a catalogue of monstrous crimes, vices, and follies (which fills page after page) fully borne out by Greene's own confessions.

He wrote of himself,

"In prime of youth a rose, in age a weed, That for a minute's joy payes endless meed."

His last letter to the poor Lincolnshire lady whom he married, ill-used, and cruelly abandoned, was dated from a squalid lodging in Dowgate, where he died of want and disease. It ran as follows:

"Doll, I charge thee by the love of our youth and by my soules rest that thou wilt see this man (the shoemaker) paide; for if hee and his wife had not succoured me I had died in the streetes.

"ROBERT GREENE."

Doll was the amiable and worthy woman to whom he had previously written:

"The remembrance of many wrongs offered thee and thy unreproved virtues add greater sorrow to my miserable state than I can utter or thou conceive, neither is it lessened by consideration of thy absence (though shame would hardly let me behold thy face) but exceedingly aggravated."

Akin in character to Greene was John Skelton, a popular poet in the reign of the seventh Henry, and King Henry the Eighth's poet laureate, who wrote of himself:

"A King to me mine habit gave At Oxford the University, Advanced I was to that degree: By whole consent of their Senate, I was made Poet Laureate."

The t.i.tle being then a university degree, and the habit a robe of white and green, embroidered in silk and gold. He took holy orders in 1498, and, as old Anthony Wood said, "having been guilty of many crimes, as most poets are," Bishop Wykke suspended him from his benefice. In 1501 he was in prison for marrying and keeping a mistress, "a crime amongst the clergy of the Romish persuasion both in those days and these," says Cibber, "more subjected to punishment than adultery." He was a fierce and bitter a.s.sailant of the clergy, the Dominicans, and Cardinal Wolsey. Many of his productions were never printed, but were chanted at markets and fairs, in village ale-houses, and in the streets by itinerant ballad-singers, who learned them by heart and sent them abroad like floating seeds borne hither and thither by the vagrant winds. The author of the 'Lives of the Laureates' said of this poet: "The brief glance we have of him, the scholar and the buffoon, a priest with his married concubine and b.a.s.t.a.r.dized children, mocking, half in anger half in jest, or it might be in the wantonness of sorrow, at the falsehoods by which he was surrounded, may justly awaken our sympathy nor fail to suggest a moral."

The misfortunes of poor Spenser I have referred to in dealing with the sad side of the subject, but another of the laureates who tasted the full bitterness of poverty was Ben Jonson, who began life as a bricklayer, became a soldier, and a brave one too, abandoned arms to tread the stage, and strolled about the country, trudging beside the waggon containing the players' scenes, and "properties," many a weary mile. From acting plays he took to writing plays, the two arts being then more intimately and n.o.bly a.s.sociated than they ever have been since, for the stage has fallen out of the hands of poets and players into those of showmen and buffoons. He was married and had a son, to whom some of the players stood sponsors.

Shakespeare, it is traditionally said, was one of them, and what his necessities were may be readily guessed from the entry in Henslowe's diary preserved at Dulwich College, in which small sums are entered as advanced to Ben Jonson for work he was then doing. A story is related of how he came, after many other vain efforts, to the Globe Theatre on the Bankside with his play of _Every Man in His Humour_, which after the manager had superficially glanced at he coldly returned as unsuitable. Shakespeare, it is said, stood by, and noting, we presume, the melancholy and despairing way in which his future dear friend and rival turned to leave the theatre, spoke to him, begging leave to read his play, with which he was so well pleased that he brought about its acceptance. Poverty haunted Ben with more or less closeness all through his career (often it must be confessed through the extravagance of his hospitality to brother poets) and was, it is said, sadly too intimate with him when he died. When sick in 1629, Charles I., who had been generous to him, being supplicated in his favour, sent him ten guineas, of which mean gift Smollett says, Jonson spoke as follows to the messenger of whom he received it:

"His Majesty has sent me ten guineas because I am poor and live in an alley. Go and tell him his soul lives in an alley."

Jonson died on the 6th August, 1637, having long outlived his wife and all his children.

