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Liquidity Risk
Management
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 Liquidity Risk
Management
A Practitioner’s Perspective

SHYAM VENKAT
STEPHEN BAIRD
Copyright © 2016 by PricewaterhouseCoopers LLP. All rights reserved.
Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.
Published simultaneously in Canada.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Venkat, Shyam, 1962– author. | Baird, Stephen, 1966– author.
Title: Liquidity risk management : a practitioner’s perspective / Shyam Venkat,
Stephen Baird.
Description: Hoboken : Wiley, 2016. | Series: Wiley finance | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016001879 (print) | LCCN 2016006247 (ebook) | ISBN
9781118881927 (hardback) | ISBN 9781118918791 (ePDF) | ISBN 9781118918784 (ePub)
| ISBN 9781118918791 (pdf) | ISBN 9781118918784 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Bank liquidity—Management. | Banks and banking—Risk
management. | Financial risk management. | BISAC: BUSINESS & ECONOMICS /
Banks & Banking.
Classification: LCC HG1656.A3 V46 2016 (print) | LCC HG1656.A3 (ebook) | DDC
332.1068/1—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001879
Cover Design: Wiley
Cover Image: Lost in the middle © iStock.com/3dts
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Trim Size: 6in x 9in k Venkat ftoc.tex V2 - 02/23/2016 11:22am Page v

Contents

CHAPTER 1
Introduction 1
Shyam Venkat and Stephen Baird

PART ONE
Measuring and Managing Liquidity Risk

CHAPTER 2
A New Era of Liquidity Risk Management 7
k Shyam Venkat k

CHAPTER 3
Liquidity Stress Testing 27
Stephen Baird

CHAPTER 4
Intraday Liquidity Risk Management 55
Barry Barretta and Stephen Baird

CHAPTER 5
The Convergence of Collateral and Liquidity 81
Thomas Ciulla, Bala Annadorai, and Gaurav Joshi

CHAPTER 6
Early Warning Indicators 105
Bruce Choy and Girish Adake

k
 Trim Size: 6in x 9in k Venkat ftoc.tex V2 - 02/23/2016 11:22am Page vi

vi CONTENTS

CHAPTER 7
Contingency Funding Planning 121
Chi Lai and Richard Tuosto

CHAPTER 8
Liquidity Risk Management Information Systems 141
Saroj Das, Shyam Venkat, and Chi Lai

CHAPTER 9
Recovery and Resolution Planning—Liquidity 183
Pranjal Shukla and Daniel Shanks

PART TWO
The Regulatory Environment of Liquidity Risk Supervision

CHAPTER 10
k Supervisory Perspectives on Liquidity Risk Management 201 k
Kevin Clarke

CHAPTER 11
LCR, NSFR, and Their Challenges 213
Claire Rieger and John Elliott

PART THREE
Optimizing Business Practices

CHAPTER 12
Strategic and Tactical Implications of the New Requirements 239
Hortense Huez

CHAPTER 13
Funds Transfer Pricing and the Basel III Framework 251
Stephen Baird, Bruce Choy, and Daniel Delean

k
 Trim Size: 6in x 9in k Venkat ftoc.tex V2 - 02/23/2016 11:22am Page vii

Contents vii

CHAPTER 14
Liquidity and Funding Disclosures 263
Alejandro Johnston

Biographies 277

Index 279

k k

k
 Trim Size: 6in x 9in k Venkat ftoc.tex V2 - 02/23/2016 11:22am Page viii

k k

k
 CHAPTER 1
Introduction
Shyam Venkat and Stephen Baird1

he global financial crisis began as fears over credit losses and counterparty
T insolvency eroded market confidence and quickly led to a full-fledged liq-
uidity crisis. As early as August 2007, institutions were seeing a fundamental
shift in the liquidity of markets, well before the depth of the mortgage crisis
was understood. Today, over eight years later, we stand in the midst of a risk
management and regulatory transformation that is touching every aspect
of how financial institutions manage their risks and is far from complete.
Liquidity risk—one among a very long list of worries for banks, asset man-
agers, regulators, and customers—nevertheless stands apart as it addresses
the lifeblood of an institution and liquidity can dry up suddenly if not prop-
erly managed. While the credit profile of a loan portfolio can take months
or even years to deteriorate, liquidity can disappear in a matter of hours.
Liquidity is unpredictable, difficult to measure, and often opaque. In a cri-
sis, market participants are more likely to rely on the media and the rumor
mill rather than earnings releases to evaluate the risk of providing liquidity
to a trading partner.
Despite these challenges, or perhaps because of them, and also due
to the excess liquidity in the financial markets during much of the 1990s
and early 2000s, liquidity risk has in many respects held a lower position
on the risk management and regulatory agenda than many other key
risk types—particularly credit, market, and overall capital adequacy.
As described in the chapters that follow, we believe that industry and
regulatory focus is shifting rapidly to liquidity risk, and that banks
will need to significantly upgrade their capabilities over the next sev-
eral years. These improvements will touch every aspect of liquidity risk
management—framework design, process management and oversight,
and technology capabilities all will need to be upgraded to meet both the
demands of the marketplace as well as regulatory expectations. Meeting this

1
Shyam Venkat is a principal in PwC’s New York Office, and Stephen Baird is a
director in PwC’s Chicago office.

1
2 LIQUIDITY RISK MANAGEMENT

challenge successfully will require an agenda, and the principal objective of

this book is to suggest the details and approaches to meeting that agenda.

A PRACTITIONER’S PERSPECTIVE
The subtitle of this book is “A Practitioner’s Perspective.” What is a prac-
titioner’s perspective? In our view, practitioners—treasurers and risk man-
agers charged with actually managing and monitoring the bank’s liquidity
risk—benefit most from information that:

■ Reflects industry practices: The practitioners seek to understand how

liquidity risk is managed outside of their institution. Where are other
firms ahead of them? Where are they leading the pack?
■ Brings a regulatory perspective: More than ever, the regulatory agenda is
shaping the risk agenda. In this environment, understanding what reg-
ulators expect—both today and in the future—is an important aspect
of building the most effective risk management framework. Arguably
though, a well-conceived, robust, and effectively implemented set of liq-
uidity risk management capabilities will generally align with, and even
inform, supervisory expectations.
■ Is forward-looking: The practitioner not only lives in the world of what
is possible, but also understands the need to keep moving forward.
Understanding emerging trends in liquidity risk management is an
important aspect for practitioners.

