The Bank.
APPEARANCE OF THE BANK.--WANT OF RESPECT IN THE PRESENCE OF PUBLIC
FUNCTIONARIES.--THE PUBLIC AT THE BANK.--MYSTERIOUS
COMFORTS.--ENGLISH TASTE.--THE WONDERS OF MACHINERY.--A STRANGE
LIBRARY.--PRINTING THE NOTES.--HIDDEN PALACES.--THE TREASURY.--BAD
SOVEREIGNS.--DR. KEIF; AND WHY THE ENGLISH KNOW NOTHING WHATEVER OF
THE AFFAIRS OF GERMANY.
We have already, on a former occasion, looked at two of the city
temples--the Mansion-house and the Exchange. We now return to the
Capitoline mart of the city, to inspect the third of its temples--the
Bank of England.
Its outward appearance is mysterious. Half wall and half house, it is
neither the one nor the other; and yet either at one and the same time.
For a wall there are too many niches, blind windows, columns, and
finery; for a building it wants presence; it is too low, and has not
even window openings. But it appears from the architect's plan that this
strange _façade_ is meant for a wall, and, having the artist's word for
it, we believe, though see we do not, and sit down satisfied.
Standing free on all sides as the Exchange, the Bank is divided from the
latter by a thoroughfare called Threadneedle-street. Its western limit
is Princes-street; in the north intervenes Lothbury, and in the south
Bartholomew-lane, between the Bank and the neighbouring houses. It forms
a square; and yet people say it demonstrates the squaring of the circle,
the grand problem of modern philosophy.
We enter. The gate does not strike one as solemn and imposing as might
be expected in a gate leading to the laboratory of a great wizard. No
Druid's foot on the threshold; no spectral bats such as abound in
nursery tales of treasure-seeking. No! not even a couple of grenadiers,
who, in our dear fatherland are a necessary appendage to every public
building; really everything looks worldly, business-like, and civil. A
red-coated porter answers our questions, and tells us which way to go.
He is an elderly man, and certainly not strong enough to arrest a mere
lad of a communist, if such a one would attempt to divide the property
of the British nation. A shocking idea, that!
We cross a small court-yard, and mount a few steps (why should'nt we?)
and, all of a sudden, we are in a large saloon. This saloon is an
office--it matters very little what particular office it is--but it
makes not a disagreeable impression as our German offices do where
everything is official and officious, oppressive, and calculated to put
people down. On the contrary, there's a vast deal of good society in
this office: at least a hundred officials and members of the public. The
officials have no official appearance whatever; they are simple mortals,
and do their business and serve their customers as if they were mere
shopboys in a grocery shop. There is in them not a trace of dignity! not
an atom of _bureaucratic_ pride! It is exactly as if to serve the public
were the sole business of their lives. And the public too! Was such a
thing ever heard of in a public office? Men, women, and boys, with their
hats on! walking arm in arm as if they were in the park. They change
money, or bring it or fetch it, as if they had looked into a neighbour's
shop for the purpose. Some of them have no business at all to transact.
They actually talk to one another--stand by the fire in the centre of
the room, and warm their backs! The impertinent fellows! Why, they have
no respect whatever! They forget that they are in a public office. How
dare you stand there you dolt? How dare you scratch your head, and hold
your pipe in your hand? I should'nt wonder if it was lighted--it would
be like your impertinence! Get out as fast as you can; if you dont the
police will make you! Really not a trace of respect! It's no wonder they
say we are near doomsday.[F]
[F] The readers of passages like the above will not be astonished to
learn that Dr. Schlesinger's book has the honour of being prohibited
in some of the best-governed states of Germany, but more especially in
Austria.--[ED].
Ranged in long rows along the walls, the Bank clerks sit writing,
casting-up accounts, weighing gold, and paying it away over the counter.
In front of each is a bar of dark mahogany, a little table, a pair of
scales, and a small fraction of the public; each waiting for his fare.
The business is well-conducted, and none of them are kept waiting for
any length of time.
