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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.

“Our Borough has just been thrown into a state of stupefaction
by an event which completely eclipses every other
act of crime and villany with which the annals of Whiggery
abound. Nicodemus Handy, the Whig cashier of that

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extortionate, swindling, Whig rag-factory, The Patriotic Copperplate
Bank of Quodlibet, left this Borough yesterday
morning in the People's Line, which runs through Thorough
Blue. As this journey was undertaken with the pretence
of business, it attracted no attention until this morning,
when the indefatigable democratic President of that institution,
Mr. Anthony Hardbottle, who was recently elected for
the purpose of a thorough investigation into its concerns,
(suspicions having been long indulged of its rottenness—and,
in fact, our worthy representative, the Hon. Middleton Flam,
an unterrified and incorruptible New Light, having retired
from the head of the institution on account of the disgusting
irregularities which fell within his view,) laid a statement
before the board which showed that the cashier had secreted
upwards of $160,000, the greater part of which funds there
is reason to believe he has made away with in the course of
the last three months. Measures were taken to pursue the
offender, and as far as possible to secure the Bank by attachments
upon his property, which is supposed to be considerable.
For the present, we forbear all comment, except so
far as to remark, that we look upon this atrocious fraud but
as the natural fruit of that system of Whig measures which
has cumbered the land with mushroom banks, filthy rags,
and swarms of scrub aristocrats in the shape of presidents,
cashiers, directors, and clerks. We may speedily expect
to hear of many more Whigs following the example of our
absquatulating cashier.”

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

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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, amongst the names of sundry fashionables,
those also of Mrs. and Miss Handy; and we were
not long afterwards 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

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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 amongst 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 every
thing 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

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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.

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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 did'nt 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 what would happen,” continued Mr.
Grant.

“Aye, aye,” 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 barn yard.”

“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,”

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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 Deposites;—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 round the steps during this
conversation. “Mr. Grant's mighty particular with his
documents, and aint to be shook off in an argument.”

“The, you aint 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—

“If the project shall be successful, we are again to see these
paper missiles shooting in every direction through the country—

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a derangement of all values,—a depreciated circulation—a suspension
of specie payments;—then a further extension of the
same detestable paper—a still greater depreciation—with failures
of traders and failures of banks in its train—to arrive at last at
the same point from which we departed in 1817.”

“A rank forgery:” said Theodore Fog; “printed for the
occasion.”

“That wont 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 thank the Secretary,” he began with a discreet voice,
reading where Mr. Grant appointed for him—“for the disclosure
of this plan. I trust in God it will be defeated: that the Bank of
the United States, while it is in existence, may be sustained and
strengthened by the public opinion, and interests of the people,
to defeat it: that the sound and sober state banks of the Union
may resist it—for it is their cause: that the poor men and
laborers iu the land may resist it—for it is a scheme to get from
every one of them a dollar's worth of labor for fifty cents, and to
make fraud the currency of the country as much as paper. Sir,

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the Bank of the United States, in any other relation than to the
currency and property of the country, is as little to me as to any
man under heaven; but after the prime and vigor of life are
passed, and the power of accumulation is gone, to see the children
stripped, by the monstrous imposture of a paper currency,
of all that the father's industry had provided for them—this, sir,
may well excuse the warmth that denounces this plan, as the
precursor of universal dismay and ruin.”

“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 fulfilment,”
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 wilful 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

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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 towards 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, barkeepers, and brokers, for marshals
and sheriffs—capital for constables—nonparel 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

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always be ready for rubbers; never would get a gloss if it
wasn't for brushing. That Binney's a d—d 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
tavernkeeper—long life to him!”