Curiosities of Impecuniosity.

by H. G. Somerville.

PREFACE.

It is customary for the proprietor when starting a newspaper or periodical to issue a notice to the public explaining--or purporting to explain--the _raison d'etre_ of the new venture, which notices, with very trifling exceptions, are to the effect that the projected journal "will supply a want long felt."

I might, in sending forth the following pages, state something similar with perfect truth, since if the little work be as successful as (I say it with all modesty) it ought to be, it will unquestionably _supply_ a want long felt--by the author.

It is frequently averred nowadays that much that is written bears evidence of being of a non-practical character, and under these circ.u.mstances, I felt I should take a pardonable pride in being able to point to one volume in the English language to which this stigma could not be applied; for I flatter myself the subject of Impecuniosity is one with which I have long--too long--been practically familiar.

H. G. SOMERVILLE.

CHAPTER I.

THE MORAL AND IMMORAL EFFECTS OF IMPECUNIOSITY.

"I wish the good old times would come again, when we were not quite so rich," says Bridget Elia. "I am sure we were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase now that you have money enough. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury, we were used to have a debate two or three days before, and to weigh the for and against, and think what we might spare it out of, and what savings we could hit upon that would be an equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money we paid for it. Do you remember the brown suit which you made to hang upon you, it grew so threadbare, and all because of that folio Beaumont and Fletcher which you dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent Garden? Do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock on the Sat.u.r.day night, when you set off from Islington, fearing you should be too late; and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper lighted out the relic from his dusty treasure-house, and when you lugged it home wishing it were twice as c.u.mbersome, and when you presented it to me, and when we were exploring the perfection of it, and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till daybreak, was there no pleasure in being a poor man? Do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield, and Potter's Bar, and Waltham, when we had a holiday? Holidays and all other fun are gone now we are rich,--and the little hand-basket in which I used to deposit our day's fare of savoury cold lamb, and how you would pry about at noontide for some decent house where we might go in and produce our store, only paying for the ale that you must call for, and speculate upon the looks of the landlady. We had cheerful looks for one another, and would eat our plain food savourily. You are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the pit. Do you remember where it was we sat when we saw the 'Battle of Hexham,' and 'The Surrender of Calais,' and Bannister and Mrs. Bland in 'The Children of the Wood,' when we squeezed out our shillings apiece to sit three or four times in a season in the one shilling gallery? You used to say that the gallery was the best place for seeing, and was the best place of all for enjoying a play socially, that the company we met there, not being in general readers of plays, were obliged to attend the more. I appeal to you whether, as a woman, I met generally with less attention and accommodation than I have since in more expensive situations in the house.

You cannot see, you say, in the gallery now. I am sure we saw--and heard too--well enough then; but sight and all, I think, is gone with our poverty."

But this is not the experience of every one. "Moralists," Sydney Smith remarks, "tell you of the evils of wealth and station, and the happiness of poverty. I have been very poor the greater part of my life and have borne it, I believe, as well as most people; but I can safely say I have been happier for every guinea I have earned."

Doctor Johnson, in addition to alleging that "Poverty is a great enemy to human happiness; it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable and others extremely difficult," maintains that "poverty takes away so many means of doing good, and produces so much inability to resist evil, both natural and moral, that it is by all virtuous means to be avoided." Burns is stronger still in his denunciation, exclaiming, "Poverty, thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german of h.e.l.l, where shall I find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits?"

But in striking contrast to these, is that remarkable pa.s.sage in George Sand's 'Consuelo,' in which every known blessing and virtue is attributed to "the G.o.ddess--the good G.o.ddess--of poverty."

Samuel Smiles is of opinion that "nothing sharpens a man's wits like poverty. Hence many of the greatest men have originally been poor men.

Poverty often purifies and braces a man's morals. To spirited people difficult tasks are usually the most delightful ones. If we may rely upon the testimony of history, men are brave, truthful, and magnanimous, not in proportion to their wealth, but in proportion to the smallness of their means."

With this I agree to a certain extent; but I claim for impecuniosity certain charms and characteristics not a.s.sociated with poverty. To me the former conveys the idea of a temporary shortness of funds; the latter of a chronic state of want.

I should also have preferred to say, "Nothing sharpens a man's wits like impecuniosity," for to many minds poverty, _pur et simple_, has been simply crushing.

A volume might be filled with the different opinions that have been expressed on this subject, and as there is abundant proof that many who have become great in science, literature, and art, have found insufficient means a stimulus to exertion, it must be conceded that poverty is a splendid thing for those who are equal to fighting against it.

Although impecuniosity has been most extensively experienced by actors, authors, and artists, many of the mighty in law, medicine, and the army and navy, have furnished instances of its universality, but comparatively few cases are to be found connected with commerce. Of course it may be urged that the struggles of business men are, with few exceptions, unrecorded; but still I think their experience on this subject is rather of "the trials of poverty."

