I had a little bankin’ business to transact the other day at one of the old-fashioned banks–the Long Island Bank, they call it. This is one of the oldest institutions in the country, and it has one very odd room in its buildin’–a sort of banking museum, as it were, everythin’ is in the style of old New York Banks of one hundred years ago. It is full of old bankin’ house furniture, solid old bankin’ house tables, and desks and chairs, such as they used to use when about sixteen hours a day was an average bank officer’s work, and when a president and cashier between ‘em used to be clerk, bookkeeper, payin’ teller, messenger and porter, when banking business commenced at seven o’clock and when they slept with the bank keys under their pillows at night.
This old room had a wonderfully refreshin’ old flavor about it, and the sight of it got me to thinkin’ about the men who used to be bank presidents in the good old city of New York.
There was old George Curtis of the Continental Bank, for example. What a high-toned man he was. Nothin’ of the snob about him, but yet as proud as a prince–proud of his honor and standin’. He changed the whole style of bankin’ in his day on one point, and changed it for the better, too.
When he came into office it was the custom to make bank presidents and all the leadin’ officers of banks presents, and the presidents and leadin’ officers used to accept ‘em, too. Customers with the bank made these presents for favors from the bank, and the bank used to grant the favors, of course. All sorts of presents were given. The smaller bank people got boxes of cigars, or umbrellas, or the canes; the bigger bank people got casks of wine, silver sets of service and so on; but all got somethin’.
One time President Curtis was asked to “accommodate” at his bank a then prominent New Yorker. Mr. Curtis, actin’ for the best interests of the bank he represented, refused the accommodation. A few days afterward there drove up to the door of the bank a carriage and a pair of horses, and stopped right at the bank door. “Whose establishment is this?” asked the bank porter of the driver in livery. “Mr. George Curtis, president of the Continental Bank,” was the pompous reply. The bank porter knew that Mr. Curtis kept no carriage, and thinkin’ it a joke, told it around the bank, till it reached President Curtis’s ears. He inquired into the matter and found it was no joke, but a fact. The carriage and horses had been presented to him by the man who had asked for an accommodation, and who thought that this would be the way to cause President Curtis to alter his decision.
Mr. Curtis said nothin’, but told the driver to take the carriage and horses to a stable near his house, and bring ‘em to the bank again about this time the followin’ mornin’. The prominent man hearin’ of this, thought for sure Curtis had accepted the carriage, and that his accommodation was all right. So next mornin’ he dropped in at the bank.
The first thing he saw at the bank door was the carriage and horses he had given President Curtis, but he rubbed his eyes in wonder as he looked. For over the carriage was a big printed poster, and a big crowd stood lookin’ at the poster, thinkin’ probably what a queer idea it was to use such a fine carriage as an advertisin’ wagon, and thinkin’, too, how queer the advertisement was. For this was what was printed on the poster stuck on the carriage: The Continental Bank takes this conspicuous and affected method of informin’ the public, and its depositors in particular, that its officers and attaches accept no presents and take no bribes. This carriage, at the end of the current week, will be returned to the gentleman who presented it to the president of this bank, and a reasonable sum for its use durin’ the week will be paid.”
The prominent man “who wanted the accommodation” read the poster, but didn’t say a word more about the accommodation that mornin’, no, nor “some other mornin’,” and the whole bad practice of bank officials taking favors was forever afterward stopped. It was the only bit of “sensational advertising” Mr. Curtis, who was a very quiet man, ever did; but it did make a sensation, and did a good work instantly and effectually.
Old Stout, the head of the Shoe and Leather Bank, was another old-time bank president who was as honorable as Curtis and even more queer and more particular about things.
He was great on “time;” he believed in “time.” That is, in not allowing any “time” to himself or anybody else. He never asked for “time” himself. He never granted “time” to anybody else, and at the bank his board always had to meet in time–to the minute.
Accordin’ to its charter the bank directors were entitled to three dollars each every meetin’ of the board. Stout used to have this three dollars paid to each director personally just after the meetin’ of the board of directors was over. One day a meetin’ was due, and Stout, as usual, looked at his watch and called the board to order on the instant. About half a minute after the gavel of the president had fallen, in walked one of the particularly solid men of the board and took his seat. The meetin’ went on as usual, and after the meetin’ each director got his three dollars–all but the particularly solid man, who didn’t get his. He demanded his three dollars, like the rest. Stout refused to pay it. The particularly solid man claimed that he had done his work and was entitled to his pay. The president claimed, on the other hand, that after the gavel had fallen the meetin’ had begun, and that therefore by arrivin’ after the gavel had fallen the particularly solid man rendered himself liable to the fine of three dollars for being late. The president stuck to his point, too, and altho’ he made a life-long enemy by so doin’, he didn’t yield a dollar. He was hard on others, but he was just as hard on himsel–one of the “justest” men that ever lived. Jacob Barker, Jacob Lorillard, old John Slidell, Gallatin, Pelatiah Petit, Thomas Tileston, Isaac Roosevelt, Stillman: these were the kind of men they made bank presidents out of in the olden time.
The hardest workin’ man in the city of New York was a big bank president. No workman ever worked as many hours a day as he did, though he was worth ten millions. I mean old Moses Taylor, president of the City Bank. He worked for years, on an average fourteen hours a day and took no holidays. His bank was on Wall street, his house was on Fifth avenue, and he walked the distance between ‘em, down and up, every day. He kept all of his own books, or one set of his own books at least, and knew them better than any clerk or cashier. He wrote his own letters, made his own entries;he never had an idle hour; he was president of a bank, owned a railroad entire, owned a coal company, most of it; was the head of a shippin’ house, and was connected with twenty-six monied institutions. All he ever knew of life was workin’, taking a nap before dinner and a bath before bedtime, and then sleepin’ for the night and gettin’ up and goin’ through the old routine again. It was worth ten millions to lead such a life as that; I wouldn’t have done it for twenty.
The latter set of bank presidents in New York were not quite such workers, or a big men either. Williams of the Metropolitan Bank, was said to be the sharpest of the lot; Palmer, of the Broadway Bank, was the gruffest; Doerich, of the Bank of New York, was a figure-head for a son-in-law of old Commodore Vanderbilt; Stevens, of the Bank of Commerce, was a figure-head for Vail, the “fancy” cashier; Coe, of the American Exchange Bank, was a great talker, while Sheppard Knapp, of the Mechanics’ Bank, was universally conceded to be the most agreeable bank president in town.
I wonder if any of the men who meet in the bankers’ convention at Saratoga are “up to the mark” of the old time bank presidents.