The saloon just by is more crowded. We are in the middle of the year,
and the interest on the three per cents. is being paid. What crowding
and sweeping to and fro. At least fifty clerks are sitting in a circle
in a high vaulted saloon, well provided with a cupola and lanterns. They
do nothing whatever but pay and weigh, and weigh and pay. On all sides,
the rattling of gold, as they push it with little brass shovels across
the tables. People elbowing and pushing in order to get a _locus standi_
near the clerks; the doors are continually opening and shutting. What
crowds of people there must be in this country who have their money in
the three per cent. Consols!
Strange figures may be seen in this place. An old man with a wooden-leg
sits in a corner waiting, and Heaven knows how long he has been waiting
already. Of course, a wooden leg is rather an encumbrance than otherwise
in a crowd. The old man seems to be fully aware of the fact. He looks at
his large silver watch--it is just twelve--puts his hand to the pocket
of his coat, and pulls out a large parcel, something wrapped up in a
stale copy of the _Herald_. What can the parcel contain? Sandwiches! He
spreads them out, and begins to eat. He likes them too. He takes his
ease, and makes himself perfectly at home. I dare say it is not the
first time he has waited for his dividends.
That young lady on our left is getting impatient. She has made several
attempts to fight her way to one of the clerks; she tried to push in
first on the right, and then on the left, but all in vain. John Bull is
by no means gallant in business, or at the theatre, or in the streets:
he pushes, and kicks, and elbows in all directions. Poor pretty young
lady, you'll have a long time to wait! It's no use standing on your
toes, and looking over people's shoulders. You'd better come again
to-morrow.
The little boy down there gets much better on. A pretty fair-haired
fellow that, with a little basket in his hand. Perhaps he is the son of
a widow, who cannot come herself to get her small allowance. The boy
looks as if about to cry, for he is on all sides surrounded by tall men.
But one of them seizes him, lifts him up, and presents him to one of the
clerks. "Pray pay this little creditor of the public; he'll be pressed
to death in the crowd!" And they all laugh, and everybody makes room for
the boy; for it ought to be said to John Bull's credit, he is kind and
gentle with children at all times. "Well done, my little fellow! Now be
careful that they dont rob you of your money on the way. How can they
ever think of sending such a baby for their dividends!"
In this wing of the house, office follows after office; they are all on
the ground-floor, and receive their light through the ceiling; they are
all constructed in a grand style, and many of them are fit for a king's
banqueting-room. In them money is exchanged for notes, and notes for
money; the interest on the public debt is paid; the names of the
creditors are booked and transferred. It is here that the banking
business is carried on in its relations with the bulk of the public.
These offices are, consequently open to every one; they are the central
hall of the English money market, the great exchange office of London.
Every Englishman is here sentinel and constable, for every Englishman
has, or at least he wishes to have, some share in the Bank. But those
who would enter the more secret recesses of the sanctuary, must have an
order from one of the Bank Directors. We are fortunate enough to have
such an order, which we show to one of the servants. He takes us, shows
us into a little room, and asks us to wait a few moments.
The room in which we are is a waiting-room. There are many such in the
house. A round table, a couple of chairs, and--and nothing else! that's
all the furniture. Really nothing else! And yet the room is so snug and
comfortable. It is altogether mysterious, how the English manage to give
their rooms an air of comfort, which with us is too frequently wanting,
even in the houses of wealthy persons, who furnish, as the phrase goes,
"regardless of expense." Every German who comes to England must be
struck with the fact. Whether the apartments he hires be splendid or
humble--no matter, he is at once alive to the influence of this charmed
something, and he will sadly miss it when he returns to Germany. Yes! it
must be--the charm must be in the carpets and the fire-place. Surely
witchery does not enter into the household arrangements of sober and
orthodox Englishmen!
It's a pity they did not make us wait a little longer, the room was so
comfortable. Another servant has brought our order back, and told us
that he is to be our guide. Passing through open yards and covered
passages, we come to a clean and well-paved hall, in which the
steam-engine of the house lives. Large cylinders, powerful wheels, rods
shining as silver, the balls of the whirling governor heavy as
four-and-twenty pounders, and the space under the boiler a hell _en
miniature_. Everything powerful and gigantic, and yet clean, harmonious,
and tasteful.
