Unique in commercial annals is the Royal Charter which gave, with power of life and death, to the Company of Gentlemen Adventurers, less than twenty in number, “forever hereafter” possession and jurisdiction over a country as large as Europe.  Liberty here for utter despotism, the widest of excesses.  We marvel that from the first Prince Rupert of the Rhine to the latest Lord Strathcona and Mount Royal, the Governors of the Ancient Company have, with Duncan-like demeanour, borne themselves so meek in their great office.

It has been fashionable to paint the H.B.  Co. as an agrarian oligarchy.  Organized for the purpose of “making fur” before the time of the Habeas Corpus, two decades ahead of the Bank of England, sixty-two years before Benjamin Franklin began publishing “Poor Richard’s Almanac,” and a century in advance of Watt’s steam-engine, it is true that The Company, throughout the years, devoted itself to peltries and not to platting town sites.  This was its business.  From the beginning it has consistently kept faith with the Indians; the word of The Company has, for reward or for punishment, ever been worth its full face value.  It was not an H.B.  Scot who exclaimed feelingly, “Honesty is the best policy, I’ve tried baith.”

The feeling of devotion to The Company is as strong today as it ever was.  When the present Commissioner took office he penetrated the North on a tour of inspection.  At Athabasca Landing, since it was not known just when the Head would arrive, the local official charged all his clerks and minions to be ready at the sound of a whistle to salute and fall into line for inspection.  The call to arms came on Sunday morning during divine service.  Every attache of The Company with one exception obeyed the signal.  Young Tom Helly, the paid organist, stuck to his post; and next day he was called on the carpet.  “It was a special service; I was in the middle of the anthem, sir, and didn’t like to leave the House of God.”  “Couldn’t you show some respect?” roared the local officer.  Man was near in Athabasca Landing and God far away.  Down in the big office at Winnipeg is a Doomsday Book where the life-record of every servant of The Company is kept, for no man who has ever served The Company is lost sight of.  When there is a good fur-winter, every employe of The Company is handed an envelope which contains a bonus-cheque,—­ten per cent of his yearly salary.

[Illustration:  C.C.  Chipman, Commissioner of the H.B.  Co.]

The Commissioner of the Hudson’s Bay Company and the head of one of Canada’s big department stores were dining together at a Toronto Club.  “After six o’clock I don’t want to see or hear of an employe—­he doesn’t exist for me until eight o’clock next morning,” said the head of the department store.  “Well, I’m more curious than you,” smiled the Commissioner of the H.B.  Co., “I want to be reasonably assured of what every man-Jack of my people is doing all the time.  I want to know what he reads, and if he treats his wife well, and how his last baby is getting along—­you see, he’s a working-partner of mine.”