We also note what this book is not—a theoretical view of how liquid-
ity risk management should be performed in a world of costless analytics
and unlimited access to real-time data across the enterprise. We leave that
perspective to academia.

OUTLINE OF THE BOOK

This book is organized into three sections. The first section, “Measuring
and Managing Liquidity Risk,” lays out the building blocks of a liquidity
risk program in a series of chapters dedicated to key topics. We begin with
Chapter 2, “A New Era of Liquidity Risk Management,” by outlining a
set of leading practices that can be garnered from each of the chapters in
this book. Our chapters—addressing stress testing, intraday liquidity risk
management, collateral management, early warning indicators, contingency
funding planning, liquidity risk information systems, and the liquidity
implications of recovery and resolution planning—are designed to assist
Introduction 3

practitioners in honing their knowledge of these areas and creating a

forward-looking improvement agenda.
The second section, “The Regulatory Environment of Liquidity
Risk Supervision,” describes recent and upcoming developments on the
all-important regulatory front. This landscape includes a focus not only on
recent standards in liquidity proposed by the Basel Committee of Banking
Supervisors (referred to as Basel III) but other developments in the areas of
stress testing and reporting.
The third and final section, “Optimizing Business Practices,” considers
how this transformation of liquidity risk management practices will impact
business activities and how banks should respond. Clearly, with liquidity
risk receiving more attention than ever before, sticky money will be more
valuable than hot money. The question is: How will banks meet the chal-
lenges of aligning their business activities—through product design, funds
transfer pricing, management incentives, and other mechanisms—to reflect
this new priority?

CORE THEMES

Before we delve into the details, we highlight three core themes that you
will see throughout the chapters in this book. These themes represent the
fundamental characteristics of today’s liquidity risk environment and where
we see the future direction. As you read these chapters, please keep an eye
out for:

■ The intertwining of the regulatory and management agendas. The

importance of the regulatory agenda in driving liquidity risk trans-
formation is, and will continue to be, a key feature of liquidity risk
management. While this agenda is driving banks to improve their
practices, practitioners should remain mindful of the importance of an
internal management-driven agenda aimed at continuous improvement
of the firm’s capabilities.
■ The challenge of automation. In many respects, the challenge of rais-
ing the liquidity risk management bar will be less about measurement
frameworks and policies and more about implementing a robust set of
capabilities that will be underpinned both by effective governance and
technology-enabled solutions. Building an infrastructure that captures,
stores, and transforms data in an automated and controlled fashion may
be the most daunting challenge.
■ The drive to integration. Despite all of the advances in risk manage-
ment since the financial crisis, banks’ risk management frameworks
4 LIQUIDITY RISK MANAGEMENT

remain largely fragmented, with the management of various risks

often being addressed in siloed fashion, and with risk management
processes themselves often being delinked from other business activities
such as strategic planning, incentives, and profitability measurement.
Integrating liquidity considerations into how the bank is run will be a
key priority.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As this book is a practitioner’s guide, we thought it useful to have our team

of practitioners that specialize in the risk management arena share their
perspectives and insights. We would like to acknowledge not only these
contributors, but many dedicated current and former PwC professionals
that worked behind the scenes to make this publication happen. They
include: Vishal Arora, Lee Bachouros, Michelle Berman, Jon Borer, Rahul
Dawra, Amiya Dharmadhikari, Jaime Garza, William Gibbons, Alison
Gilmore, Mayur Java, Shahbaz Junani, Emily Lam, Fleur Meijs, Agatha
Pontiki, Manan Shah, Dan Weiss, Jon Paul Wynne, Scott Yocum, and
Yuanyuan (Tania) Yue.
Our special thanks go to Chi Lai and Richard Tuosto, who not only
served as contributing authors but also helped us extensively with reviewing
and developing content in other areas of this book. Finally, we are deeply
indebted to Tina Sutorius without whom this book would not have been
possible—she kept us focused on the mission at hand and helped stitch the
different pieces together, both large and small.
 PART
One
Measuring and Managing
Liquidity Risk
 CHAPTER 2
A New Era of Liquidity Risk
Management
Shyam Venkat1

INTRODUCTION
Liquidity risk management is a core competency for all types of financial
institutions, from “sell-side” firms, like banks, to “buy-side” institutions
such as insurance companies. Banks typically engage in maturity transfor-
mation by funding themselves with deposits and other short-term liabilities
and investing in assets with longer-dated maturities, while continuing to
meet liability obligations as they come due. Capital markets trading busi-
nesses provide market liquidity in various asset classes by facilitating order
flow between buyers and sellers of financial assets and maintaining inventory
through positions using their firms’ own capital.
The period from the mid-1990s to the mid-2000s saw relatively few
advancements in the discipline of liquidity risk management, even as
approaches for measuring and managing credit, market, and operational
risks were gaining in sophistication and infrastructure. The Asian currency
contagion of the late 1990s, dotcom bust in early 2000, terrorist attacks
of 9/11, and subsequent commencement of two major wars in Iraq and
Afghanistan did little to heighten concerns outside of regulatory circles
around liquidity risk management or spur significant advances in the
risk management discipline. Robust global economic growth, fueled by
easy credit, looked poised to remain the new normal as industry insiders,
pundits, and regulators touted the benefits of the “great moderation,”
pushing concerns for liquidity risk into the background.
The global financial crisis began in mid-2007, spurred on by the onset of
several liquidity events, and brought on dramatic and rapid change. The dra-
matic increase in systemic risk made almost all financial institutions—even

1
Shyam Venkat is a principal in PwC’s New York Office.

7
A New Era of Liquidity Risk Management 19

management of liquidity data. Consequently, this has resulted in data quality

challenges, including incomplete or duplicated data, variations in reported
results due to the use of multiple data sources, and increased manual and
time-consuming efforts in reconciling and enriching information needed for
reporting across the different parts of the enterprise.
Recognizing such challenges, leading institutions have often designated
risk data “czars” to lead and coordinate data management practices across
the enterprise, and spanning the risk data management lifecycle—including
data capture, enrichment, quality maintenance, analytics, reporting, and
archiving.

