an American novelist and journalist
The growth of young Frank Algernon Cowperwood was through years
of what might be called a comfortable and happy family existence.
Buttonwood Street, where he spent the first ten years of his life,
was a lovely place for a boy to live. It contained mostly small
two and three-story red brick houses, with small white marble steps
leading up to the front door, and thin, white marble trimmings outlining
the front door and windows. There were trees in the street—plenty
of them. The road pavement was of big, round cobblestones, made
bright and clean by the rains; and the sidewalks were of red brick,
and always damp and cool. In the rear was a yard, with trees and
grass and sometimes flowers, for the lots were almost always one
hundred feet deep, and the house-fronts, crowding close to the pavement
in front, left a comfortable space in the rear.
The Cowperwoods, father and mother, were not so lean and narrow
that they could not enter into the natural tendency to be happy
and joyous with their children; and so this family, which increased
at the rate of a child every two or three years after Frank's birth
until there were four children, was quite an interesting affair
when he was ten and they were ready to move into the New Market
Street home. Henry Worthington Cowperwood's connections were increased
as his position grew more responsible, and gradually he was becoming
quite a personage. He already knew a number of the more prosperous
merchants who dealt with his bank, and because as a clerk his duties
necessitated his calling at other banking-houses, he had come to
be familiar with and favorably known in the Bank of the United States,
the Drexels, the Edwards, and others. The brokers knew him as representing
a very sound organization, and while he was not considered brilliant
mentally, he was known as a most reliable and trustworthy individual.
In this progress of his father young Cowperwood definitely shared.
He was quite often allowed to come to the bank on Saturdays, when
he would watch with great interest the deft exchange of bills at
the brokerage end of the business. He wanted to know where all the
types of money came from, why discounts were demanded and received,
what the men did with all the money they received. His father, pleased
at his interest, was glad to explain so that even at this early
age—from ten to fifteen—the boy gained a wide knowledge of the condition
of the country financially—what a State bank was and what a national
one; what brokers did; what stocks were, and why they fluctuated
in value. He began to see clearly what was meant by money as a medium
of exchange, and how all values were calculated according to one
primary value, that of gold. He was a financier by instinct, and
all the knowledge that pertained to that great art was as natural
to him as the emotions and subtleties of life are to a poet. This
medium of exchange, gold, interested him intensely. When his father
explained to him how it was mined, he dreamed that he owned a gold
mine and waked to wish that he did. He was likewise curious about
stocks and bonds and he learned that some stocks and bonds were
not worth the paper they were written on, and that others were worth
much more than their face value indicated.
"There, my son," said his father to him one day, "you
won't often see a bundle of those around this neighborhood."
He referred to a series of shares in the British East India Company,
deposited as collateral at two-thirds of their face value for a
loan of one hundred thousand dollars. A Philadelphia magnate had
hypothecated them for the use of the ready cash. Young Cowperwood
looked at them curiously. "They don't look like much, do they?"
"They are worth just four times their face value," said
his father, archly.
Frank reexamined them. "The British East India Company,"
he read. "Ten pounds—that's pretty near fifty dollars."
"Forty-eight, thirty-five," commented his father, dryly.
"Well, if we had a bundle of those we wouldn't need to work
very hard. You'll notice there are scarcely any pin-marks on them.
They aren't sent around very much. I don't suppose these have ever
been used as collateral before."
Young Cowperwood gave them back after a time, but not without a
keen sense of the vast ramifications of finance. What was the East
India Company? What did it do? His father told him.
At home also he listened to considerable talk of financial investment
and adventure. He heard, for one thing, of a curious character by
the name of Steemberger, a great beef speculator from Virginia,
who was attracted to Philadelphia in those days by the hope of large
and easy credits. Steemberger, so his father said, was close to
Nicholas Biddle, Lardner, and others of the United States Bank,
or at least friendly with them, and seemed to be able to obtain
from that organization nearly all that he asked for. His operations
in the purchase of cattle in Virginia, Ohio, and other States were
vast, amounting, in fact, to an entire monopoly of the business
of supplying beef to Eastern cities. He was a big man, enormous,
with a face, his father said, something like that of a pig; and
he wore a high beaver hat and a long frock-coat which hung loosely
about his big chest and stomach. He had managed to force the price
of beef up to thirty cents a pound, causing all the retailers and
consumers to rebel, and this was what made him so conspicuous. He
used to come to the brokerage end of the elder Cowperwood's bank,
with as much as one hundred thousand or two hundred thousand dollars,
in twelve months—post-notes of the United States Bank in denominations
of one thousand, five thousand, and ten thousand dollars. These
he would cash at from ten to twelve per cent. under their face value,
having previously given the United States Bank his own note at four
months for the entire amount. He would take his pay from the Third
National brokerage counter in packages of Virginia, Ohio, and western
Pennsylvania bank-notes at par, because he made his disbursements
principally in those States. The Third National would in the first
place realize a profit of from four to five per cent. on the original
transaction; and as it took the Western bank-notes at a discount,
it also made a profit on those.
