Part 1

‘CORNERS.’

The modern ‘Corner’ is unlike that into which the historical John Horner, Esq., retired, in this respect, that those who venture into one seldom succeed in bringing out a plum or anything else but discomfiture. They may plunge not only their thumbs but their whole hands and arms into the ‘pie’ they essay to monopolise; but as a rule, with almost no exceptions, they have to draw back empty-handed.

The word ‘Corner’ in its commercial application is of American origin, and along with that other mysterious word ‘Syndicate,’ is doubtless sufficiently perplexing to non-commercial readers. The prominence and the frequency of the appearance of both words in the newspapers indicate a strange commercial tendency of the day. That tendency is to amalgamate the hazardous element of speculation with the legitimate fabric of steady industry. Once upon a time, speculators formed a distinct class, apart from sober merchants and plodding manufacturers. They had their uses; for none but shallow thinkers will dismiss speculation in one general sweep as immoral and evil; but they were a distinctly marked class by themselves; not distinctly marked, perhaps, to the outer world, but clearly enough defined for those engaged in commercial pursuits. But now there exists no such definite line of demarcation. The speculative element enters into every branch of trade industry; and by the speculative element we do not mean the perfectly legitimate exercise of foresight or experience which enables a business man to anticipate events which raise or depress the market values of the commodities in which he is interested, but the desire and attempt to be the motor, or one of the motors, in such movements. It is one thing to buy heavily of a commodity because your instinct or your information or your experience teaches you that a comparative scarcity, and consequent dearness, of the commodity will shortly occur. It is quite another thing to buy up a commodity for the purpose of creating a scarcity for your own benefit. It is one thing, again, to sell out as quickly as you can such stocks as you hold of a commodity which you see reason to think will be depressed in value later on. It is another thing to sell in advance a commodity which you do not possess, in the hope of buying it cheaper; or to sell out heavily what you do possess, in order to frighten others to sell also, that you may buy back again at a still lower price than you sold.

There must always be some amount of speculation in every department of commerce and industry. The shipbuilder, for instance, must to some extent speculate on a continuance or otherwise of the level of wages, or of the prices of iron, at the time he makes a contract for a vessel. The manufacturer who buys a quantity of raw cotton must speculate on the chances of the market enabling him to sell the products of the cotton when manufactured. The merchant must speculate on the solvency of his buyers, and his sellers even, when he concurrently buys and sells a cargo of goods. And so on all through the gamut of commerce. But these are the ordinary daily risks of trade, which it is the business of a trader to estimate and provide for. Quite other is the form of a speculation of modern development. We do not say it is of modern origin, for men have not varied very much either in character or in practice since commerce began; but its development is modern, and its application is modern.

This modern phase has made current two curious words—‘Corner’ and ‘Syndicate.’ The latter is of Latin origin, and was not unknown in old-world commerce. Then it meant the combination of a number of merchants for the consummation of a venture beyond the means or the inclinations of any one of them. The Dutch merchants were fond of forming syndicates for large trading purposes; and the East India Company, Hudson’s Bay Company, and many other concerns of our own time which have now attained the dimensions and the dignity of public corporations, had a similar origin. The syndicate system had in it the germ of the joint-stock Company system; but although each member subscribed a certain amount, which he would advance, or for which he would be liable, his liability could not always be restricted thereto. The uncertainty in this respect evolved the limited liability principle now so common. But the syndicates of to-day are of somewhat different character; they are usually combinations of capitalists to bring about changes in the markets for commodities or stocks for a specific purpose. In this manner they are the parents of ‘Corners.’

The word Corner is probably also of Latin origin. It suggests _cornu_, a horn—a thing which terminates in an angle, where is a secret and retired place. The phrase ‘To make a Corner,’ however, is one of purely American origin, and it is suggestive enough. It implies the concentrating of some object into a limited area, from which there shall be but one egress, of which the Cornerers hold the key. It suggests something like the gathering of a Highland sheep-farm, where the animals are irresistibly driven in from widely distributed spots to one small ‘fank.’ It suggests the bag or drawer of the thrifty housewife, into which is gathered all actually or potentially useful articles. It suggests the commonplace book of the wide-reading and much-writing journalist. It suggests also the old teapot, the lucky stocking, and the Savings-bank. But it is different from all these.

