"Gibbon! Gibbon was an infidel, and I would not give the end of this
cigar for such a man's opinion. If Mr. Fielding was a gentleman by birth,
he ought to have known better; and so much the worse for him that he did
not. But what am I talking of, wasting your valuable time? No more smoke,
thank you. I must away into the City, but would not pass the Temple
without calling on you, and thanking my boy's old protector. You will
have the kindness to come and dine with us--to-morrow, the next day, your
own day? Your friend is going out of town? I hope, on his return, to have
the pleasure of making his further acquaintance. Come, Clive."
Clive, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth's engravings during the
above discussion, or rather oration of his father's, started up and took
leave, beseeching me, at the same time, to come soon and see his pony;
and so, with renewed greetings, we parted.
I was scarcely returned to my newspaper again, when the knocker of our
door was again agitated, and the Colonel ran back, looking very much
agitated and confused.
"I beg pardon," says he; "I think I left my--my----" Larkins had quitted
the room by this time, and then he began more unreservedly. "My dear
young friend," says he, "a thousand pardons for what I am going to say,
but, as Clive's friend, I know I may take that liberty. I have left the
boy in the court. I know the fate of men of letters and genius: when we
were here just now, there came a single knock--a demand--that, that you
did not seem to be momentarily able to meet. Now do, do pardon the
liberty, and let me be your banker. You said you were engaged in a new
work: it will be a masterpiece, I am sure, if it's like the last. Put me
down for twenty copies, and allow me to settle with you in advance. I may
be off, you know. I'm a bird of passage--a restless old soldier."
"My dear Colonel," said I, quite touched and pleased by this extreme
kindness, "my dun was but the washerwoman's boy, and Mrs. Brett is in my
debt, if I am not mistaken. Besides, I already have a banker in your
family."
"In my family, my dear Sir?"
"Messrs. Newcome, in Threadneedle Street, are good enough to keep my
money for me when I have any, and I am happy to say they have some of
mine in hand now. I am almost sorry that I am not in want, in order that
I might have the pleasure of receiving a kindness from you." And we shook
hands for the fourth time that morning, and the kind gentleman left me to
rejoin his son.
CHAPTER V
Clive's Uncles
The dinner so hospitably offered by the Colonel was gladly accepted, and
followed by many more entertainments at the cost of that good-natured
friend. He and an Indian chum of his lived at this time at Nerot's Hotel,
in Clifford Street, where Mr. Clive, too, found the good cheer a great
deal more to his taste than the homely, though plentiful, fare at Grey
Friars, at which, of course, when boys, we all turned up our noses,
though many a poor fellow, in the struggles of after-life, has looked
back with regret very likely to that well-spread youthful table. Thus my
intimacy with the father and the son grew to be considerable, and a great
deal more to my liking than my relations with Clive's City uncles, which
have been mentioned in the last chapter, and which were, in truth,
exceedingly distant and awful.
If all the private accounts kept by those worthy bankers were like mine,
where would have been Newcome Hall and Park Lane, Marblehead and
Bryanstone Square? I used, by strong efforts of self-denial, to maintain
a balance of two or three guineas untouched at the bank, so that my
account might still remain open; and fancied the clerks and cashiers
grinned when I went to draw for money. Rather than face that awful
counter, I would send Larkins, the clerk, or Mrs. Flanagan, the
laundress. As for entering the private parlour at the back, wherein
behind the glazed partition I could see the bald heads of Newcome
Brothers engaged with other capitalists or peering over the newspaper, I
would as soon have thought of walking into the Doctor's own library at
Grey Friars, or of volunteering to take an armchair in a dentist's
studio, and have a tooth out, as of entering into that awful precinct. My
good uncle, on the other hand, the late Major Pendennis, who kept
naturally but a very small account with Hobsons', would walk into the
gravity of a Rothschild. "My good fellow," the kind old gentleman would
say to his nephew and pupil, "il faut se faire valoir. I tell you, sir,
your bankers like to keep every gentleman's account. And it's a mistake
to suppose they are only civil to their great moneyed clients. Look at
me. I go in to them and talk to them whenever I am in the City. I hear
the news of 'Change, and carry it to our end of the town. It looks well,
sir, to be well with your banker; and at our end of London, perhaps, I
can do a good turn for the Newcomes."
