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 The penalties enacted by various statutes were very severe; but they were repealed in 1772.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 Although the Acts referring to this practice were repealed, we believe that ‘engrossing’ is still an indictable offence at common law.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.’