is better off than it ever was before. Not for men who trade upon credit, I allow—not for merchants and shippers in general—not for your fellows that go about for jobs—not for farmers—not for regular laborers—not for mechanics, with families on their hands, and perhaps not for single ones neither;—but first-rate for lawyers, bar-keepers, and brokers, for marshals and sheriffs—capital for constables—nonpareil for postmasters, contractors, express-riders, and office-holders; and glorious for fellows that are fond of talking and have nothing to do:—these are the very gristle of the New-Light Democracy, and make a genteel majority at the elections."

"Mr. Fog," said Jesse Ferret, "I am so well pleased at your reading for Mr. Grant this morning, that I'm determined to give you a treat;—help yourself and your friends. Gentlemen, walk up."

"Glad you liked it, old buck," replied Fog. "Bless your heart, I'm used to such things. A political man must always be ready for rubbers; never would get a gloss if it wasn't for brushing. That Binney's a smart fellow; but every word of that speech was whispered into his ear by Benton; I know the fact personally. He and Benton sit up every night of their lives together in Washington, playing old sledge and drinking cocktail: that accounts for Binney's Democracy. Gentlemen, our friend Ferret's treat—we'll drink his health—a worthy, persuadable, amenable man—so here's to him. Wait for the word—Jesse Ferret, a gentleman and a scholar, an antiquarian and a tavern-keeper—long life to him!"