Yes! tasteful is the word. The English are frequently, and in many
instances justly, taunted with their want of taste. They have an awkward
manner of wearing their clothes; they are bad hands at designing and
manufacturing those charming _nippes_, for which the French are so
famous; their grand dinners and festivals, their fancy patterns and
articles of luxury, their fashions and social habits, are frequently at
war with the laws of refined taste. But there are also matters in which,
in point of taste, they are superior to all other nations. Such, for
instance, in the cultivation of the soil, the manufacture of iron and
leather, etc., etc.
Give a French, German, Spanish, or Belgian artisan a piece of iron, and
ask him to make a screw for a steam-engine. Give just such a piece of
iron to an Englishman, with the same request. The odds are a thousand to
one that the Englishman's screw will be more neat, useful and handsome,
than the screw produced by the artisans of the other nations. The
Englishman gives his iron and steel goods a sort of characteristic
expression, a sort of solid beauty, which cannot fail at once to strike
every beholder. The Germans saw thus much in the Great Exhibition; and
they may see it in every English house, if they will but take the
trouble of examining the commonest kitchen utensils, or the tongs,
shovel, and poker in the most ordinary English parlour. They are all
massive, solid, weighty, and tasteful.
It's a splendid sight, this steam-engine at the Bank! It is complete,
and in keeping in all its details. It is the mind which moves all the
wheels and machines in the house. Its power is exerted in the furthest
parts of the establishment; it moves a thousand wheels, and rollers, and
rods; it stands all lonely in its case, working on and on, without
control or assistance from man. With us, too, the steam-engines have
emancipated themselves, and do not want the support of their masters;
but the furnace is still a mere infant, and wants stokers to put its
food into its mouth. But here the furnace, too, is independent: it
procures its victuals, and feeds itself according to its wants. The
large round grate is moveable; it turns in a circle on its horizontal
plane, and pushes each point of its circumference at regular intervals,
under an opening from which the coals fall down upon it. The keeper of
the engine has nothing whatever to do but to fill the coal-box and light
the fire in the morning. Steam is generated, it enters the cylinders,
moves the pistons and the wheels, and the grate commences its rotary
movement. From that moment forward, the engine works on without
assistance.
As we proceed we shall be able to judge of the multiplied usefulness of
this remarkable engine. We have followed our guide up a narrow flight of
stone steps, and are now in rooms which form a striking contrast to the
saloons which we examined in the first instance. They are dark and dusky
workshops, in which the materials for the use of the Bank are being
prepared. Here, for instance, is a man in a small room preparing the
steel-plates on which the notes are to be engraved. His is a difficult
task, even though the engine moves the sharp hard wedge which scrapes
and polishes the plates. It produces a shrill screaming noise, one which
it is by no means agreeable to listen to for any length of time; and
besides the labour is most wearisome and monotonous. But it is one of
the dark sides of this age of machinery, perhaps it is the darkest, that
the sameness of his mechanical labour tends to stupify the workman; that
he ceases being an artizan or artist, and comes to be a mere help to his
machine, which requires no talents or abilities in its servant, but
merely exactitude and promptness. All he has to do is to put the plate
or the spindle on the exact spot, where the machine can seize, handle
it, and finish it.
Another room is devoted to the preparation of printer's ink, for the
printing of the notes. A quantity of black matter is being ground. A
simple operation this; even dogs might be trained to perform it, and
give satisfaction. But here, too, the machine does the work, and does
it, too, with astonishing accuracy. All the workman has to do, is to put
the black mixture between the rollers; they take it, crush it, grind it,
and drop it ready for use. If a single grain of sand be found in the
mixture, the machine has neglected its duty--that's all. But you wont
find a grain of sand even if you were to search for it in many tons of
the ink.
The workman explains the process.
"The ink," says he, "must pass between these two large rollers to be
ground. The rollers are of strong steel; they are very hard and heavy.
But small particles of sand or stone would soon take away their polish.
That's what this side-cutting is for. Look here. I hold the point of my
knife exactly at the point where the rollers touch one another. Did you
see how at the slightest touch they separated? This happens whenever any
hard body, however small, finds its way between them. They dont take it,
but drop it, and in this manner they keep their polish."