Manage Liquidity Data Comprehensively: From End-to-End and Top-to-Bottom

Institutions leading the charge to improve their liquidity risk management
capabilities have invested significantly in developing a comprehensive view
of liquidity information, improved data quality, and “data lineage” as
information is captured, enriched, analyzed, and reported.
Leading institutions have undertaken a spectrum of initiatives along the
following focus areas:

i. Integration of risk, asset liability management, funds transfer pricing,

transaction processing, and forecasting systems to enable more compre-
hensive data sets and shared common analytic engines/modules (e.g.,
trade capture systems, collateral management systems, G/L and financial
systems)
ii. Standardization of liquidity data definitions and attributes through
improved reference and position data collection (e.g., detailed features
of product and asset class characteristics, contractual maturities of exist-
ing positions, overlay of behavioral assumptions), regulatory reporting
classifications, and other segmentations (e.g., holding company, lines of
business, legal entities/jurisdictions)
iii. Development of integrated analytics and reporting suites for multiple
purposes (e.g., CFP dashboard metrics and thresholds, resolution plan-
ning, strategic planning and forecasting)

Develop a Vision and Continue to Build on a Scalable and Flexible Liquidity Risk
Architecture As institutions continue to enhance their liquidity risk archi-
tecture and platform(s), they should remain mindful of the interconnections
between liquidity risk systems and applications, ensuring that IT initiatives
at the enterprise level and at other parts of the organization properly con-
sider potential implications and considerations for liquidity risk as part of
their planning and scoping exercises.
In this context, leading institutions demonstrate strong capabilities in
several areas. First, they have a strong understanding of the information
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But though the event had shown the error of his wicked policy,
Auchindrane could think of no better mode in this case than that
which had failed in relation to Dalrymple. When any man’s life
became inconsistent with his own safety, no idea seems to have
occurred to this inveterate ruffian save to murder the person by
whom he might himself be any way endangered. Bannatyne, knowing
with what sort of men he had to deal, kept on his guard, and by this
caution disconcerted more than one attempt to take his life. At
length Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity, and in despair of
escaping such repeated plots, and also feeling remorse for the crime
to which he had been accessory, resolved rather to submit himself to
the severity of the law than remain the object of the principal
criminal’s practices. He surrendered himself to the Earl of Abercorn,
and was conveyed to Edinburgh, where he confessed before the king
and council all the particulars of the murder of Dalrymple, and the
attempt to hide his body by committing it to the sea.
When Bannatyne was confronted with the two Muirs before the
Privy Council, they denied with vehemence every part of the evidence
he had given, and affirmed that the witness had been bribed to
destroy them by a false tale. Bannatyne’s behaviour seemed sincere
and simple, that of Auchindrane more resolute and crafty. The
wretched accomplice fell upon his knees, invoking God to witness
that all the land in Scotland could not have bribed him to bring a
false accusation against a master whom he had served, loved, and
followed in so many dangers, and calling upon Auchindrane to
honour God by confessing the crime he had committed. Muir the
elder, on the other hand, boldly replied, that he hoped God would
not so far forsake him as to permit him to confess a crime of which
he was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess the
practices by which he had been induced to devise such falsehoods
against him.
The two Muirs, father and son, were therefore put upon their
solemn trial, along with Bannatyne, in 1611, and after a great deal of
evidence had been brought in support of Bannatyne’s confession, all
three were found guilty. The elder Auchindrane was convicted of
counselling and directing the murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of
Culleyne, and also of the actual murder of the lad Dalrymple.
Bannatyne and the younger Muir were found guilty of the latter
crime, and all three were sentenced to be beheaded. Bannatyne,
however, the accomplice, received the king’s pardon, in consequence
of his voluntary surrender and confession. The two Muirs were both
executed. The younger was affected by the remonstrances of the
clergy who attended him, and he confessed the guilt of which he was
accused. The father also was at length brought to avow the fact, but
in other respects died as impenitent as he had lived; and so ended
this dark and extraordinary tragedy.
 A TALE OF THE PLAGUE IN EDINBURGH.

By Robert Chambers, LL.D.

In several parts of Scotland, such things are to be found as “tales”

