The Mysteries of London. George W. M. Reynolds
a million in hard cash, nor grocers with a plum in each hand, nor brewers to whom the rise or fall of one halfpenny per pot in the price of beer makes a difference of forty thousand pounds per annum! Rome, Babylon, Thebes, and Carthage, could all have been purchased by the East India Company—with perhaps a mortgage upon the India Docks!
But the reader must not imagine that all which glitters is gold. Amongst the most splendid establishments in London, and those most wealthy in appearance, there are some in a hopeless state of insolvency. To one of these we shall now introduce those who may choose to accompany us thither.
The well-known banking-house of James Tomlinson was situated in Lombard Street. The establishment was not extensive; nor were there a great many clerks, because it did little agency business for country banks, but was chiefly a house of deposit. It enjoyed a high reputation, and was considered as safe as the presumed wealth, integrity, and experience of its proprietor were likely to render it. It was moreover believed that the father of James Tomlinson was a sleeping partner; and as the old gentleman had retired from the business of oilman with an immense fortune, the bank was presumed to possess every guarantee of stability. It had existed for upwards of sixty years, having been founded and most successfully carried on by an uncle of James Tomlinson. James himself had originally entered the establishment as a clerk, whence he rose to be a partner, and finally found himself at the head of the concern at his uncle's death.
James Tomlinson was not an extravagant man; but he was not possessed of the ability and experience for which the world gave him credit. In the year 1826, and at the age of forty, he found himself at the head of a flourishing and respectable establishment. He was indeed the sole proprietor, for his father was in reality totally unconnected with it as a partner. James was intimately acquainted with the mechanical routine of the bank business; but he was deficient in those powers of combination and faculties of foresight which were necessary to enable him to lay out to the best advantage the moneys deposited in his hands. With good intentions, he lacked talent. He was an excellent head clerk or junior partner; but he was totally unfitted for supreme management. Thus was it that in two or three years he experienced serious reverses; and, although he carefully concealed the failure of his operations from all human eyes, the very safety of his establishment was seriously compromised. The French Revolution of 1830 ruined a Paris house to which Tomlinson had advanced a considerable sum; and this blow consummated the insolvency of his bank.
He was then compelled to make a confidant of his cashier, an old and faithful servant of his uncle, and of frugal habits, and kind but eccentric disposition. Michael Martin was this individual's name. He was of very repulsive appearance, stooping in his gait, blear-eyed, and dirty in person. He took vast quantities of snuff; but as much lodged upon his shirt-frill and waistcoat as was thrust up his nose. Thus his linen was invariably filthy in the extreme. His dress was a suit of seedy black; and the right thigh of his trousers was brown and grimy with the marks of snuff—for upon that part of his attire did he invariably wipe his finger and thumb after taking a pinch of his brown rappee.
Such was the individual whom Tomlinson took into his confidence, when the affairs of the bank grew desperate. Old Martin was as close and reserved as if he were both deaf and dumb; and he was moreover possessed of a peculiar craftiness and cunning which admirably fitted him for the part that he was now to enact. Although it was next to impossible to retrieve the affairs of the bank, so great was the deficiency—still Michael Martin assured his master that it was quite probable that they might be enabled to carry on the establishment for a length of time—perhaps even many years, the chances that the draughts upon the bank would not equal the deposits being in their favour.
Thus was this insolvent and ruined establishment carried on, with seeming respectability and success, by the perseverance of Tomlinson, and the skill and craft of old Martin.
We shall now introduce our readers into the parlour of the bank, at ten o'clock in the morning after the incidents related in the preceding chapter.
James Tomlinson had just arrived, and was standing before the fire, glancing over the City Article of The Times. He was a fine, tall, good-looking man, plainly dressed, and without the slightest affectation either in manner or attire. The bluntness and apparent straightforwardness of his character had won and secured him many friends amongst a class of men who regard frankness of disposition and plainness of demeanour as qualities indicative of solidity of position and regular habits of business. Then he was always at his post—always to be seen; and hence unlimited confidence was placed in him!
Having glanced over the newspaper which he held in his hand, he rang the bell. A clerk responded to the summons.
"Is Mr. Martin come yet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him to step this way."
The clerk withdrew; and the old cashier entered the room, the door of which he carefully closed.
"Good morning, Michael," said the banker. "What news?"
"Worse and worse," answered the old man, with a species of savage grunt. "We have had a sad time of it for the last three months."
"For the last seven or eight years, you may say," observed Tomlinson, with a sigh; and then his countenance suddenly wore an expression of ineffable despair—as evanescent as it was poignant.
"At first the work was easy enough," said Michael: "a little combination and tact enabled us to struggle on; but latterly the concern has fallen into so desperate a condition, that I really fear when I come in the morning that it will never last through the day."
"My God! my God! what a life!" exclaimed Tomlinson. "And there are hundreds and thousands who pass up the street every day, and who say within themselves. 'How I wish I was James Tomlinson!' Heavens! I would that I were a beggar in the street—a sweeper of a crossing—a pauper in a workhouse——"
"Come—this is folly," interrupted the old cashier impatiently. "We must go on to the end."
"What is the state of your book this morning?" demanded the banker, putting the question with evident alarm—almost amounting to horror.
"Three thousand four hundred pounds, eighteen shillings, in specie—sixteen hundred and thirty-five in notes," answered the cashier.
"Is that all!" ejaculated Tomlinson. "And this morning we have to pay Greenwood the two thousand pounds he lent me six weeks ago."
"We can't part with the money," said the cashier rudely. "Greenwood knows the circumstances of the bank, and must give time."
"You know what Greenwood is, Michael," exclaimed the banker. "If we are not punctual with him, he will never lend us another shilling and what should we have done without him on several occasions?"
"I know all that. But look at the interest be makes you pay," muttered the cashier.
"And look at the risk he runs," added the banker.
"He finds it worth his while. I calculated the other day that we paid him three thousand pounds last year for interest only: we can't go on much longer at that rate."
"I had almost said that the sooner it ends the better," cried Tomlinson. "What low trickery—what meanness—what abominable craft, have we been compelled to resort to! Oh! if that affair with the Treasury three years ago had only turned up well—if we could have secured the operation, we should have retrieved all our losses, enormous as they are—we should have built up the fortunes of the establishment upon a more solid foundation than ever."
"That was indeed a misfortune," observed the cashier, taking a huge pinch of snuff.
"And how the Chancellor of the Exchequer obtained his information about me—at the eleventh hour—after all previous inquiries were known to be satisfactory," continued Tomlinson, "I never could conjecture. At that time the secret was confined to you and me, and my father, to whom I communicated it, you remember, in that letter which I wrote to him soliciting the fifty thousand pounds."
"Which sum saved the bank at that period," observed Michael.
"Never shall