It is certain that in his own kingdom of Mayfair and St. James's my
revered uncle was at least the bankers' equal. On my coming to London, he
was kind enough to procure me invitations to some of Lady Anne Newcome's
evening parties in Park Lane, as likewise to Mrs. Newcome's
entertainments in Bryanstone Square; though, I confess, of these latter,
after a while, I was a lax and negligent attendant. "Between ourselves,
my good fellow," the shrewd old Mentor of those days would say, "Mrs.
Newcome's parties are not altogether select; nor is she a lady of the
very highest breeding; but it gives a man a good air to be seen at his
banker's house. I recommend you to go for a few minutes whenever you are
asked." And go I accordingly did sometimes, though I always fancied,
rightly or wrongly, from Mrs. Newcome's manner to me, that she knew I had
but thirty shillings left at the bank. Once and again, in two or three
years, Mr. Hobson Newcome would meet me, and ask me to fill a vacant
place that day or the next evening at his table; which invitation I might
accept or otherwise. But one does not eat a man's salt, as it were, at
these dinners. There is nothing sacred in this kind of London
hospitality. Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a man's table, and
retires filled for its service of the evening. "Gad," the dear old Major
used to say, "if we were not to talk freely of those we dine with, how
mum London would be! Some of the pleasantest evenings I have ever spent
have been when we have sate after a great dinner, en petit comite, and
abused the people who are gone. You have your turn, mon cher; but why
not? Do you suppose I fancy my friends haven't found out my little faults
and peculiarities? And as I can't help it, I let myself be executed, and
offer up my oddities de bonne grace. Entre nous, Brother Hobson Newcome
is a good fellow, but a vulgar fellow; and his wife--his wife exactly
suits him."
Once a year Lady Anne Newcome (about whom my Mentor was much more
circumspect; for I somehow used to remark tha
t as the rank of persons
grew higher, Major Pendennis spoke of them with more caution and
respect)--once or twice in a year Lady Anne Newcome opened her saloons
for a concert and a ball, at both of which the whole street was crowded
with carriages, and all the great world, and some of the small, were
present. Mrs. Newcome had her ball too, and her concert of English music,
in opposition to the Italian singers of her sister-in-law. The music of
her country, Mrs. N. said, was good enough for her.
The truth must be told, that there was no love lost between the two
ladies. Bryanstone Square could not forget the superiority of Park Lane's
rank; and the catalogue of grandees at dear Anne's parties filled dear
Maria's heart with envy. There are people upon whom rank and worldly
goods make such an impression, that they naturally fall down on their
knees and worship the owners; there are others to whom the sight of
Prosperity is offensive, and who never see Dives' chariot but to growl
and hoot at it. Mrs. Newcome, as far as my humble experience would lead
me to suppose, is not only envious, but proud of her envy. She mistakes
it for honesty and public spirit. She will not bow down to kiss the hand
of a haughty aristocracy. She is a merchant's wife and an attorney's
daughter. There is no pride about her. Her brother-in-law, poor dear
Brian--considering everybody knows everything in London, was there ever
such a delusion as his?--was welcome, after banking-hours, to forsake his
own friends for his wife's fine relations, and to dangle after lords and
ladies in Mayfair. She had no such absurd vanity--not she. She imparted
these opinions pretty liberally to all her acquaintances in almost all
her conversations. It was clear that the two ladies were best apart.
There are some folks who will see insolence in persons of rank, as there
are others who will insist; that all clergymen are hypocrites, all
reformers villains, all placemen plunderers, and so forth; and Mrs.
Newcome never, I am sure, imagined that she had a prejudice, or that she
was other than an honest, independent, high-spirited woman. Both of the
ladies had command over their husbands, who were of soft natures easily
led by woman, as, in truth, are all the males of this family.