of the Plague. Amidst so much human suffering as the events of a
pestilence necessarily involved, it is of course to be supposed that,
occasionally, circumstances would occur of a peculiarly disastrous
and affecting description,—that many loving hearts would be torn
asunder, or laid side by side in the grave, many orphans left desolate,
and patriarchs bereft of all their descendants, and that cases of so
painful a sort as called forth greater compassion at the time, would
be remembered, after much of the ordinary details was generally
forgotten. The celebrated story of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray is a case
in point. So romantic, so mournful a tale, appealing as it does to
every bosom, could not fail to be commemorated, even though it had
been destitute of the great charm of locality. Neither could such a
tale of suffering and horror as that of the Teviotdale shepherd’s
family ever be forgotten in the district where it occurred,—interesting
at it is, has been, and will be, to every successive generation of
mothers, and duly listened to and shuddered at by so many infantine
audiences. In the course of our researches, we have likewise picked
up a few extraordinary circumstances connected with the last visit
paid by the plague to Edinburgh; which, improbable as they may
perhaps appear, we believe to be, to a certain extent, allied to truth,
and shall now submit them to our readers.
When Edinburgh was afflicted, for the last time, with the
pestilence, such was its effect upon the energies of the citizens, and
so long was its continuance, that the grass grew on the principal
street, and even at the Cross, though that Scottish Rialto was then
perhaps the most crowded thoroughfare in Britain. Silence, more
than that of the stillest midnight, pervaded the streets during the
day. The sunlight fell upon the quiet houses as it falls on a line of
sombre and neglected tombstones in some sequestered churchyard—
gilding, but not altering, their desolate features. The area of the High
Street, on being entered by a stranger, might have been
contemplated with feelings similar to those with which Christian, in
the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” viewed the awful courtyard of Giant
Despair; for, as in that well-imagined scene, the very ground bore the
marks of wildness and desolation; every window around, like the
loopholes of the dungeons in Doubting Castle, seemed to tell its tale
of misery within, and the whole seemed to lie prostrate and
powerless under the dominion of an unseen demon, which fancy
might have conceived as stalking around in a bodily form, leisurely
dooming its subjects to successive execution.
When the pestilence was at its greatest height, a strange perplexity
began, and not without reason, to take possession of the few
physicians and nurses who attended the sick. It was customary for
the distempered to die, or, as the rare case happened, to recover, on a
particular day after having first exhibited symptoms of illness. This
was an understood rule of the plague, which had never been known
to fail. All at once, it began to appear that a good many people,
especially those who were left alone in their houses by the death or
desertion of friends, died before the arrival of the critical day. In
some of these cases, not only was the rule of the disease broken, but,
what vexed the physicians more, the powers of medicine seemed to
have been set at defiance; for several patients of distinction, who had
been able to purchase good attendance and were therefore
considered as in less than ordinary danger, were found to have
expired after taking salutary drugs, and being left with good hopes by
their physicians. It almost seemed as if some new disease were
beginning to engraft itself upon the pestilence—a new feature rising
upon its horrid aspect. Subtle and fatal as it formerly was, it was now
inconceivably more so. It could formerly be calculated upon; but it
was now quite arbitrary and precarious. Medicine had lost its power
over it. God, who created it in its first monstrous form, appeared to
have endowed it with an additional sting, against which feeble
mortality could present no competent shield. Physicians beheld its
new ravages with surprise and despair; and a deeper shade of horror
was spread, in consequence, over the public mind.
 As an air of more than natural mystery seemed to accompany this
truly calamitous turn of affairs, it was, of course, to be expected, in
that superstitious age, that many would attribute it to a more than
natural cause. By the ministers, it was taken for an additional
manifestation of God’s wrath, and as such held forth in not a few
pulpits, accompanied with all the due exhortations to a better life,
which it was not unlikely would be attended with good effect among
the thin congregations of haggard and terrified scarecrows, who
persisted in meeting regularly at places of worship. The learned
puzzled themselves with conjectures as to its probable causes and
cures; while the common people gave way to the most wild and
fanciful surmises, almost all of which were as far from the truth. The
only popular observation worthy of any attention, was that the
greater part of those who suffered from this new disease died during
the night, and all of them while unattended.
Not many days after the alarm first arose, a poor woman arrested a
physician in the street, and desired to confer with him a brief space.
He at first shook her off, saying he was at present completely
engaged, and could take no new patients. But when she informed
him that she did not desire his attendance, and only wished to
communicate something which might help to clear up the mystery of
the late premature deaths, he stopped and lent a patient ear. She told
him that on the previous night, having occasion to leave her house, in
order to visit a sick neighbour, who lay upon a lonely death-bed in
the second flat below her own garret, she took a lamp in her hand,
that she might the better find her way down. As she descended the
stair, which she described as a “turnpike,” or spiral one, she heard a
low and inexpressibly doleful moan, as if proceeding from the house
of her neighbour,—such a moan, she said, as she had ever heard
proceed from any of the numerous death-beds it had been her lot to
attend. She hastened faster down the stair than her limbs were well
able to carry her, under the idea that her friend was undergoing
some severe suffering, which she might be able to alleviate. Before,
however, she had reached the first landing-place, a noise, as of
footsteps, arose from the house of pain, and caused her to apprehend
that all was not right in a house which she knew no one ever visited,
in that time of desolation, but herself. She quickened her pace still
more than before, and soon reached the landing-place at her
neighbour’s door. Something, as she expressed it, seeming to “swoof”
down the stair, like the noise of a full garment brushing the walls of a
narrow passage, she drew in the lamp, and looking down beyond it,
saw what she conceived to be the dark drapery of the back of a tall
human figure, loosely clad, moving, or rather gliding, out of sight,
and in a moment gone. So uncertain was she at first of the reality of
what she saw, that she believed it to be the shadow of the central pile
of the stair gliding downwards as she brought round the light; but
the state of matters in the inside of the house soon convinced her, to
her horror, that it must have been something more dreadful and real
—the unfortunate woman being dead; though as yet it was three days
till the time when, according to the old rules of the disease, she might
have lived or died. The physician heard this story with astonishment;
but as it only informed his mind, which was not free from
superstition, that the whole matter was becoming more and more
mysterious, he drew no conclusions from it; but simply observing,
with a professional shake of the head, that all was not right in the
town, went upon his way.
The old woman, who, of course, could not be expected to let so
good a subject of gossip and wonderment lie idle in her mind, like
the guinea kept by the Vicar of Wakefield’s daughters, forthwith
proceeded to dissipate it abroad among her neighbours, who soon (to
follow out the idea of the coin) reduced it into still larger and coarser
pieces, and paid it away, in that exaggerated form, to a wider circle of
neighbours, by whom it was speedily dispersed in various shapes
over the whole town. The popular mind, like the ear of a sick man,
being then peculiarly sensitive, received the intelligence with a
degree of alarm, such as the news of a lost battle has not always
occasioned amongst a people; and, as the atmosphere is best
calculated for the conveyance of sound during the time of frost, so
did the air of the plague seem peculiarly well fitted for the
propagation of this fearful report. The whole of the people were
impressed, on hearing the story, with a feeling of undefined awe,
mixed with horror. The back of a tall figure, in dark long clothes,
seen but for a moment! There was a picturesque indistinctness in the
description, which left room for the imagination; taken in
conjunction, too, with the moan heard at first by the old woman on
the stair, and the demise of the sick woman at the very time, it was
truly startling. To add to the panic, a report arose next day, that the
figure had been seen on the preceding evening, by different persons,
flitting about various stairs and alleys, always in the shade, and
disappearing immediately after being first perceived. An idea began
to prevail that it was the image of Death—Death, who had thus come
in his personated form, to a city which seemed to have been placed
so peculiarly under his dominion, in order to execute his office with
the greater promptitude. It was thought, if so fantastic a dream may
be assigned to the thinking faculty, that the grand destroyer, who, in
ordinary times is invisible, might, perhaps, have the power of
