“Was there much of a sensation there when you left B— this morning?” said the manager of a leading daily to me as I was comfortably seated in his pleasant room in the fine group of buildings known to all the world as the printing and publishing offices of The West Anglian Daily, where I had gone in search of a little cash, which, happily, I obtained.

“None at all,” said I, in utter ignorance of what he was driving at. “None at all; no one knew I was leaving,” and I smiled as if I had said something good.

“No, I did not mean that,” said the manager. “It seems you have not heard the news. Brown and Co. have suspended payment. We have just had a telegram to that effect,” which he handed me to read. “Do you bank there?” he asked.

“Upon my word,” I said, “I don’t know. I never read the name of the firm; I only know that I pay a small sum in monthly, and write a few cheques as occasion requires.”

“You’re a pretty fellow,” said the manager.

“Now I come to think of it,” said I, “that must be my bank, as there is no other in the place, except a small branch which has just been opened within the last few months by Burney and Co.”

“Well, I am sorry for you,” said my friend.

“Oh, it don’t matter much to me,” I replied, with a vain attempt at a smile. Yet I was terribly annoyed, nevertheless. I had let my deposit increase more than was my general habit, thinking as Christmas was coming I would postpone settling little accounts till after the festivities of the Christmas season were over. I was now lamenting I had done anything of the kind. I was not very happy. Our little town of B— is a rising place, where people come and spend a lot of money in the summer. Some spirited individual or other is always putting up new buildings. Speculation is rife, and the tradesmen hope to grow prosperous as the place prospers. Anybody with half-a-crown in his pocket to spare is hardly ever seen. They all bank at Brown’s. I daresay such of them as are able overdraw. Private bankers who are anxious to do business offer great facilities in this respect; but still there are many, chiefly poor widows and sailors who make a little money in the summer, and they bank it all. We have a church that is about to be enlarged, and the money that has been raised for the purpose was placed in the bank, and we have a few retired officers and tradesmen who have their money there. “They ha’ got £300 of my money,” said an angry farmer, as he banged away at the closed door, on which a notice was suspended that, in consequence of temporary difficulties, the bank had stopped payment for a few days. “You might ha’ given a fellow the hint to take out his money,” said another irritated individual to the manager, whom persistent knocking had brought to the door. I was sorry for the manager; he always wore a smile on his face. That smile had vanished as the last rose of summer. No one in B— was more upset than he was when the catastrophe occurred. Some of the knowing ones in town had smelt a rat; one or two depositors had drawn out very heavily. Our smiling manager had no conception of what was to happen till, just as he was sitting down to his breakfast, with his smiling wife and ruddy, fat-cheeked little ones, there came to him a telegram from headquarters to the effect that he was not to open, followed by a messenger with despatches of which he was as ignorant as the merest ploughboy. I must say that in the headquarters the secret was well kept, whatever the leakage elsewhere.