For there are two kinds of Corners, in the commercial sense. There is the Corner into which you may drive others, and the Corner into which you may retire yourself. Of the former, the best illustration we can recall is that of the operation in the Stock of the Hannibal and St Joseph Railroad, which took place in New York a year or so ago. Certain astute and light-principled men in Wall Street became aware that another habitué of the same circle was selling this Stock rather heavily, in the belief that it was too high, and would soon be lower. In short, he was doing what in the lingo of the mart is called ‘bearing.’ The railroad is a small one, and the amount of Stock comparatively small. It was easy enough, therefore, for a few of his competitors to form a ‘syndicate’ to buy up all the stock in existence, so that when the period came for the seller to implement his sales, the wherewithal was unobtainable except from them. We need scarcely say that the operators in the Stock markets daily buy and sell securities which they intend neither to take nor to give; they merely propose to take or to pay the difference in price which may exist at a certain future day of settlement. But it is always in the option of a buyer to insist on the delivery of the actual stock, if he really wants it; and then the seller must provide it, at whatever cost. The cunning buyers of the Hannibal stock did not want it, and indeed they paid for much of it far beyond its real value, because every purchase they made raised its price in the market. What they wanted was to place the original seller, or ‘bear,’ in a Corner; and this they effectually did. They forced up the price to, let us say, three hundred dollars—we forget the exact figures, but they are immaterial—of what the seller had sold at, say, ninety dollars. And worse than that, when the day of settlement came, the seller could not obtain stock at any price whatever. He was completely ‘cornered,’ and had eventually to pay the difference which the keen ‘bulls’ chose to exact. But with the sequel comes the moral. Having exacted all they could out of the unfortunate seller, they found _themselves_ in a Corner. They were possessed of a quantity of Stock which they did not want, and which nobody else wanted at anything like the prices they had paid for it. They had to sell, and with every sale the price came tumbling down, so that ultimately, we believe, their loss upon their own purchases exceeded considerably what they had extracted from the poor man they put in ‘a Corner.’

Then there is the Corner into which you go yourself. Messrs John Horner and Company of Chicago form the impression that, let us say, pigs’ bristles might, could, would, or should advance in price. They determine that bristles shall; and set to work to buy all they can lay their hands on, and to contract for future delivery of as much as they can get any one to sell. Of course, the price advances, and this the more rapidly in proportion as their purchases extend; but the unfortunate thing—for them—is, that they are themselves the principal, if not the sole, purchasers at the enhanced rates. By-and-by they become the masters of all, or nearly all, the available supply of pigs’ bristles; they have ‘made a Corner,’ and in the American phraseology, they ‘control’ the market. But markets are rather unmanageable affairs, after all, as Messrs John Horner and Company find when they have to realise in order to pay for their later purchases; or when, if they have been rich enough to pay and lie out of the money, they want to realise their profit.

The effect is still more pronounced when the Corner is attempted in one of the staples of commerce, such as wheat or cotton, the supplies of which are not confined to one spot, and are practically illimitable. For such huge Corners as these, combinations of several firms are needed in order to provide the money; and the reverse, when it comes, is therefore more widespread and disastrous. The Wheat Corner in Chicago, at the beginning of 1882, was a remarkable instance of audacity and also of recklessness in this species of speculation; and the effects of the tremendous collapse have not yet worn off. A still more recent example was the Lard Corner in the same city, which collapsed in June of last year, and the sweeping out of which brought down several firms in other parts of the States. But we must not conclude that operations of this kind are confined to America; we have them in this country also; and not very long ago, a bold and very nearly successful Corner was made in Liverpool in cotton, which produced a good deal of moralising and very heavy losses.

It is often a delicate matter to define what is legitimate and what is illegitimate speculation; but of the moral aspect of Corners there can be little doubt. They are bold and entirely selfish attempts to produce artificial scarcity, to the prejudice of the many, and for the benefit of the few. They essay to overset the operation of the inevitable and just law of supply and demand. They are therefore wrong in morals, and false in economics. They are not examples of trading, in the proper meaning of the term; they are merely specimens of inordinate gambling. They disorganise commerce, because they divert streams of commodities from ordinary channels, which it has taken the labour of years to create; and they disorganise finance, by deranging the exchanges between countries, through the concentration of commodities and money which should be circulating. Their immediate effect is to inflict a large loss upon the commercial centres, not only directly of the countries in which they occur, but also indirectly upon other countries. This is readily capable of demonstration, but is too technical a question to enter upon here.

In the old days of British commerce, the practice called ‘forestalling’ was a penal offence. Forestalling is defined by M’Culloch as ‘the buying or contracting for any cattle, provision, or merchandise on its way to the market, or dissuading persons from sending their goods there, or persuading them to raise the price, or spreading any false rumour with intent to enhance the value of any article.’ The penalties enacted by various statutes were very severe; but they were repealed in 1772. There was also a practice described in the old statutes as ‘engrossing,’ which meant simply the buying up of corn and other provisions in order to raise the prices thereof. Although the Acts referring to this practice were repealed, we believe that ‘engrossing’ is still an indictable offence at common law. As a matter of fact, however, no indictment is ever made, and if made, no conviction would ever follow. In his exhaustive article on the Corn-laws, Mr M’Culloch showed very ably how the speculations of merchants who buy up corn in times of abundance react to the benefit of the community in times of scarcity; and how in times of scarcity similar speculations operate to prevent waste and to induce economy. But there is some considerable difference between the operations referred to by M’Culloch and those which we have under review just now.