The history of George Moore furnishes an interesting instance of the early struggles of a literally "commercial" man. When he came to London in 1825, he was possessed of a most modest amount of money; and on the day following his arrival in London he made application after application for employment without success, being sometimes received with laughter on account of his country-cut clothes and c.u.mberland dialect. At the establishment of Messrs. Meeking in Holborn, he was asked if he wanted a porter's situation. So broken-hearted was he at his many rebuffs, that he could not send a letter home, it was so blotted with tears.

At last he was engaged by Mr. Ray, of Soho Square, at a salary of 30 a year, and bargained with a man driving a pony-cart to convey the box containing all his personal effects. They had not proceeded far when Moore missed the man: pony, cart, and trunk had vanished.

The poor fellow sat down on a doorstep almost broken-hearted at his misfortune.

After waiting for two hours, not knowing what to do for the best, he beheld a pony-cart approaching, and his joy may be imagined when he recognised the identical man with his identical trunk.

The carrier, who had called somewhere in a bye-street and so missed Moore, did not scruple to laugh at him for his "greenness" in trusting a stranger. In grat.i.tude, young Moore proffered the man his whole capital, consisting of nine shillings, which the driver declined, saying "he had agreed for five, and five was all he wanted," an instance of honesty which Mr. Moore, the merchant, never forgot.

Want of money does not always demoralise. Andrew Marvell, the son of a Yorkshire minister and schoolmaster, entered Trinity College, Cambridge, at the early age of thirteen. Decoyed from home by the Jesuits, he was discovered by his father in a bookseller's in London, and induced to return to college, where he took his B.A. degree in 1628. He then appears to have travelled considerably in France and Italy, while from 1663 to 1665 he was secretary to the Emba.s.sy to Muscovy, Sweden, and Denmark. In 1660 he was chosen to represent his native town, Kingston-on-Hull, in Parliament. Here he made himself so obnoxious to the governing party, that his life was threatened, and he was forced to go into hiding. His conspicuous ability and marvellous wit were acknowledged by all, and appreciated by Charles II., who took pleasure in his company, and on one occasion instructed his Lord Treasurer to ferret him out, and ascertain in what way he could help him. At this time Marvell was living in a court off the Strand, up two pair of stairs, and there Lord Danby, abruptly opening the door, discovered him writing. He suggested that the Treasurer had mistaken his way; but his lordship replied, "Not now I have found Mr.

Marvell;" adding that "His Majesty wished to know what he could do to serve him." Marvell replied that "it was not in His Majesty's power to serve him;" adding that "he knew full well the nature of Courts, having been in many; and that whosoever is distinguished by the favour of the prince, is expected to vote in his interest." Lord Danby told him that "His Majesty, from the just sense he had of his merit alone, desired to know whether there was any place at Court he could be pleased with." The answer to this was that "he could not with honour accept the offer, since if he did he must either be ungrateful to the king in voting against him, or false to his country in giving in to the measures of the Court. The only favour therefore which he begged of His Majesty was, that he would esteem him as faithful a subject as any he had, and more truly in his interest by refusing his offers, than he could have been by embracing them." After this Lord Danby said that "the king had ordered Mr. Marvell 1000, which he hoped he would receive till he could think of something farther to ask His Majesty;" whereupon Marvell called to his serving-boy,--

"Jack, what had I for dinner yesterday?"

"The little shoulder of mutton."

"Right! What shall I have to-day?"

"The blade bone boiled."

"Right! You see, my lord, my dinner is provided, and I do not want the piece of paper."

The Lord Treasurer departed, finding his mission vain; and, shortly afterwards, Marvell sent his boy out to borrow a guinea from a friend. The incorruptible integrity he had displayed was by no means due to affluence.

Another historical case where poverty and patriotism have been blended is that of Admiral Rodney. At the general election in 1768 he was returned for Northampton, after a violent contest, the expense of which, combined with a fatal pa.s.sion for gaming, compelled him to fly from the importunities of his creditors.

While residing in Paris he is said to have been occasionally in want of the veriest trifle for necessaries, which fact becoming known, the French Government, through the Duc de Biron, offered him high rank in their navy.

His reply was worthy of a sailor and a gentleman. "Monsieur le Duc," said he, "my distresses have driven me from my country, but no temptation can estrange me from her service; had this offer been voluntary on your part, I should have considered it an insult; but it proceeds from a source that can do no wrong."

The foregoing ill.u.s.trations of the inability of impecuniosity to drag certain characters from off their high pedestal of honour, are unfortunately counterbalanced by the considerably too numerous instances of those who have not been proof against its degrading effects. The characteristics of such as have succ.u.mbed are naturally the ant.i.theses of those just referred to; instead of strong, healthy, moral minds, their natures are found to be more or less weak, selfish, and in every case wanting, to some extent, in self-respect. The last-named attribute undoubtedly supplying the chief cause of defection.

