ODD CHARACTERS AROUND THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XX, Issue XII, 19 March 1898, Page 351

ODD CHARACTERS AROUND THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

Public institutions the world over are all more or less infested with cranks, but none of them can boast a more interesting collection of human oddities than the Bank of England. Most of these notable characters, in the days of my service, were women, and women of very uncertain age. There was, for instance, the ‘Countess of Windsor.’ The ‘Countess’ was a short, spare little body, with a drawn, pale face,

an abundance of soft, gray curls and an ever-present smile, which would have been pleasant to see had its existence been called forth by reason. Her ladyship—nobody seemed to know her real name—had been a quarterly visitor at the bank as long as the oldest employe could remember, and was invariably treated with the utmost courtesy. Her other regular haunts were the Foreign Office at Whitehall and Somerset House, to the officials of which establishments she was equally well-known. The particular bee within that alarming headgear was a belief that a grateful House of Lords had, in consideration of certain services rendered by her late husband, voted the little lady a slight monetary award, a trifle of some ten millions sterling. My first interview with the ‘Countess,’ of whom I had often heard, took place at the bank’s branch temporarily established in the Law Courts building. She eame tripping up to the counter early one morning and.

as I advanced, greeted me with a courtly bow. ‘I am the Countess of Windsor. I presume you are acquainted with my affairs?’ she said pleasantly . ‘As regards the vote?’ I suggested. ‘Exactly,’ replied her ladyship. ‘I think you will find that the documents are now perfectly in order.’ So saying she withdrew from a shabby reticule the most fantasticlooking instrument possible to imagine. It was a parchment roll setting forth the imaginary facts of her case in elegant script, signed (?) by an incongruous crowd which. I remember, included the Queen, Salisbury, Harcourt, Irving, and Bradlaugh, and decorated with a blue ribbon to which was attached an enormous tin watch case, burlesquing the great seal of State. ‘Of course, I don’t want all the money down,’ explained the little woman, as I examined th e wonderful sheet- and wondered how I was going to get out- of the situation creditably. ‘I am afraid, your ladyship, that you have overlooked an important—’ ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interrupted the ‘Countess.’ ‘I ought to have the Duke of Westminster's signature. One of my Government friends told me that, and I actually forgot all about it. I’ll attend to it at once.’ With this she smilingly re-rolled the document and began to put it back in its rusty bag, her trembling hands showing in many places through a pair of well worn gloves. As she turned to go I managed to slip a coin on the counter. ‘Your ladyship dropped this, I think,’ I ventured to suggest. ‘Oh. dear, no,’ she replied, while eyeing the money longingly. ‘No, sir, it doesn’t belong to me.’ ‘Nor to me, nor to the bank,’ I said. ‘Won’t you take it—on account?’ Her face brightened instantly, and she pocketed the coin, saying: ‘Then you will please charge it up, sir,’ and with another gracious smile went off to see about the Duke’s signature. ANOTHER NOTABLE BANK CHARACTER an elderly man who, unlike the poor little Countess, was thoroughly illiterate and of humble origin, but who, like her, had a vaguq idea of rights to untold wealth. His name was Joe Wallace. Regularly four times a year Joe would show up at the private drawing office and present a cheque in rough manuscript for some fabulous sum. When informed that the cheque was worthless except as a curio he would feign the greatest astonishment-. ‘ls this ’ere intended as a joke?’ he would ask defiantly, and being assured to the contrary would stalk out of the building muttering vague threats. On the following day a letter would be received by the chief cashier from the irate Joe. The bank museum contains several of his effusions, all couched in some such terms as these: ‘Bank of England.—Sirs: 1 rite to say as my father as you know left wun millyon pounds for me in youre koffirs, but wen I cum to draw a cheq to-day they darks woodent pay up. Please send me sum as bisniss is pore and oblige, yours obedient, JOE WALLACE. P.S.—This aint no idel thret.

‘1 he solemn warning regularly conveyed in his posteript for the past twenty years had never even led to Joe's exclusion from the bank, though full inquiries were instituted in his younger days, when it was found that he was a respectable and hard working. if crazy, cobbler, and perfectly harmless. Perhaps THE STAR CRANK OF THE BANK certainly the best known in its various departments — was Mother McCabe. The form of this good ladv's eccentricity was religious, and she endeavoured to combine business with pleasure by drawing her quarterly ample dividend in life annuities and looking after the spiritual welfare of the bank clerks. She would bring with her. from her country residence, two stalwart men servants loaded down with New Testaments and a queer collection of hymns of her own composition, wretchedly printed and bound in covers of cheap wall paper. The metre of these outpourings of the saintly old lady was too fearful and wonderful to admit of description, but I remember that each effusion terminated, as by way of a trademark, with: Amen—A.M. Amelia McCabe. God’s Appointed.

G. A. ADAM.