The unwholesome effects of Corners, and the dangerous features they lend to commerce, are so powerfully felt in the United States, that the legislative bodies of the States of Illinois and New York—States where the evil is most prevalent—have been seriously considering how to counteract them. Each assembly had before it a Bill for rendering these operations illegal, and punishable by heavy penalties. It is exceedingly doubtful, however, if either of the Bills will ever become law; and it is not by any means manifest that legislation on the subject is desirable. The hand of the law is rarely interposed to stay the stream of commerce without producing more evils than it seeks to prevent. That stream often gets into muddy and unhealthy, even dangerous channels; but it has a recuperative power within itself greater than any which can be applied extraneously. The moral effects of Corners are bad upon all engaged in them, and they inflict hardship and loss upon many innocent people, as a consequence of the solidarity of all social affairs. The commercial effects also are bad, as we have shown; and herein lies the chief hope of reform. We cannot recall a single instance of a Corner—and we have been acquainted with the inner history of a good many of the species—which did not result in overthrow and disaster, sooner or later, to those in it. Either the operation attempted is too gigantic for the means at command; or success in the first steps feeds the appetite for gain, and blinds the operators to the attendant risks, so that they go too far; or they become timid, and do not go far enough. In the glow of extensive buying, the effects of the ultimate sales are always under-estimated. The object of a Corner is to buy in order to sell at some future time; and when the selling begins, the downfall of prices is always more rapid than the advance, and then the Corner is swept clean not only of the commodities, but also of those who put them in. And as there is about almost every evil some germ of good, we must not forget that the effect of a Corner is often to stimulate supplies of the commodity ‘cornered,’ in other regions, and the world is benefited by the increase of productive wealth. This, however, is an accident, and in no way justifies the creation of Corners, which are dark, malodorous, unhealthy, and altogether detestable features in the commercial structure. Public opinion, and the conviction that not only will he not bring out a plum, but that also he may possibly have to leave his skin behind him, will ultimately, we hope, have more effect in keeping the modern John Horner out of a Corner, than legislative enactment is likely to do.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXVII.—WHY IS SHE SO?

There never was a man who felt more buoyant on learning that his name had been set down in a will for a handsome legacy than Philip felt on learning that he had been cut out of one. First, it was the right thing to do: he was sure of that, the circumstances considered; next, it had helped to render this interview, which he had expected to be so painful, a pleasant one. Thus he was enabled to speed with a gay heart to Madge, carrying the happy tidings, that in spite of the awkward position he occupied between his uncle and father, he seemed to be more in accord with the latter, and certainly much more in his confidence, than he had been at any previous time.

He took a short-cut through the Forest—the way was too well known to him for him to lose it; and besides, the evening was not dark to his young eyes, although some black flying clouds helped the skeleton trees to make curious silhouettes across his path. Then swiftly down by the river-side, catching glimpses of stars flickering in the rippling water, and his steps keeping time to its patter, as it broke upon the stones or bulging sedges.

As he was crossing the stile at the foot of the meadow, he caught the sound of whispering voices from the direction of the ‘dancing beeches.’ A lovers’ tryst, no doubt, and the voices were very earnest. He smiled, and quickened his pace without looking back. He, too, was a lover.

At the house he found Aunt Hessy alone in the oak parlour, where the customary substantial tea was laid, instead of in the ordinary living-room. That was suggestive of company. Aunt Hessy had on her Sunday cap and gown. That also was suggestive of company.

‘Going to have some friends with you to-night?’ he said gaily.

‘Thou art a friend, and here,’ she answered, with her quiet welcoming smile; ‘but I do expect another—that is, Mr Beecham.’

‘What! you have persuaded the shy gentleman to become your guest at last? Do you know how I account for his shyness?—he saw you at church, and fell in love with you. That’s how it is, and he won’t come here because he was afraid of you. Lovers are always shy—at first.’

‘Thou art a foolish lad, Philip, and yet no shining example of the shyness of lovers. Were they all like thee, no maiden would lose a sweetheart for lack of boldness on his part. Art not ashamed?’

‘I am, Aunt Hessy,’ he answered with his boyish laugh, ‘ashamed that you cannot understand how we are all your lovers—and ought to be.’