It is marvellous! This machine is most simple, and yet we could stand
for hours to see it work. What is a sensitive plant to these heavy steel
rollers, which are so sensitive that they recede at the touch even of a
grain of sand! And it is all done by means of the cutting and the
weight. It is no use attempting to describe these things without a
diagram. And even that is unsatisfactory to those who never saw the
machine in motion. But we revoke the pert remark we made just now. A dog
cannot be trained to do this work; even the labour of man could not
supply the labour of this machine. Enough for man that he made it.
Through the various work-rooms, each of them devoted to some part of the
manufactory of notes, we come to the large work-shops of the printers
and binders. In either of them steam is at work, and so are human
beings. The Bank of England, which in the first year of its existence
wanted only one ledger, requires now at least three hundred ledgers to
register its accounts; they are all lined, paged, and bound in the
house. It is one of the most interesting features of the Bank, that all
its requirements, with the sole exception of the paper, are manufactured
on the premises.
Exactly as in the stone-paved hall of the lower story, where we watched
the great central steam-engine feeding itself, so we find in other rooms
large machine monsters moving up and down, and to and fro, rattling,
hissing, and thumping, and frequently not doing anything that we can
see, although our guide tells us, that the results of their labours will
become apparent to us in other parts of the building. And they stand,
moreover, alone, completely left to themselves; in the rooms in which
they work, in the corridors leading to those rooms, not a human creature
is to be seen, not a human step to be heard, nor is there a trace of
human influence that we are aware of. And then this measured rotation of
the large wheels; the busy movement of the straps; the never tiring
restlessness of the pistons, which seem to move faster the longer we
look at them. There is something grand in these rooms, void of the
presence of man, where the mind of man invisibly hovers over the world
of machines, as the Spirit of God over the face of the waters in the
hour of creation. It is grand, but it is also awful.
We feel quite relieved when we get down into the paved court-yard, where
a living two-legged labourer walks by; and yet neither the place nor the
man is very agreeable to look at. The yard has a neglected appearance,
and the iron shutters which cover the place where the windows are
supposed to be make it still more gloomy.
"That is the library of the Bank," remarks our guide.
We are not likely to be astonished by anything. We just saw workshops
without men; why should there not be a library without books? Let us
have patience and wait. Perhaps some very clever machine will open the
iron shutter from the inside, thrust forth its arm, and hand us a
catalogue. No? Well, for a wonder, our guide, who is very polite, though
by no means over-communicative, opens a small door, and motions us to
enter.
A low, narrow, vaulted passage, which reminds us of the _casemates_ or
bomb-proof galleries of fortresses; a few rays of light straggling in
through some grating somewhere; at the end of the passage a heavy iron
door which opens into a small windowless room lighted up by the most
consumptive-looking gas-jet imaginable. Our eyes are quite unused to the
light; but, gradually as we get accustomed to it, we can see the objects
around us. We stand in front of a railing, and behind it stands a little
man in a black dress coat, and with a white cravat.
"This gentleman is the librarian of the Bank;" says our guide. Still no
trace of books.
The man in the black dress-coat opens a door in the railing, bids us
enter, and shows us an enormous number of parcels and bundles of notes,
ranged along the walls up to the very ceiling. They call this the
library of the Bank; but, in truth, it is its lumber room. It is an
asylum for the notes which have been paid in at the Bank. They are
valueless; for the Bank never issues the same note twice. They are kept
and locked up in the library, I forget how many years, in order to be
produced in the case of a theft or forgery, or any other matter of the
kind. Afterwards they are burnt.
Every now and then clerks come in with fresh bundles. A few minutes ago
these small papers were worth--Heaven knows how much money. "They are
now mere waste paper. They have had their day. Many a note leads a long
and honourable life; goes to the Continent, to India, or Port Adelaide;
and returns to the Bank much the worse for wear after all its journeys.
Other notes have scarcely a day's roving license in the world; to-day
they are issued, and to-morrow they are paid in. It's accident, or fate,
or Providence." Saying which the librarian makes his bow, turns round,
and returns to his desk.
We leave the library. The way is frequently very short from the old
bookshop where good books and bad books are alike given up to dust and
moths, to the printing-office, from whence they are launched forth into
the world. Thus it is in the Bank. We have scarcely left the library,
and we are already in the department where they print the notes.