rendering himself palpable to the sight in cases where he approached
his victims under circumstances of peculiar horror; and this wild
imagination was the more fearful, inasmuch as it was supposed that,
with the increase of the mortality, he would become more and more
distinctly visible, till, perhaps, after having despatched all, he would
burst forth in open triumph, and roam at large throughout a city of
desolation.
It happened on the second day after the rise of this popular fancy,
that an armed ship, of a very singular construction, and manned by a
crew of strangely foreign-looking men, entered Leith harbour. It was
a Barbary rover; but the crew showed no intention of hostility to the
town of Leith, though at the present pass it would have fallen an easy
prey to their arms, being quite as much afflicted with the pestilence
as its metropolitan neighbour. A detachment of the crew, comprising
one who appeared to be the commander, immediately landed, and
proceeded to Edinburgh, which they did not scruple to enter. They
inquired for the provost, and, on being conducted to the presence of
that dignitary, their chief disclosed their purpose in thus visiting
Edinburgh, which was the useful one of supplying it in its present
distress with a cargo of drugs, approved in the East for their efficacy
against the plague, and a few men who could undertake to
administer them properly to the sick. The provost heard this
intelligence with overflowing eyes; for, besides the anxiety he felt
about the welfare of the city, he was especially interested in the
health of his daughter, an only child, who happened to be involved in
the common calamity. The terms proposed by the Africans were
somewhat exorbitant. They demanded to have the half of the wealth
of those whom they restored to health. But the provost told them that
he believed many of the most wealthy citizens would be glad to
employ them on these terms; and, for his own part, he was willing to
sacrifice anything he had, short of his salvation, for the benefit of his
daughter. Assured of at least the safety of their persons and goods,
the strangers drew from the ship a large quantity of medicines, and
began that very evening to attend as physicians those who chose to
call them in. The captain—a man in the prime of life, and remarkable
amongst the rest for his superior dress and bearing—engaged himself
to attend the provost’s daughter, who had now nearly reached the
crisis of the distemper, and hitherto had not been expected to
survive.
The house of Sir John Smith, the provost of Edinburgh, in the year
1645, was situated in the Cap-and-Feather close, an alley occupying
the site of the present North Bridge. The bottom of this alley being
closed, there was no thoroughfare or egress towards the North Loch;
but the provost’s house possessed this convenience, being the
tenement which closed the lower extremity, and having a back-door
that opened upon an alley to the eastward, namely, Halkerston’s
Wynd. This house was, at the time we speak of, crammed full of
valuable goods, plate, &c., which had been deposited in the provost’s
hands by many of his afflicted fellow-citizens, under the impression
that, if they survived, he was honest enough to restore them
unimpaired, and, if otherwise, he was worthy to inherit them. His
daughter, who had been seized before it was found possible to
remove her from the town, lay in a little room at the back of the
house, which, besides one door opening from the large staircase in
the front, had also a more private entry communicating with the
narrower and obsolete “turnpike” behind. At that time, little
precaution was taken anywhere in Scotland about the locking of
doors. To have the door simply closed, so that the fairies could not
enter, was in general considered sufficient, as it is at the present day
in many remote parts. In Edinburgh, during the time of the plague,
the greatest indifference to security of this sort prevailed. In general,
the doors were left unlocked from within, in order to admit the
cleansers, or any charitable neighbour who might come to minister
to the bed-rid sick. This was not exactly the case in Sir John Smith’s
house; for the main-door was scrupulously locked, with a view to the
safety of the goods committed to his charge. Nevertheless, from
neglect, or from want of apprehension, the posterior entrance was
afterwards found to have been not so well secured.
 The Barbary physician had administered a potion to his patient
soon after his admission into the house. He knew that symptoms
either favourable or unfavourable would speedily appear, and he
therefore resolved to remain in the room in order to watch the result.
About midnight, as he sat in a remote corner of the room, looking
towards the bed upon which his charge was extended, while a small
lamp burned upon a low table between, he was suddenly surprised to
observe something like a dark cloud, unaccompanied by any noise,
interpose itself slowly and gradually between his eyes and the bed.
He at first thought that he was deceived,—that he was beginning to
fall asleep,—or that the strange appearance was occasioned by some
peculiarity of the light, which, being placed almost directly between
him and the bed, caused him to see the latter object very indistinctly.
He was soon undeceived by hearing a noise,—the slightest possible,—
and perceiving something like motion in the ill-defined lineaments of
the apparition. “Gracious Heaven!” thought he, “can this be the angel
of death hovering over his victim, preparing to strike the mortal
blow, and ready to receive the departing soul into the inconceivable
recesses of its awful form?” It almost appeared as if the cloud
stooped over the bed for the performance of this task. Presently, the
patient uttered a half-suppressed sigh, and then altogether ceased
the regular respirations, which had hitherto been monotonous and
audible throughout the room. The awe-struck attendant could
contain himself no longer, but permitted a sort of cry to escape him,
and started to his feet. The cloud instantly, as it were, rose from its
inclined posture over the bed, turned hastily round, and, in a
moment contracting itself into a human shape, glided softly, but
hastily, from the apartment. “Ha!” thought the African, “I have
known such personages as this in Aleppo. These angels of death are
sometimes found to be mortal themselves—I shall pursue and try.”
He, therefore, quickly followed the phantom through the private
door by which it had escaped, not forgetting to seize his semicircular
sword in passing the table where it lay. The stair was dark and steep;
but he kept his feet till he reached the bottom. Casting, then, a hasty
glance around him, he perceived a shadow vanish from the moon-lit
ground, at an angle of the house, and instantly started forward in the
pursuit. He soon found himself in the open wynd above-mentioned,
along which he supposed the mysterious object to have gone. All here
was dark; but being certain of the course adopted by the pursued
party, he did not hesitate a moment in plunging headlong down its
steep profundity. He was confirmed in his purpose by immediately
afterwards observing, at some distance in advance, a small jet of
moonlight, proceeding from a side alley, obscured for a second by
what he conceived to be the transit of a large dark object. This he
soon also reached, and finding that his own person caused a similar
obscurity, he was confirmed in his conjecture that the apparition
bore a substantial form. Still forward and downward he boldly
rushed, till, reaching an open area at the bottom, part of which was
lighted by the moon, he plainly saw, at the distance of about thirty
yards before him, the figure as of a tall man, loosely enveloped in a
prodigious cloak, gliding along the ground, and apparently making
for a small bridge, which at this particular place crossed the drain of
the North Loch, and served as a communication with the village
called the Mutries Hill. He made directly for the fugitive, thinking to
overtake him almost before he could reach the bridge. But what was
his surprise, when in a moment the flying object vanished from his
sight, as if it had sunk into the ground, and left him alone and
objectless in his headlong pursuit. It was possible that it had fallen
into some concealed well or pit, but this he was never able to
discover.
Bewildered and confused, he at length returned to the provost’s
house, and re-entered the apartment of the sick maiden. To his
delight and astonishment he found her already in a state of visible
convalescence, with a gradually deepening glow of health diffusing
itself over her cheek. Whether his courage and fidelity had been the
means of scaring away the evil demon it is impossible to say; but
certain it is, that the ravages of the plague began soon afterwards to
decline in Edinburgh, and at length died away altogether.
The conclusion of this singular traditionary story bears that the
provost’s daughter, being completely restored to health, was married
to the foreigner who had saved her life. This seems to have been the
result of an affection which they had conceived for each other during
the period of her convalescence. The African, becoming joint-heir
with his wife of the provost’s vast property, abandoned his former
piratical life, became, it is said, a douce Presbyterian, and settled
down for the remainder of his days in Edinburgh. The match turned
out exceedingly well; and it is even said that the foreigner became so
assimilated with the people of Edinburgh, to whom he had proved so
memorable a benefactor, that he held at one time an office of
considerable civic dignity and importance. Certain it is, that he built
for his residence a magnificent “land” near the head of the
Canongate, upon the front of which he caused to be erected a statue
of the emperor of Barbary, in testimony of the respect he still
cherished for his native country; and this memorial yet remains in its
original niche, as a subsidiary proof of the verity of the above
relation.
 THE PROBATIONER’S FIRST SERMON.