Coming back to B—, the bright little town seemed sitting in the shadow of death. “Any news?” said I to the station-master as I got out of the train. “Only that the bank is broke,” was the reply. “Ah! that won’t matter to you,” said one to me, “your friends will help you.” In vain I repeated that I had no friends. “Ah, well,” said another, “you can work; it is the old, the infirm, the sick, who are past work, for whom I am sorry.” And thus I am left to sleep off my losses as best I may, trying to believe that the difficulty is only temporary, and positively assured in some quarters that the bank will open all right next day. Alas! hope tells a flattering tale. Next morning, after a decent interval, to show that, like Dogberry, I am used to losses, I take my morning walk and casually pass the bank, only to see that the door is as firmly closed as ever; I read all the morning papers, and they tell me that the bank will be opened as usual at ten. I know better, and all I meet are sorrowing. One melancholy depositor, who tells me that the bank has all the money he has taken this summer and his pension besides, assures me that the bank will open at twelve. I pass two hours later, and it is still shut. Women are weeping as they see ruin staring them in the face. Woe to me; my butcher calls for his little account. I have to ask him to call again. I see the tax-gatherer eyeing me from afar, likewise the shoemaker; but I rush inside to find that the midday mail has arrived, bringing me a letter from town, as follows: “With respect to your cheque on Brown’s Bank, received yesterday, I regret to hear this day of the suspension of the bank. Under these circumstances your cheque will not be cleared, so that we shall have to debit your account with it.” This is pleasant. I have another cheque sent by the same post as the other. I begin to fear on that account. Happily, no more letters of that kind come in, and I take another turn in the open air. Every one looks grave. There are little knots of men standing like conspirators in every street. They are trying to comfort one another. “Oh, it will be all right,” I hear them exclaim; but they look as if they did not believe what they said, and felt it was all wrong. Now and then one steals away towards the bank, but the door is still shut, and he comes back gloomier-looking than ever. I am growing sad myself. I have not seen a smile or heard a pleasant word to-day, except from my neighbour, who chuckles over the fact that his account is overdrawn. He laughs on the other side of his mouth, however, when he realises the fact that he has cheques he has not sent in. Another day comes, and I know my fate. Some banks have agreed to come to the rescue. They will pay all bank-notes in full, and will make advances not exceeding 15s. in the pound in respect of credit accounts as may be necessary. Happily, our little town is safe. Another day or two of this strain on our credit must have thrown us all into a general smash. This is good as far as it goes, but I fail to see why the holder of one of Brown’s banknotes is to have his money in full, while I am to accept a reduction of five shillings in the pound or more. However, I have no alternative. I would not mind the reduction if my friends the creditors would accept a similar reduction in their little accounts. Alas! it is no use making such a proposal to them; I must grin and bear it. One consolation is that my wife—bless her!—is away holiday-making and does not need to ask me for cash. On the third day we begin to fear that we may not get ten shillings in the pound, and the post brings me back another cheque with a modest request for cash by return. All over the country there is weeping and wailing. One would bear it better a month hence. Christmas is coming! Already the bells are preparing to ring it in. I must put on the conventional smile. Christmas cards are coming in, wishing me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! and, oh dear! I must say, Thank you! Alas! alas! troubles are like babies—the more you nurse them, the bigger they grow.

And now it is time for me to make my bow and retire. Having said that my bank was smashed up, I cannot expect any one to be subsequently interested in my proceedings. We live in a commercial country and a commercial age, and the men whom the society journals reverence are the men who have made large fortunes, either by their own industry and forethought and self-denial, or by the devil’s aid. And I am inclined to think that he has a good deal to do with the matter. If ever we are to have plain living and high thinking, we shall have to give up this wonderful worship of worldly wealth and show. Douglas Jerrold makes one of his heroes exclaim, “Every man has within him a bit of a swindler.” When Madame Roland died on the scaffold, whither she had been led by the so-called champions of liberty and equality and the rights of man, she exclaimed, as every school-boy knows, or ought to know, “Oh, Liberty, what crimes are done in thy name!” So say I, Oh, wealth, which means peace and happiness, and health and joy (Sydney Smith used to say that he felt happier for every extra guinea he had in his pocket, and most of us can testify the same), what crimes are done in thy name; not alone in the starvation of the poor, in the underpaying of the wage-earning class who help to make it, but in the way in which sharks and company promoters seek to defraud the few who have saved money of all their store. You recollect Douglas Jerrold makes the hero already referred to say, “You recollect Glass, the retired merchant? What an excellent man was Glass! A pattern man to make a whole generation by. What could surpass him in what is called honesty, rectitude, moral propriety, and other gibberish? Well, Glass grows a beard. He becomes one of a community, and immediately the latent feeling (swindling) asserts itself.” And the worst of it is that Glass as a company director and promoter is worshipped as a great man, especially if he secures a gratuitous advertisement by liberality in religious and philanthropic circles, and exercises a lavish liberality in the way of balls and dinners. Society crawls at his feet as they used to do when poor Hudson, the ex-draper of York, reigned a few years in splendour as the Railway King. Glass goes everywhere, gets into Parliament. Rather dishonest, a sham and a fraud as he is, we make him an idol, and then scorn far-away savages who make idols of sticks and stones.

W. Speaight & Sons, Printers, Fetter Lane, London.