The printing from the plates is simple enough. The wonders of the
machinery consist chiefly in the spontaneous advance of the numbers
(each note has its own number, and a double set too), and in the control
which the machine exercises over the workmen. There is no inspector to
watch the printer. The machine, which he compels to print, compels him
to be honest. The machine registers the exact numbers that are being
printed, and registers them too in a distant part of the establishment.
That the machine can do this with astonishing accuracy; that it masters
the intricacies of our system of numbers; and that it produces the
numbers at the same moment in different places; is a triumph of human
invention which almost startles us. It is also the result of the various
systems of wheels which we saw working all alone in other parts of the
building.
A great deal more might be said of the astonishing results of this most
perfect system of machinery. But, since description is out of the
question, we should only reproduce our own impression. Still we must
tell the fairer portion of our readers that at the Bank even the washing
is done by machinery, and that the establishment manages to get on
without female labour.
The dirty linen of the Bank--that is to say the cloths which are used in
the printing process--are sent to the washhouse, where they are
compelled to perform a pilgrimage through a number of large pails full
of hot and cold water. They are then washed by wheels; then dragged into
hot water and next into cold water, wrung out and hung up in a drying
room. And all by steam--all by machinery! No busy housewife--no
able-tongued laundresses--no disturbance of the house--and no
washing-days! There is no saying how shocking a want of respect of the
whole female sex is implied by this process! But then the poor mechanics
are quite as badly treated. You must put up with it, Madame. The Bank
can and _will_ do without you.
Our guide leads the way to other regions. We enter the reception and
meeting-rooms of the Governor and the Directors.
Charming open places, with lawns and shrubberies, and here and there a
shady tree--clean, well-sanded paths--it is quite evident that we have
left the manufacturing districts, and are in the midst of the parks and
homesteads of Old England. And these buildings, rising up from the
lawns, are palaces, with columns, large stone steps, and carved
ornaments. Their interior excels in splendour the wildest anticipations
we might have formed. Saloons, high and lofty as cathedrals, splendid
cupolas everywhere, and an overwhelming profusion of panelling,
architectural ornaments, rich carpets and furniture, fit for a king's
palace. We would gladly remain here and see nothing else; but our guide
is determined on our admiring _all_ the sights of the house.
We follow him to the guard-room, where a detachment of soldiers from the
Tower enter every evening and pass the night, to protect the Bank "in
case of an emergency." We follow him to the Bullion Office, a
subterranean vault, where they keep the gold and silver bars from
Australia, California, Russia, Peru, and Mexico; where they weigh them,
sell them, and from whence they send them to the Mint. These vaults are
very interesting to the admirers of precious metals.
But is this all? No! nothing of the kind. Our guide--a real guide--has
reserved the most interesting part of the exhibition to the last. He has
taken us through several yards and passages. He knocks at a large door,
which is opened from the inside. Two gentlemen, in black dress coats and
white cravats, stand in a large room, which receives its light through a
lantern in the top. In the centre of the room is a heavy bureau. The
walls are covered with iron lock-ups and safes. This is the Treasury of
the Bank, where they keep the new notes and coins.
One of the gentlemen looks at our order, and, with that unpretending
dignity which characterises the English, he turns round and opens some
of the iron safes. They are filled with bags, containing 500 or 1000
sovereigns each. He takes some of them and puts them into our hands, to
convince us, as though we ever doubted of the fact, of the bags being
filled with good sterling money.
The other gentleman--they are both dressed as if they were going to a
_levée_--takes a bunch of keys, and opens a large closet filled with
notes. The most valuable and smallest bundle is again put into our
hands. "You have there," says he, "two thousand notes of one thousand
pounds each." Two million pounds sterling! Surely an enormous sum to
hold in one's hand. An army in paper, containing the power of much evil
and much good, especially since the paper is not mere paper and since,
at a few yards' distance, you may change it into "red, red gold," as the
poets say. But as we are not in a position to perform that alchymistic
process, we return the notes to their keeper. "Good bye, Sir." "Good
morning, gentlemen." We have left the Treasury, without being either
wiser or richer men. Of course, because we were not allowed to carry off
its contents.