By Daniel Gorrie.

On a cold March evening, and in the metropolis of Scotland, I

received licence as a probationer. The reverend fathers of the
Presbytery were so satisfied with my orthodoxy that they gave me
most cordially the right hand of fellowship, and warmly wished me
success. I had half-anticipated a reprimand for heretical tendencies;
but as no censure was uttered, I was at once overcome by their
kindness, and charmed with their unexpected liberality. I hastened
home to receive the congratulations of my friends, and then I
repaired to a clothier’s for a suit of canonical blacks. My mother had
already provided a boxful of white cravats sufficient to supply the
whole bench of bishops. To err is human, and it is also human for a
humble man to feel considerably elated in certain circumstances, and
at certain times.
I need not be ashamed to confess that a new dignity seemed to rest
upon me, like the mantle of the prophet, on that eventful evening. I
saw the reflection of my face on the bowl of a silver spoon, and
wondered at the resemblance it bore to the bold, heroic countenance
of Edward Irving. High were my hopes, and few were my fears, for I
only expected to speak and conquer. The responsibilities of the
profession were great, I knew, but they only cast their shadow before.
The kind of life on which I was about to enter possessed all the
attractions of novelty. I was to exchange passivity for action—the
quiet of the cloister for the stir of the field. Yet, while thus I thought
of the battle, and made my vows, the still picture of a rural manse,
girdled with incense-breathing flowerplots, and shaded with
murmuring trees, stole upon my slumbers ere I awoke at the dawn of
the next day—a vision, alas! too often resembling the unreal beauty
of the mirage in the desert.
It may be pardoned in a novitiate, standing on the threshold, if I
saw only the sunny side of preacher-life. Spring was coming, like
Miriam and her maidens, with timbrels and with dances, and the
golden summer-tide was following in her wake, and I knew that I
would look on many lovely scenes, receive kindness from strangers,
enjoy the hospitality of the humble, and haply sow some seeds of
goodness and truth in receptive hearts.
I had frequently heard strange stories about preachers, and several
times I had met some curious specimens of the class. One, it was
said, travelled over the country with a sermon and a-half and a
tobacco-pipe. Another, it was averred, carried neither parchments
nor portmanteau, went gadding abroad, and was in fact the
generalissimo of gossips. A third poked his nose into presses, supped
jelly and jam, pocketed lumps of sugar, and performed other
absurdities not at all creditable to his cloth. I had also learned from
ministers’ wives in the country, that some were as unsocial and
morose as turnkeys, and others quite the reverse—lively young
fellows, who could rock the cradle, and keep all the children in high
glee. It was necessary for me, then, I felt, to be circumspect, to
abstain from all eccentricities, to be sociable among social people,
and dignified when occasion required. Experience soon taught me
that a joke from clerical lips sounds like profanity in the ears of the
rigidly righteous. A kind friend told me to beware of elders who
wished to discuss the doctrine of reprobation, and to avoid walking
arm-in-arm with any rural beauty.
“Were you, in your unsuspecting innocence,” he said, “to commit
this last enormity, the village gossips would tell it to the beadle, the
beadle to the managers, the managers to the elders, and your glory
would depart.”
The advice was a wise one, as I afterwards found; but gallantry is
more a characteristic of youth than prudence.
I had prepared a considerable supply of discourses. They were
elaborately written, and I looked with paternal affection upon the
companions of my future wanderings. I shunned those dry doctrinal
discussions which shed so sweet an opiate over the eyes of old,
young, and middle-aged. The topics selected were such as I believed
would interest and instruct all classes of people. I had enlarged upon
the zeal and self-sacrifice of the sainted men of old, pictured the Holy
One silent in the death chamber, and weeping at the tomb, and
drawn illustrations from the heavens above, and the earth beneath.
Something fresh was needed, I thought—a Christianity rich in
blossoms as in fruit.
I received an appointment for the first Sabbath after licence, and
on Saturday afternoon I was rattling along Princes’ Street in the
Queensferry omnibus. A small town across the Firth, in the kingdom
of Fife, not far from the coast, was my destination. Although the
sermon I was to deliver on the morrow had been well committed to
memory, and frequently declaimed during the week, yet I found
myself conning it over again ere we had crossed the Dean Bridge, and
certain passages became mysteriously blended in my mind with the
images of Craigcrook and Corstorphine. Then I began to wonder if
the other passengers suspected I was a preacher on my maiden
expedition. One woman was occupied in gazing very fondly upon the
face of a dozing child three months old; a red-faced, purple-nosed
old gentleman was sucking the round head of a walking-stick; a stout
elderly lady seemed to find the leathern cushion very uncomfortable,
since of her down-sitting and up-rising there was no end; a young
gentleman of the Tittlebat Titmouse tribe breathed heavily, and at
intervals snored; and a young lady, my vis-a-vis in the opposite
corner, was the only one who seemed really to be aware of my
presence, and the only one who appeared willing to break the
unsocial silence. I remembered my friend’s advice, and was
somewhat afraid to speak. Besides, heads, and particulars, and
practical applications, were making such a thoroughfare of my mind,
that there was considerable danger of committing absurd mistakes in
conversation. I became really sorry for the young lady, she looked at
me so inquiringly, and seemed so anxious that I should speak. There
was a keen frost in the air, and one or two outsiders were flapping
their hands across their shoulders—might I not say that the
afternoon was cold? Gray-white clouds were gathering from horizon
to horizon and dimming the day—might I not suggest the possibility
of snow? Suddenly the light wavering crystals slid down the window-
glass, and with uplifted eyebrows and look of innocent surprise, the
fair young traveller exclaimed, “Oh! it snows.”
 “So it does, ma’am,” I rejoined, and spoke no more.
She might think of me that evening as very silent or very surly; but
she no doubt changed her opinion next day, for I saw her sitting in