It is curious still to note how many of our literary lions began to make their way in the world, as Jonson did, on the stage. It was so with William Leman Rede, who, starting as an actor at Margate (the Margate boards formed indeed the porch through which a very large number of histrionic aspirants entered the theatrical profession), became an itinerant actor, at one time playing Hamlet in a barn and at another Rover on a billiard-table; sometimes foodless and hungry, travelling on foot and sometimes luxuriating in a waggon, but always light-hearted and gay. Once when he was laughing merrily at the plight he was in on a "treasury day,"

when, in the phraseology of the profession, "the ghost didn't walk," that is to say when there was no money in hand to pay the actors' salaries, some one asked how he continued to be jolly under such miserably depressing circ.u.mstances. He replied, "I drink spring water and dance."

Rede was always a sober, abstemious man. Coming to London in 1825, he published his first novel, 'The Wedded Wanderer,' which was followed by a second, 'The White Tower,' each in three volumes. This was followed by his 'Crimes and Criminals in Yorkshire,' and his connection with a weekly publication belonging to his brother Thomas, called _Oxberry's Dramatic Biography_--Thomas having married the widow of Oxberry the comedian, by whom the serial had been started.

As actor, magazine writer, dramatist, journalist and novelist Rede acquired fame but not wealth. One evening he was arrested for debt while acting on the stage, by a sheriff's officer, who sprang from the pit over the orchestra and footlights to secure his prisoner. Rede originated the Dramatic Authors' Society.

Sheridan, to whom I have previously alluded, was another famous literary man familiar with the boards and--need I say?--with impecuniosity. He was, according to Haydon, "in debt all round to milkman, grocer, baker, and butcher. Sometimes his wife would be kept waiting for an hour or more while the servants were beating up the neighbourhood for coffee, b.u.t.ter, eggs and rolls. While Sheridan was Paymaster of the Navy, a butcher one day brought a leg of mutton; the cook took it and clapped it in the pot to boil and went upstairs for the money, but the cook not returning, the butcher removed the pot-lid, took out the mutton, and walked away with it." On another occasion Michael Kelly, the musical celebrity, was complaining to him of a wine merchant at Hochheim who instead of six dozen of wine had sent him sixteen. Sheridan said he would take some off his hands if he were not quite able to pay for it, but, said he, "you can get rid of it easily, put up a sign over your door and write on it, 'Michael Kelly, Composer of Wines and Importer of Music;'" a sly rub which the composer received with a laugh, wittily retorting that there was one wine so poisonous and intoxicating that he would neither compose nor import, and that was "Old Sherry" (Sheridan's nickname).

One night when Sheridan was at home in a cottage he had about a mile from Hounslow Heath, his son Tom asked him for some cash. "Money, I have none,"

was the reply.

"But let the consequences be what they may, money I must have," said Tom fiercely.

"In that case, my dear Tom," said the father, "you will find a case of loaded pistols upstairs and a horse ready saddled in the stable, the night is dark and you are within half a mile of Hounslow Heath"--a place of terrible repute for highway robbers.

"I understand," said Tom, "but I tried that before I came to you.

Unluckily the man I stopped was Peake, your treasurer, and he told me that you had been beforehand with him and robbed him of every sixpence he had in the world."

Kelly saw many instances of Sheridan raising money, but one instance in particular astonished him. Sheridan was 3000 in arrear with the Italian Opera performance; there were continual postponements, and at last the singers resolved to strike. Kelly, as manager, received a note that on the evening of a certain day they would not sing unless paid, and hurried off to Morlands, the bankers in Pall Mall, for advances. The bankers were inexorable; like the singers, they were worn out. The manager then flew off to Sheridan at his residence in Hertford Street, Mayfair, where he was kept waiting two hours. Sheridan was told that if he could not raise 3000 the theatre must be closed. "3000, Kelly," he said; "there is no such sum in nature. Are you an admirer of Shakespeare?"

"To be sure I am," said Kelly, "but what has Shakespeare to do with 3000 or the Italian singers?"