There was another man his father talked about—one Francis J. Grund,
a famous newspaper correspondent and lobbyist at Washington, who
possessed the faculty of unearthing secrets of every kind, especially
those relating to financial legislation. The secrets of the President
and the Cabinet, as well as of the Senate and the House of Representatives,
seemed to be open to him. Grund had been about, years before, purchasing
through one or two brokers large amounts of the various kinds of
Texas debt certificates and bonds. The Republic of Texas, in its
struggle for independence from Mexico, had issued bonds and certificates
in great variety, amounting in value to ten or fifteen million dollars.
Later, in connection with the scheme to make Texas a State of the
Union, a bill was passed providing a contribution on the part of
the United States of five million dollars, to be applied to the
extinguishment of this old debt. Grund knew of this, and also of
the fact that some of this debt, owing to the peculiar conditions
of issue, was to be paid in full, while other portions were to be
scaled down, and there was to be a false or pre-arranged failure
to pass the bill at one session in order to frighten off the outsiders
who might have heard and begun to buy the old certificates for profit.
He acquainted the Third National Bank with this fact, and of course
the information came to Cowperwood as teller. He told his wife about
it, and so his son, in this roundabout way, heard it, and his clear,
big eyes glistened. He wondered why his father did not take advantage
of the situation and buy some Texas certificates for himself. Grund,
so his father said, and possibly three or four others, had made
over a hundred thousand dollars apiece. It wasn't exactly legitimate,
he seemed to think, and yet it was, too. Why shouldn't such inside
information be rewarded? Somehow, Frank realized that his father
was too honest, too cautious, but when he grew up, he told himself,
he was going to be a broker, or a financier, or a banker, and do
some of these things.
Just at this time there came to the Cowperwoods an uncle who had
not previously appeared in the life of the family. He was a brother
of Mrs. Cowperwood's—Seneca Davis by name—solid, unctuous, five
feet ten in height, with a big, round body, a round, smooth head
rather bald, a clear, ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and what little
hair he had of a sandy hue. He was exceedingly well dressed according
to standards prevailing in those days, indulging in flowered waistcoats,
long, light-colored frock-coats, and the invariable (for a fairly
prosperous man) high hat. Frank was fascinated by him at once. He
had been a planter in Cuba and still owned a big ranch there and
could tell him tales of Cuban life—rebellions, ambuscades, hand-to-hand
fighting with machetes on his own plantation, and things of that
sort. He brought with him a collection of Indian curies, to say
nothing of an independent fortune and several slaves—one, named
Manuel, a tall, raw-boned black, was his constant attendant, a bodyservant,
as it were. He shipped raw sugar from his plantation in boat-loads
to the Southwark wharves in Philadelphia. Frank liked him because
he took life in a hearty, jovial way, rather rough and offhand for
this somewhat quiet and reserved household.
"Why, Nancy Arabella," he said to Mrs Cowperwood on arriving
one Sunday afternoon, and throwing the household into joyous astonishment
at his unexpected and unheralded appearance, "you haven't grown
an inch! I thought when you married old brother Hy here that you
were going to fatten up like your brother. But look at you! I swear
to Heaven you don't weigh five pounds." And he jounced her
up and down by the waist, much to the perturbation of the children,
who had never before seen their mother so familiarly handled.
Henry Cowperwood was exceedingly interested in and pleased at the
arrival of this rather prosperous relative; for twelve years before,
when he was married, Seneca Davis had not taken much notice of him.