Accordingly, when Sir Brian Newcome voted for the Tory candidate in the
City, Mr. Hobson Newcome plumped for the Reformer. While Brian, in the
House of Commons, sat among the mild Conservatives, Hobson unmasked
traitors and thundered at aristocratic corruption, so as to make the
Marylebone Vestry thrill with enthusiasm. When Lady Anne, her husband,
and her flock of children fasted in Lent, and declared for the High
Church doctrines, Mrs. Hobson had paroxysms of alarm regarding the
progress of Popery, and shuddered out of the chapel where she had a pew,
because the clergyman there, for a very brief season, appeared to preach
in a surplice.
Poor bewildered Honeyman! it was a sad day for you, when you appeared in
your neat pulpit with your fragrant pocket-handkerchief (and your sermon
likewise all millefleurs), in a trim, prim, freshly mangled surplice,
which you thought became you! How did you look aghast, and pass your
jewelled hand through your curls, as you saw Mrs. Newcome, who had been
as good as five-and-twenty pounds a year to you, look up from her pew,
seize hold of Mr. Newcome, fling open the pew-door, drive out with her
parasol her little flock of children, bewildered but not ill-pleased to
get away from the sermon, and summon John from the back seats to bring
away the bag of prayer-books! Many a good dinner did Charles Honeyman
lose by assuming that unlucky ephod. Why did the high-priest of his
diocese order him to put it on? It was delightful to view him afterwards,
and the airs of martyrdom which he assumed. Had they been going to tear
him to pieces with wild beasts next day, he could scarcely have looked
more meek, or resigned himself more pathetically to the persecutors. But
I am advancing matters. At this early time of which I write, a period not
twenty years since, surplices were not even thought of in conjunction
with sermons: clerical gentlemen have appeared in them, and under the
heavy hand of persecution have sunk down in their pulpits again, as Jack
pops back into his box. Charles Honeyman's elegant discourses were at
this time preached in a rich silk Master of Arts' gown, presented to him,
along with a teapot full of sovereigns, by his affectionate congregation
at Leatherhead.
But that I may not be accused of prejudice in describing Mrs. Newcome and
her family, and lest the reader should suppose that some slight offered
to the writer by this wealthy and virtuous banker's lady was the secret
reason for this unfavourable sketch of her character, let me be allowed
to report, as accurately as I can remember them, the words of a kinsman
of her own, ---- Giles, Esquire, whom I had the honour of meeting at her
table, and who, as we walked away from Bryanstone Square, was kind enough
to discourse very freely about the relatives whom he had just left.
"That was a good dinner, sir," said Mr. Giles, puffing the cigar which I
offered to him, and disposed to be very social and communicative. "Hobson
Newcome's table is about as good a one as any I ever put my legs under.
You didn't have twice of turtle, sir, I remarked that--I always do, at
that house especially, for I know where Newcome gets it. We belong to the
same livery in the City, Hobson and I, the Oystermongers' Company, sir,
and we like our turtle good, I can tell you--good, and a great deal of
it, you say. Hay, hay, not so bad!
"I suppose you're a young barrister, sucking lawyer, or that sort of
thing. Because you was put at the end of the table and nobody took notice
of you. That's my place too; I'm a relative and Newcome asks me if he has
got a place to spare. He met me in the City to-day, and says, 'Tom,' says
he, 'there's some dinner in the Square at half-past seven: I wish you
would go and fetch Louisa, whom we haven't seen this ever so long.'
Louisa is my wife, sir--Maria's sister--Newcome married that gal from my
house. 'No, no,' says I, 'Hobson; Louisa's engaged nursing number eight'
--that's our number, sir. The truth is, between you and me, sir, my
missis won't come any more at no price. She can't stand it; Mrs.
Newcome's dam patronising airs is enough to choke off anybody. 'Well,
Hobson, my boy,' says I, 'a good dinner's a good dinner; and I'll come
though Louisa won't, that is, can't.'"