"There is one pa.s.sage in Shakespeare," said Sherry, "which I have always admired particularly, and it is where Falstaff says, 'Master Robert Shallow, I owe you 1000.' 'Yes, Sir John,' says Shallow, 'which I beg you will let me take home with me.' 'That may not so easily be, Master Robert Shallow,' replies Falstaff. And so say I unto thee, Master Michael Kelly, to get 3000 may not so easy be."

Kelly answered that there was no alternative then but to close the theatre. Sheridan made Kelly ring the bell and have a Hackney coach called, then sat down quite at his ease and read the newspaper. Kelly was in an agony. The coach arrived, Sheridan requested Kelly to get into it, and went with him. The coach was driven to Morlands' banking-house--Kelly remained in the coach bewildered. In a quarter of an hour Sherry came out of the bank with the required sum in bank notes. Kelly never knew how it was obtained. Sherry told Kelly to take the money to the theatre, but to save enough out of it for a barrel of oysters, which he, Sheridan, would partake of that night at Kelly's lodgings in Suffolk Street.

On another occasion Kelly and Sheridan were one day in conversation close to the gate of the path which was then open to the public, leading across the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, from King Street to Henrietta Street. Holloway, a creditor of Sherry's, went by on horseback. He spoke to Sherry in loud and angry tones, complaining that he could never get admittance at Sheridan's house, and vowed vengeance on Francois, Sherry's valet, if he did not let him in next time he called in Hertford Street.

Holloway was in a pa.s.sion; Sherry, who knew he was vain of his judgment of horseflesh, took no notice of the angry boast of Holloway, and burst into exclamations of rapture on Holloway's steed. Holloway was softened, and said his horse was one of the prettiest of creatures. Would not Mrs.

Sheridan like to have one like it?

"She would if he could canter well," said Sheridan.

"Beautifully," said Holloway.

"Perhaps I should not mind stretching a point for such a one. Will you have the kindness to let me see his paces?"

"To be sure," said the lawyer.

The action was suited to the word, and Sherry cut off through the churchyard, where no horse could follow. In spite of his many faults, his utter unscrupulousness in money-matters being not the least, it is particularly pleasant to refer to one of the incidents at the close of his career which reveals a delightful little bit of sentiment and good feeling, of which many of his detractors would have us think he was incapable. When his goods were taken in execution in Hertford Street, Mayfair, Paston, the sheriff's officer, said that if there was any particular article upon which he set affectionate value, he might secrete or carry it off from the premises.

"Thank you, my generous fellow," said Sheridan. "No, let all go--affection and sentiment in my situation are quite out of the question. But," said he, recollecting himself, "there is one thing which I wish to have."

"What is it?" said Paston, expecting him to name some cabinet or piece of plate.

"Don't be alarmed," said Sheridan, "it is only this old book, worth all others in the world, and to me of special value, because it belonged to my father, and was the favourite of my first wife."

Paston looked into it, and it was a dogs'-eared edition of Shakespeare.

Another great man in the literary and histrionic professions, the novelist, Fielding, although of an aristocratic stock, and liberally educated, began life almost without pecuniary resources. He came before the public first in 1725, and in succession was a showman at Bartholomew and other fairs, the owner of a booth for theatrical performances, at one time set up in George Yard, from which he found his way to the regular boards. In spite of being the son of a general, and the great grandson of an earl, his impecuniosity was often great, although he met his difficulties with the light-hearted gaiety of a Sheridan, and the careless imprudence of a Goldsmith.

Once, when in Ireland, he got into disgrace through giving a dancing-party at his rooms; sold his books the next day, ran away from college, loafed about Dublin till only a shilling was left, and then went to Cork. There he lived three days on the shilling, and said afterwards the most delicious meal he ever tasted was a handful of grey peas, given him by a girl at a wake, after twenty-four hours' fasting.