the front gallery of the church when I rose to give out the first psalm.
In crossing the ferry, I thought not of the royal dames and princely
pageants that so often in the days of other years passed to and from
the shores of Fife. The waters of the Forth were dreary enough.
Inchcolm and the opposite coast were shrouded from view in the
streaming skirts of the snow-clouds. I rolled myself up in a corner of
the boat where no deacon’s eye could intrude, and warmed my heart
with a cigar. Then some limping fiend whispered in my ears the
awful words, “What if you should stick?” Once I had witnessed an
unfortunate being in that painful predicament in the pulpit. I had
marked, with sickening apprehensions, the string of unconnected
sentences, the hesitation, the pallor overspreading his face, the
terrible stammer, the convulsive clutch, the pause, the sudden gulp,
the dead stop, and portentous silence. A “stickit minister,” like
Dominie Sampson, is nothing to a preacher who “sticks.” It was a
horrid idea. I resisted the fiend, knit my brow, clenched my fist, and
determined to speak or die. “Always keep your mouth open,” was the
charge of a learned divine to his son, and the words afforded me
much consolation.
The night was falling fast, and the snow was falling faster when I
reached the outskirts of the little inland town where I had been
appointed to officiate. Here my rapid march was arrested by an
elderly man who inquired if I was the expected preacher, and
receiving an answer in the affirmative, he relieved me of my
portmanteau, which contained my precious parchment, and led the
way to my lodgings. He gave me to understand that he was the
beadle, and that I was to lodge with Mrs M‘Bain, who kept a small
grocery shop, and had a room to spare in her house. The
congregation, with much saving grace, had let the manse until a new
minister was obtained. Old John, like the great proportion of country
beadles, was a simple, decent man, and a sort of character in his way.
He was particularly inquisitive, and asked me some very plain
questions as we trudged along the narrow street, getting gradually
whitened by the falling snow. He told me that my predecessor on the
previous Sabbath was a very clever young man, but only a “wee
thocht new-fangled.” From further inquiry I found that the learned
Theban had been astonishing John and several members of the
congregation by describing the revolution of the earth on its axis.
“Noo, sir,” said the worthy beadle, “can ye tell me, if the world is
aye whirlin’ round aboot, what’s the reason we never come to the
warm countries?”
I endeavoured to make the matter plain to his apprehension by
supposing a rotatory motion of the human head, and the nose always
maintaining its dignified position in the centre between the right ear
and the left—an illustration which honest John did not seem to
regard as satisfactory in the slightest degree.
Mrs M‘Bain’s house was of a very humble description; but she
appeared to be a tidy woman, and the room allotted to me, though
small, was clean and comfortable. John put down my portmanteau
on a chair, with the mien and manner of one who has done his duty,
and informed me that one of the elders and the precentor would
likely call in a short time. For the precentor I was perfectly prepared,
knowing well the psalms that would best suit my discourse; but I was
not so sure what motive an elder could have for visiting me on a
Saturday night. I inwardly hoped, at least, that if he did make his
appearance, he would have the good sense not to trouble me long
with his presence or his conversation, as I was again anxious to
rehearse my discourse to silent chairs and an attentive table.
When Mrs M‘Bain was placing the tea-dishes on the table, she
seemed disposed for a little talk, while I, on the contrary, was not at
all in a communicative mood. However, she persevered, and drew me
on by degrees, until at last she brought a series of queries to a climax
by asking if I had been long a preacher. Now, this was a most absurd
question for me to answer in my peculiar circumstances. If the
people knew that I had never “wagged my head in a poupit” before,
they would be sure to listen to me with the most dreadful silence, so
that the slightest stammer would be multiplied and magnified by a
hundred echoes. What was to be done? The question must be
answered, and the truth must be told, despite the consequences.
Mustering up courage, I told my landlady how the matter stood.
Astonished she was, as might naturally have been expected. She
uplifted her eyebrows, opened wide her eyes, drew a long breath, and
said—“Dearie me, sir, ye’ll be awfu’ feared!” With this ejaculation,
which afforded me little consolation indeed, Mrs M‘Bain left the
apartment, and I knew that the tidings would be over the town, and
talked about at every fireside in less than twenty minutes. It could
not be helped; courage and resignation alone were required.
I had just finished swallowing in haste three cups of very hot tea,
when the precentor entered. He was a man past middle age, with a
countenance somewhat grim and gaunt, and a very unmusical
mouth. His hair was sandy-coloured, and he was Sawney all over. I
saw at once, from his steady stare, and the peculiar expression of his
face, that Mrs M‘Bain had communicated to him the very pleasant
intelligence that the new arrival was a “green hand.” He was not long
in making me know that he was aware of the fact, although he did so
in a very cautious, provoking kind of style. When the ice was fairly
broken, he said, “It’s a kittle thing standin’ up afore an audience the
first time. I mind fine yet what an awfu’ state I was in when I first
sang i’ the desk. I kent the Auld Hunderd as weel as I kent my
mither; but I wasna lang begun when I ran awa’ wi’ the harrows.”
This kind of talk was rapidly becoming unendurable, and I
entertained anything but a Christian sentiment of brotherly love
towards the conductor of the psalmody.
“How long have you acted as precentor,” I enquired, anxious to
change the current of conversation.
“I’ve precented in oor kirk,” he replied, “for twunty years, and,
barrin’ three days last simmer, I’ve never missed a Sabbath.”
“That is very extraordinary,” I rejoined; “and what was wrong with
you last summer?”
“Weel, sir, ye see I was howkin’ tatties for the denner in oor yaird
ae day, when I coupit ower a skep by mistake, and I was awfu’ stung
by bees.”
“Dear me,” I rejoined (for I could not resist such a favourable
opportunity of stinging him again), “it was curious how the bees
should have taken you for a drone!”
