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There is a story of how a benevolent gentleman once proffered assistance, through a chemist in the Strand, in whose shop he saw what he supposed to be a broken-down old gentleman, and received for reply, "God bless your soul, sir! that's Mr. Coutts the banker, who could buy up you and me fifty times over." So with Mr.
I am more ineffective than a Galician Pole or a Bohemian who votes for his nationalist representative. Politically I am a negligible item in the constituency of this Mr. Burdett Coutts into whose brain we have been peeping. Politically I am less than a waistcoat button on that quaint figure. And that is all I am except that I revolt. I have written of it so far as if it were just a joke.
December 1816 1055 Sailerstette. I give you my word of honor that I have signed and delivered the receipt to the home Fries and Co. some day last August, who as they say have transmitted it to Messrs. Coutts and Co. where you'll have the goodness to apply. Some error might have taken place that instead of Messrs. C. sending it to you they have been directed to keep it till fetched.
Jones, I would be justified in asking you for proof that you are not Mr. Jones. See my point?" "Quite." "Well, then, prove your case," said the physician jovially. "How can I?" "Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is your banker?" "Coutts."
Towards 1840 the Duc d'Aumale sought to reconstruct the splendours of Chantilly, but a decree of January 22, 1852, banished the entire Orleans family and interrupted the work when the property was sold to the English bankers, Coutts and Company, for the good round sum of eleven million francs, not by any means an extravagant price for this estate of royal aspect and proportions.
You are overdrawn at Coutts', you can raise money on nothing, your urgent debts to tradesmen and so forth amount, as you told me the day before yesterday, to over two thousand five hundred pounds. See for yourself how you stand." "I say again," said Jones, "that I am going to make good. All these affairs seem to have gone to pieces because I have been a fool." "I'm glad you recognise that."
Only last night, he explained, he had received from one of the French Rothschilds a magnificent pâté de foie gras; and, having himself no parties in prospect, he sent this gastronomical treasure to Miss Coutts, who was about to entertain, as he knew, a large company at luncheon.
It seemed to curl and glide on like a serpent through the grass, leaving strange trails behind as of a flowing signature; a flowing signature with bold twirls and flourishes twirls and flourishes twirls and flourishes twirls, twirls, twirls and flourishes; the signature to a cheque; to a cheque for money; three thousand pounds at Drummond, Coutts and Barclay's.
An effort to sell it by subscription fell through, only, L200 being paid into Coutts'. When the exhibition closed in London, Haydon took his masterpiece to Scotland, and showed it both in Edinburgh and in Glasgow, netting another L900, which, however, was quickly eaten up by hungry creditors.
I sat very near the Duke of Wellington, who often spoke to me between the songs. . . . The next day we went with Miss Coutts to her bank, lunched there, and went all over the building. Then we went to the Tower and the Tunnel together, she never having seen either. So ignorant are the West End people of city lions. . . . And now comes my pleasant Yorkshire excursion.
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