‘That will do.’ But although she spoke with much decision in her tone, there was no displeasure in her comely face. She understood him.

‘I won’t say another word, except to ask you how you have conquered Mr Beecham?’

‘Ah, but we are not sure that we have conquered him yet. He was with Dick this morning, and gave him some help with the cattle. Dick is in the barn with them now, for he is afraid there’s trouble coming to them.’

‘And I suppose he is angrier than ever about the live-stock brought into the market from abroad?’

‘It is making him anxious, and with reason. Well, he wanted his friend to come and take dinner; but Mr Beecham said he would rather come in some evening soon and take tea with us. So, in the afternoon I sent Madge off to the village, and bade her _make_ him come this evening. I don’t know what’s come of her. She’s been away more than three hours, and she is not one to loiter on the road.’

‘Which way do you think they’ll come?’ asked Philip, rising quickly from his seat.

‘By the meadows, of course. She never comes round by the road except when driving.’

‘I’ll go and meet them.’

But before he could move, they heard the front-door open.

‘That’s her,’ said the dame, gladly expectant.

Madge entered the parlour alone; and Philip was surprised to note that she seemed to be a little startled by something—his presence perhaps. Next, he was surprised to note that she looked pale and excited.

‘Thou hast not persuaded our friend to come to us, then,’ said the dame, disappointed, and not observing Madge so closely as Philip.

‘Has anything happened Madge?—What has frightened you?’ he said quickly, taking her hands and gazing into her eyes.

‘Nothing has frightened me, Philip,’ she answered hurriedly, and with a remote sign of irritability at her present condition being noticed. ‘I have been running up the meadows, and I daresay I am flushed a little.’

‘Flushed!—Why, you are as white as if you had seen a ghost.’

‘Well, perhaps I have seen a ghost. Would you like to go and look for it?’

She withdrew her hands and went to her aunt.

Philip stood still, surprised and puzzled, and a little distressed. It was such a new experience to see Madge nervous and irritable—she who was always so calm and clear-sighted when other people lost their heads—that he did not know what to make of it. And then there was such impatience in the way she had snapped up what he considered a very natural remark for any one who looked at her steadily for a moment. Her eyes had not met his in the usual clear, trustful way: they seemed to avoid his gaze, and she had turned from him as if he annoyed her! Why was she so?

‘I had to wait some time for Mr Beecham, aunt,’ Madge said. Her voice was husky, and unlike any sound Philip had heard her produce before. ‘Then we were talking a long time together, and that is what has made me so late. He says he cannot come this evening. I told him how much you wished him to come, and he said he would have liked very much to do so, but could not.... I am afraid I have caught a cold.... I did my best to get him to come, but he would not.... My head is aching, aunt; I think I shall go up-stairs.’

The dame was now as much surprised as Philip by the curious manner of her niece; but she did not show it. She lifted off the girl’s hat, passed her hand gently over the hot brow, and said soothingly: ‘Yes, child, you had better go up-stairs; and I will come to you in a few minutes. I don’t believe you have changed your boots since the morning. Go up-stairs at once.’

‘I will try and come down again, Philip,’ she said, tenderly touching his arm as she passed, to console him for that little irritability.

‘All right, Madge; I’ll wait,’ he answered cheerfully.

She passed out, and there was a yelping of dogs heard at the same time. In rushed Dash and Rover and Tip, followed by their master.

‘I am as hungry as a hawk, mother, and so are the dogs,’ exclaimed Uncle Dick, after saluting Philip. ‘I can’t wait for anybody.—Sit down, lad, and eat.’

The dame served them, and then quietly left the room.

Philip ate, and heard Uncle Dick speaking as if from a far distance; but all the time he was perpetually asking himself—‘Why is she so?’

SUICIDE.

The term ‘suicide’ is almost universally applied to all acts of self-destruction, and equally indiscriminately to all perpetrators thereof, no distinction being made as to their state of mind at the time of killing themselves. It is in this popularly understood sense that we have used the word throughout this article. From a legal point of view, however, the term can only be correctly employed to denote the self-murder (_felonia de se_) of a sane and legally responsible person. A lunatic cannot in a legal sense commit suicide, though he may destroy himself. A suicide, or _felo de se_, is in the eye of the law a criminal, and was formerly ‘punished’ by being buried at midnight at the meeting of four cross-roads, a stake being driven through the body. Since 1823, this _post mortem_ punishment has been limited to simple interment at night in unconsecrated ground without any of the rites of Christian burial; and even this has but seldom to be carried out, owing to the charity, and perhaps also to the want of knowledge, of coroners’ juries, who generally find that the act has been committed during a fit of temporary insanity.