Poor Oliver Goldsmith must, of course, have his place in this chapter, for from the time when he wrote street ballads to save himself from starving, and was delighted to hear them sung, to when he started on "the grand tour," alone and friendless, with one spare shirt, a flute, and a guinea in his pocket, to the last scene of hopeless insolvency in which he died, his life was one long, hard struggle against pecuniary difficulties. When his relatives raised 50 to send him to London to study, he spent and gambled all away, and got no farther than Dublin. The result of his wildly rash act of going abroad so ill provided he has himself described. In a foreign land, when without money, he turned to his flute as a last resource, and whenever he approached a peasant's cottage towards nightfall, he played one of his merriest tunes, and so generally contrived to win a shelter for the night, and some food for his next day's journey.

In this way he pa.s.sed through Flanders, parts of France, Germany and Switzerland, reaching Padua at last; remaining there six months to secure his medical degree. Returning in 1756, and failing to find employment, he was at last taken in by a chemist by way of charity, and to preserve him from starvation. His friend, Dr. Sleigh, next befriended him, and then he became usher to Dr. Milner's school in Peckham. Soon after he found literary employment, and took a lodging at No. 12, Green Arbour Court, in the Old Bailey--a miserable, dirty room, with but one chair. He did not emerge from this squalid, dismal abode until 1760, when improved circ.u.mstances enabled him to lodge in Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, where he received his friends with a freedom and hospitality which soon reduced his means to the level of impecuniosity. Here he first met Dr.

Johnson, who became his dearest friend and best adviser.

Johnson has described how he received one morning a message from poor Goldsmith, to the effect that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to go to the Doctor, begging that the Doctor would come to him as soon as possible.

"I sent him a guinea," says Johnson, "and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for rent, at which he was in a violent pa.s.sion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a gla.s.s before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it and saw its merits, and told the landlady I should soon return, and, having gone to a bookseller, sold it for 60. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady for having used him so ill."

The novel thus sold was the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' and its purchaser, Francis Newberry, the bookseller, who kept it unprinted for two years, when its author's 'Traveller,' having appeared and proved successful, the novel was published (in March 1766) and in a month reached a second edition.

In Forster's 'Life of Goldsmith,' the following account of his earliest state of penury has no little romantic interest:--

"It was," says the author of that famous work, "a year and a half after he had entered college, at the commencement of 1747, his father suddenly died. The scanty sums required for his support had often been intercepted; but this stopped them altogether. It may have been the least and most trifling loss connected with that sorrow; but 'squalid poverty,' relieved by occasional gifts, according to his small means, from Uncle Contarine, by petty loans from Bryanton or Beatty, or by desperate p.a.w.ning of his books of study, was Goldsmith's lot henceforward. Yet even in the depths of that despair arose the consciousness of faculties reserved for better fortune than continual contempt and failure. He would write street ballads to save himself from actual starving; sell them at the Reindeer repository in Mountrath Court for five shillings apiece, and steal out of the college at night to hear them sung.

"Happy night, to him worth all the dreary days! Hidden by some dusky wall, or creeping within darkling shadows of the ill-lighted streets, this poor neglected sizar watched, waited, lingered, listened there, for the only effort of his life which had not wholly failed. Few and dull perhaps the beggar's audience at first, but more thronging, eager, and delighted as he shouted forth his newly-gotten ware; cracked enough, I doubt not, were those ballad singing tunes; nay, harsh, extremely discordant, and pa.s.sing from loud to low without meaning or melody; but not the less did the sweetest music which this earth affords fall with them on the ear of Goldsmith. Gentle faces, pleased old men, stopping by the way; young lads, venturing a purchase with their last remaining farthing; why here was a world in little with its fame at the sizar's feet! 'The greater world will be listening one day,' perhaps he muttered as he turned with a lighter heart to his dull home."

Johnson's sympathy with Goldsmith was, no doubt, warmed and quickened by the remembrance of his own early struggles with the foul fiend impecuniosity. He remembered well enough his first London lodging in Exeter Street, Strand, when, as he said, "I dined very well for eightpence, with very good company, at the Pine Apple in New Street fast by. Several of them had travelled, they expected to meet every day; but they did not know one another's names. It used to cost the rest a shilling, for they drank wine; but I had a cut of meat for sixpence, and bread for a penny, so that I was quite well served, nay, better than the rest, for they gave the waiter nothing."