While Mr. Giles, who was considerably enlivened by claret, was
discoursing thus candidly, his companion was thinking how he, Mr. Arthur
Pendennis, had been met that very afternoon on the steps of the
Megatherium Club by Mr. Newcome, and had accepted that dinner which Mrs.
Giles, with more spirit, had declined. Giles continued talking--"I'm an
old stager, I am. I don't mind the rows between the women. I believe Mrs.
Newcome and Lady Newcome's just as bad too; I know Maria is always
driving at her one way or the other, and calling her proud and
aristocratic, and that; and yet my wife says Maria, who pretends to be
such a Radical, never asks us to meet the Baronet and his lady. 'And why
should she, Loo, my dear?' says I. 'I don't want to meet Lady Newcome,
nor Lord Kew, nor any of 'em.' Lord Kew, ain't it an odd name? Tearing
young swell, that Lord Kew: tremendous wild fellow."
"I was a clerk in that house, sir, as a young man; I was there in the old
woman's time, and Mr. Newcome's--the father of these young men--as good a
man as ever stood on 'Change." And then Mr. Giles, warming with his
subject, enters at large into the history of the house. "You see, sir,"
says he, "the banking-house of Hobson Brothers, or Newcome Brothers, as
the partners of the firm really are, is not one of the leading banking
firms of the City of London, but a most respectable house of many years'
standing, and doing a most respectable business, especially in the
Dissenting connection." After the business came into the hands of the
Newcome Brothers, Hobson Newcome, Esq., and Sir Brian Newcome, Bart.,
M.P., Mr. Giles shows how a considerable West End connection was likewise
established, chiefly through the aristocratic friends and connections of
the above-named Bart.
But the best man of business, according to Mr. Giles, whom the firm of
Hobson Brothers ever knew, better than her father and uncle, better than
her husband Sir T. Newcome, better than her sons and successors above
mentioned, was the famous Sophia Alethea Hobson, afterwards Newcome--of
whom might be said what Frederick the Great said of his sister, that she
was sexu foemina, vir ingenio--in sex a woman, and in mind a man. Nor was
she, my informant told me, without even manly personal characteristics:
she had a very deep and gruff voice, and in her old age a beard which
many a young man might envy; and as she came into the bank out of her
carriage from Clapham, in her dark green pelisse with fur trimmings, in
her grey beaver hat, beaver gloves, and great gold spectacles, not a
clerk in that house did not tremble before her, and it was said she only
wanted a pipe in her mouth considerably to resemble the late
Field-Marshal Prince Blucher.
Her funeral was one of the most imposing sights ever witnessed in
Clapham. There was such a crowd you might have thought it was a
Derby-day. The carriages of some of the greatest City firms, and the
wealthiest Dissenting houses; several coaches full of ministers of all
denominations, including the Established Church; the carriage of the
Right Honourable the Earl of Kew, and that of his daughter, Lady Anne
Newcome, attended that revered lady's remains to their final
resting-place. No less than nine sermons were preached at various places
of public worship regarding her end. She fell upstairs at a very advanced
age, going from the library to the bedroom, after all the household was
gone to rest, and was found by the maids in the morning, inarticulate,
but still alive, her head being cut frightfully with the bedroom candle
with which she was retiring to her apartment. "And," said Mr. Giles with
great energy, "besides the empty carriages at that funeral, and the
parson in black, and the mutes and feathers and that, there were hundreds
and hundreds of people who wore no black, and who weren't present; and
who wept for their benefactress, I can tell you. She had her faults, and
many of 'em; but the amount of that woman's charities are unheard of,
sir--unheard of,--and they are put to the credit side of her account up
yonder.
"The old lady had a will of her own," my companion continued. "She would
try and know about everybody's business out of business hours: got to
know from the young clerks what chapels they went to, and from the
clergymen whether they attended regular; kept her sons, years after they
were grown men, as if they were boys at school--and what was the