"Look at these little putty-faced Philadelphians," he
continued, "They ought to come down to my ranch in Cuba and
get tanned up. That would take away this waxy look." And he
pinched the cheek of Anna Adelaide, now five years old. "I
tell you, Henry, you have a rather nice place here." And he
looked at the main room of the rather conventional three-story house
with a critical eye.
Measuring twenty by twenty-four and finished in imitation cherry,
with a set of new Sheraton parlor furniture it presented a quaintly
harmonious aspect. Since Henry had become teller the family had
acquired a piano—a decided luxury in those days—brought from Europe;
and it was intended that Anna Adelaide, when she was old enough,
should learn to play. There were a few uncommon ornaments in the
room—a gas chandelier for one thing, a glass bowl with goldfish
in it, some rare and highly polished shells, and a marble Cupid
bearing a basket of flowers. It was summer time, the windows were
open, and the trees outside, with their widely extended green branches,
were pleasantly visible shading the brick sidewalk. Uncle Seneca
strolled out into the back yard.
"Well, this is pleasant enough," he observed, noting
a large elm and seeing that the yard was partially paved with brick
and enclosed within brick walls, up the sides of which vines were
climbing. "Where's your hammock? Don't you string a hammock
here in summer? Down on my veranda at San Pedro I have six or seven."
"We hadn't thought of putting one up because of the neighbors,
but it would be nice," agreed Mrs. Cowperwood. "Henry
will have to get one."
"I have two or three in my trunks over at the hotel. My niggers
make 'em down there. I'll send Manuel over with them in the morning."
He plucked at the vines, tweaked Edward's ear, told Joseph, the
second boy, he would bring him an Indian tomahawk, and went back
into the house.
"This is the lad that interests me," he said, after a
time, laying a hand on the shoulder of Frank. "What did you
name him in full, Henry?"
"Well, you might have named him after me. There's something
to this boy. How would you like to come down to Cuba and be a planter,
"I'm not so sure that I'd like to," replied the eldest.
"Well, that's straight-spoken. What have you against it?"
"Nothing, except that I don't know anything about it."
"What do you know?"
The boy smiled wisely. "Not very much, I guess."
"Well, what are you interested in?"
"Aha! What's bred in the bone, eh? Get something of that from
your father, eh? Well, that's a good trait. And spoken like a man,
too! We'll hear more about that later. Nancy, you're breeding a
financier here, I think. He talks like one."
He looked at Frank carefully now. There was real force in that
sturdy young body—no doubt of it. Those large, clear gray eyes were
full of intelligence. They indicated much and revealed nothing.
"A smart boy!" he said to Henry, his brother-in-law.
"I like his get-up. You have a bright family."
Henry Cowperwood smiled dryly. This man, if he liked Frank, might
do much for the boy. He might eventually leave him some of his fortune.
He was wealthy and single.
Uncle Seneca became a frequent visitor to the house—he and his
negro body-guard, Manuel, who spoke both English and Spanish, much
to the astonishment of the children; and he took an increasing interest
"When that boy gets old enough to find out what he wants to
do, I think I'll help him to do it," he observed to his sister
one day; and she told him she was very grateful. He talked to Frank
about his studies, and found that he cared little for books or most
of the study he was compelled to pursue. Grammar was an abomination.
Literature silly. Latin was of no use. History—well, it was fairly
"I like bookkeeping and arithmetic," he observed. "I
want to get out and get to work, though. That's what I want to do."
"You're pretty young, my son," observed his uncle. "You're
only how old now? Fourteen?"
"Well, you can't leave school much before sixteen. You'll
do better if you stay until seventeen or eighteen. It can't do you
any harm. You won't be a boy again."
"I don't want to be a boy. I want to get to work."
"Don't go too fast, son. You'll be a man soon enough. You
want to be a banker, do you?"
"Well, when the time comes, if everything is all right and
you've behaved yourself and you still want to, I'll help you get
a start in business. If I were you and were going to be a banker,
I'd first spend a year or so in some good grain and commission house.
There's good training to be had there. You'll learn a lot that you
ought to know. And, meantime, keep your health and learn all you
can. Wherever I am, you let me know, and I'll write and find out
how you've been conducting yourself."
He gave the boy a ten-dollar gold piece with which to start a bank-account.
And, not strange to say, he liked the whole Cowperwood household
much better for this dynamic, self-sufficient, sterling youth who
was an integral part of it.
Download this book as Word-file
in ZIP-archive (475 Mb)
Published - October 2010