This remark had the desired effect. The precentor soon took
himself off, and I was left in undisputed possession of the room. I
had offended the beadle, and insulted the precentor—how was it
possible that I could preach with acceptation to the people? I became
nervous lest the elder also should enter, for I was perfectly persuaded
that I could not escape incurring his reprobation by some
unfortunate reply.
As the night wore on, my trepidation increased. I paced up and
down the room, repeating and re-repeating my discourse from
beginning to end, and from the end to the beginning. Every period,
colon, hyphen, point of exclamation, point of interrogation, and
comma was engraved upon my mind, and yet I was not satisfied.
Something might escape me—some sounding sentence might take
wings and flee away. I heard Mrs M‘Bain listening at times behind
the door when I went humming and thrumming across the room;
and I felt a strong inclination to call her in, and punish her by
making her act the part of a popular audience. I cooled down
somewhat before bedtime, and, at my landlady’s request, retired
early to bed.
“A gude sleep,” she said, “is the forerunner of a good sermon.”
“Yes,” I rejoined, “and a good sleep is the ordinary accompaniment
of a bad one.”
Mrs M‘Bain chuckled, and looked as if she thought there was
something promising in the young man after all.
To bed I went, but not to slumber, knowing well that sleep, like
some eccentric daughters of Eve, must be won without being wooed.
I did not try to “fall over.” None but the rankest fool ever thinks of
perpetrating such absurdity. I commenced for the five hundredth
time—what else could I do?—to con over my discourse. I had just
finished the introduction, without missing a syllable, when—horror
of horrors!—the first head had vanished—evaporated—gone to some
outrageous limbo and could not, would not be recalled. What was to
be done? I sat up in bed—a villanous crib it was—and the
perspiration stood beaded on my brow. The tingling darkness filled
the room; the snow-flakes fussled on the window panes. Mrs M‘Bain
was in bed; the candle was out; there were no lucifers; my precious
manuscript was under my pillow; the missing head was there, but I
could neither see nor seize it. It was a caput mortuum. I cannot
describe the agony that I endured, the feeling of despair that I
experienced. My heart beat loudly, and the inexorable clock tick-
ticked, as if everything in the world were going on with the utmost
smoothness and regularity. I must have sat for an hour groping
about in my benighted brain for my lost head. But sleep at length
came, and fantastic dreams, born of fear and excitement, took
possession of me. I thought that I stood on Mars Hill, and that
around me was gathered a great crowd of Stoics, Epicureans,
Methodists, Mormons, and Mahommedans. They listened attentively
for a time, but as soon as I had finished the introduction to my
discourse, they immediately commenced to grin and make grimaces,
shouting, howling, roaring like legions of demons. In the twinkling of
an eye, the scene changed, and I stood in the centre of a vast camp-
meeting in the backwoods of America. Negroes and Red Indians
were there as well as stalwart planters with their wives and families.
A hymn, pealed with a sea-like sound from a thousand voices, had
just died away, and I was preparing to address the mighty multitude,
when a sudden storm came crashing down among the woods, and the
assemblage was scattered abroad like the leaves of autumn. I was
tossed throughout the night from one wildered dream to another,
and finally awoke in the morning rather jaded than refreshed. With
the return of consciousness, however, returned the lost head, and I
was delighted to discover before rising that my memory was master
of my discourse.
The morning wore on, stiller for the snow that lay one or two
inches deep on the ground. The hour of service approached, the bells
began to sound; I never heard them pealing so loudly before, even in
the largest cities. My heart beat to the beating of the bells. At last the
beadle came, cool, calm, imperturbable, hoisted the pulpit Bible
under his arm, and signified to me, with an easy inclination of his
head, that all was now ready. Mrs M‘Bain was standing in the
passage as we came out of the room, holding the door-key in one
hand, and her Bible wrapped in a white pocket handkerchief in the
other. I walked along the street as steadily and sedately as my
perturbation would permit, and all the little boys and girls, I thought,
knew that I was to preach my first sermon that day. There was a
death-like stillness in the church when I entered. My look was
concentrated on the pulpit, but I knew that every eye in the church
was fixed upon the untried preacher. I managed to get through the
introductory services with more fluency and calmness than I
anticipated, only I invariably found myself conning over the first
head of my discourse while the assembled worshippers were singing
the psalms. The precentor was a drone. Even that afforded me some
satisfaction, although the unmelodious tones agitated still more my
excited nervous system. At the close of the second psalm, the time of
my great trial came. I rose and announced the text with great
deliberation. Then every eye was fixed upon me; the moment was
awful; the silence was dreadful. The ready manner in which the first
dozen of sentences came to my recollection made me feel somewhat
calm, comfortable, and composed; but a sudden sense of the peculiar
nature of my situation, the consciousness that all the people knew it
was my first appearance in public, disturbed my equanimity and
shook my self-possession. A dizziness came over me; the
congregation revolved around the pulpit. I grasped the Bible, and
declaimed vehemently in order if possible to recover myself; but
from the beginning of the first head to the last application, although I
must have adhered to my manuscript, I was speaking like one in a
dream, not master of myself, the will passive, and memory alone
awake. When I concluded the last period, I could scarcely believe
that I had preached my discourse. The weakness of my limbs told me
of the struggle. On leaving the church I overheard some remarks
concerning myself pass between two of the officials.
“He’s a brisk bit birkie that,” quoth the beadle.
“’Od ay,” responded the precentor, but “he has a bee in his
bannet.”
Sweet reader, if you are studying for the Church, do not be
deterred by vain fears from prosecuting your labours. It is a glorious
thing to succeed, even when you are unconscious of your success,
and thus it happened with “My First Sermon.”