In this category may be placed Desiderius Erasmus, one of the most remarkable scholars of the 15th and 16th centuries, if not, as is considered by some, one of the most ill.u.s.trious men that ever lived. The benefits that he conferred on the world at large by his profound and extensive erudition are so priceless that it seems a shame to pillory one so revered; but "necessity has no law," and as he was chronically necessitous his weakness on one occasion must be laid bare.

Independently of his failing to rise superior to the want of money, which will be referred to directly, it will be seen that his character lacked n.o.bility, by his own confession. He was at the time of Luther pre-eminent in the world of letters, his fame as a student of the deepest research was world-wide, acknowledged not only by the sovereigns and popes of Europe, but by our own monarch, Henry VIII., and by all the men of learning of that age. Thus his power and influence were immense, and it is deeply to be regretted that his cowardice should have prevented him from espousing the doctrines of Luther, since there is no doubt he believed in them.

"Many loved truth and lavished life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last for guerdon of their toil With the cast mantle she had left behind her.

Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her, But these our brothers fought for her, At life's dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her."

Erasmus was not one of those who died for the love of truth, but rather one who "with crossed hands, sighed for her," since in one of his letters he says,--

"Wherein could I have a.s.sisted Luther if I had declared myself for him, and shared the danger along with him? Only thus far, that, instead of one man, two would have perished. I cannot conceive what he means by writing with such a spirit (so fearlessly); one thing I know too well, that he hath brought a great odium upon the lovers of literature. It is true that he hath given us many wholesome doctrines and many good counsels, and I wish he had not defeated the effect of them by his intolerable faults. But if he had written everything in the most unexceptionable manner I had no inclination to die for the sake of truth. Every man has not the courage requisite to make a martyr; and I am afraid, that if I were put to the trial, I should imitate St. Peter."

Deliciously truthful this, is it not? The practical way in which he reveals his creed, "self-preservation is the first law of nature," is particularly interesting, more especially as it is so thoroughly in keeping with the sentiments displayed on the occasion when from want of money he penned the following letter to his friend James Battus, beseeching him to dun the Marchioness of Vere, in the following terms:

"You must go to her and excuse my shyness on the ground that I cannot tolerate explaining my difficulties in person. Tell her the need I am in.

That Italy is the place to get a degree; explain to her how much more honour I am likely to do her than those theologians she keeps about her.

They give forth mere commonplaces. I write what will last for ever. Tell her that fellows like them are to be met with everywhere--the like of me only appears in the course of many ages--_i.e._ if you don't mind drawing the long-bow in the cause of friendship. What a discredit it would be to her should St. Jerome"--whose works he was preparing--"appear with discredit for the want of a few gold pieces."

That the opinions expressed were perfectly truthful there is no gainsaying; but the taste, or rather, want of it, that dictated such an epistle is pitiable, and materially mars the character of one who as far as learning is concerned was indisputably great.

If culture could avail against the deteriorating effects of impecuniosity the career of Orator Henley would have been a different one. The son of a Leicestershire vicar, and educated at St. John's, Cambridge, he attained considerable eminence as a linguist, and while keeping a school in his native place compiled his 'Universal Grammar,' which was written in ten languages. He afterwards came to be regarded as a sort of ecclesiastical outlaw, having a room in Newport Market, Leicester Square, where he started as a quack divine and public lecturer, Sundays being devoted to divinity, Wednesdays and Thursdays to secular orations, the charge for admission one shilling. He afterwards migrated to Clare Market, and became a favourite among the butchers; but though gifted with much oratorical power, he obtained but a precarious subsistence. When at his pecuniary worst he seems to have been at his inventive best, and in proportion to the lowness of his funds his audacity rose. On one occasion when particularly pressed he advertised a meeting for shoemakers to witness a new invention for making shoes, undertaking to make a pair in presence of the audience in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce. When the evening arrived, and the room was filled with the followers of Crispin, Mr. Henley simply cut the tops off a pair of old boots, and thereby ill.u.s.trating the motto to his advertis.e.m.e.nt, "Omne majus continent in se minus" ("The greater includes the less").[1]

[1] The elder D'Israeli in summing up the character of this extraordinary man, who left behind him more than 6000 MSS., says, "A scholar of great acquirements and of no mean genius; hardy and inventive, eloquent and witty; he might have been an ornament to literature, which he made ridiculous; and the pride of the pulpit which he so egregiously disgraced; but having blunted and worn out that interior feeling which is the instinct of the good man, and the wisdom of the wise, there was no balance in his pa.s.sions, and the decorum of life was sacrificed to its selfishness. He condescended to live on the follies of the people, and his sordid nature had changed him till he crept, 'licking the dust with the serpent.'"