We enter another large room, with the neatest, prettiest steam-engine in
it, and with a variety of other small machines, whose complicated wheels
are kept in motion by the said engine. The bulkiest object in the room
is a large table, literally covered with mountains of sovereigns. A few
officials, with shovels in their hands, are stirring the immense
glittering mass.
"It is here that they weigh the sovereigns," whispers our guide. We
stand and watch the process. Ignorant as we are of the exact principles
of the machines, we are altogether startled by their fabulous activity.
Besides the mysterious system of wheels within wheels, each of these
marvels displays an open square box, and in this box, slanting in an
angle of 30°, two segments of cylinders, with the open part turned
upwards. A roll of sovereigns, placed into one of these tubes, passes
slowly down, and one gold piece after the other drops into a large box
on the floor.
All the clerks have to do is to fill the tubes. The sovereigns slide
down, but just at the lower end of the tube the miracle is accomplished.
Whenever a sovereign of less than full weight touches that ticklish
point, a small brass plate jumps up from some hidden corner, and pushes
the defaulter into the left-hand compartment of the box, while all the
good pieces go to the right. This little brass plate, hiding where it
does, and popping out at intervals to note a bad sovereign, is an
impertinent, ironical, malicious thing. There is an air of republicanism
about it. As to the sharpness of its criticism, we actually do not
believe that any republican would attempt to compete with it. For who
would estimate the virtues of his fellow-men by grains, especially in
the law of crowned heads!
We cannot see enough of these active machines. The small plates of brass
show themselves pretty often as old and worn out sovereigns glide down.
Not one of them is allowed to pass; and withal these small plates act
with so much quiet promptitude and calm energy, and altogether without
noise or pretension.
One of the clerks is kind enough to explain the purpose of this process.
"The Bank selects the full weighted sovereigns from the light ones,
because all the money we pay out must have its full weight."
"And what do you do with the light ones?"
"We send them to the Mint after we have taken the liberty of marking
them. Shall I show you how we do it?"
He takes a handful of the condemned ones, and puts them into a box,
which has the appearance of a small barrel-organ. He turns a screw, or
touches a spring--it is clearly impossible to note each movement of the
man's hand--and there is a sounding and rushing noise in the interior of
the box, and all the sovereigns fall out from a slit at the bottom. But
mercy on us! how dreadfully disfigured they are! Cut through in the
middle. The Victorias, and Williams, and Georges, all cut through their
necks; in fact, beheaded! And that's what the English call "_marking a
bad sovereign_." It makes us shudder. We are positively afraid. We cant
stay one minute longer. "Good morning, sir." "Good morning, gentlemen."
What with our confusion and distress, we quite forgot to thank our kind
guide. We are again in the street: to our left is the Exchange, to our
right the Mansion-house, and before us the Iron Duke on horseback, and
all around the furious, rattling, ceaseless crowd of vehicles; the
moving and pushing of the foot-passengers; women hunted over the
crossings; walking advertisements; street-sellers; red Post-office
carts; the dusky streets, and the heavy leaden sky--the City in its
working dress!
At home, while we are sitting at tea, Dr. Keif wastes much valuable
eloquence in trying to convince Sir John, that the English can never
get a proper understanding of German affairs: 1st, because it is hardly
possible even for a German properly to understand them; 2nd, because the
English newspapers have none but English correspondents in Germany, who
know just as little of that mysterious country as he (Dr. Keif) knows of
banking; 3rd, because the English consider all other countries with
exclusive reference to their own country; and, 4th, because they fancy
that reform can be brought about by peaceable public meetings, even in
countries where those who attend such meetings are at once arrested, and
locked up in fortresses or houses of correction; 5th, because social
life in England is vastly different from social life in Germany; 6th,
because Britons are too ignorant of the geography of Germany; and, 7th,
because there are many who might understand German affairs, and who have
very good reasons for not wishing to understand them. As we cannot
follow the learned Doctor through the whole length of his argument we
leave him to fight his own battle with Sir John, and merely remark, that
an armistice was concluded at two o'clock in the morning, after which
the belligerent parties went into night-quarters. And with this
satisfactory intelligence we close the chapter.