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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 Saturday 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 cumbersome, 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 hell, where shall I find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits?” But in striking contrast to these, is that remarkable passage in George Sand’s ‘Consuelo,’ in which every known blessing and virtue is attributed to “the goddess—the good goddess—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 associated 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 Cumberland 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 gratitude, 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 Embassy 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 passion 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 illustrations 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 succumbed are naturally the antitheses 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 illustrious 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 nobility, 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 assisted 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 space. 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 illustrating the motto to his advertisement, “Omne majus continent in se minus” (“The greater includes the less”).[1]

Dr. Howard, the Rector of St. George’s, Southwark, and Chaplain to the Dowager Princess of Wales, towards the close of the last century, was invariably short of money, a fact pretty well known to his tradesmen. On one occasion he ordered a canonical wig from a peruke-maker’s in Leicester Fields, and the porter had instructions not to leave it till the bill was paid.

Arrived at the rectory, the man asked for the doctor.

“I’ve brought your wig home, sir.”

“Oh, ah,” replied the doctor; “quite right—you can leave it. Just put it down there.”

“No, I can’t leave it, sir—that is, without the money.”

“Oh, very well, then. I’ll try it on.”

The man handed him the wig, and as soon as the doctor put it on, he said to the messenger,—

“This article has been bought and delivered; if you dare to touch it, I will prosecute you for robbery.”

Dr. Howard once preached from the text, “Have patience with me, and I will pay thee all”—a passage gratifying to the feelings of an audience including many of his creditors. He dwelt at considerable length on the blessings and duty of patience, till it was time to close, and then said, “Now, brethren, I am come to the second part of my discourse, which is, ‘And I will pay ye all,’ but that I shall defer to a future opportunity.”

Colton, the author of ‘Lacon,’ who became vicar of the poor living of Kew and Petersham, must likewise be included in the list of those who have succumbed to circumstances. Finding himself unable to pay the price of apartments in the neighbourhood of his living, he transported his gun, fishing-rod, and few books (one of which was De Foe’s ‘History of the Devil’) to Soho, where he rented a couple of rooms in a small house overlooking St. Anne’s burial-ground. There he wrote his book of ‘Aphorisms,’ a broken phial placed in a saucer serving him as an inkstand. His copy was written on scraps of paper and blank sides of letters, and he dined at an eating-house, or cooked a chop for himself. At one time he opened a wine-cellar in another person’s name under a Methodist chapel in Dean Street, Soho, a position for a spiritual adviser which would scarcely be tolerated even in these days of considerable religious liberty.

Many amusing stories are told of Joe Haines, a comedian of the time of Charles II., sometimes called “Count” Haines. It is said that he was arrested one morning by two bailiffs for a debt of £20, when he saw a bishop, to whom he was related, passing along in his coach. With ready resource he immediately saw a loophole for escape, and, turning to the men he said, “Let me speak to his lordship, to whom I am well known, and he will pay the debt and your charges into the bargain.”

The bailiffs thought they might venture this, as they were within two or three yards of the coach, and acceded to his request. Joe boldly advanced and took his hat off to the bishop. His lordship ordered the coach to stop, when Joe whispered to the divine that the two men were suffering from such scruples of conscience that he feared they would hang themselves, suggesting that his lordship should invite them to his house, and promise to satisfy them. The bishop agreed, and calling to the bailiffs, he said, “You two men come to me to-morrow morning, and I will satisfy you.”

The men bowed and went away pleased, and early the next day waited on his lordship, who, when they were ushered in, said, “Well, my men, what are these scruples of conscience?”

“Scruples?” replied one of them, “we have no scruples! We are bailiffs, my lord, who yesterday arrested your cousin, Joe Haines, for a debt of £20, and your lordship kindly promised to satisfy us.”

The trick was strange, but the result was stranger, for his lordship, either appreciating its cleverness, or considering himself bound by the promise he had unintentionally given, there and then settled with the men in full.

John Rich, manager of the Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Covent Garden Theatres, 1681-1761, was another dramatic delinquent. It was owing to his marvellous ability as harlequin that pantomime achieved its popularity. His gesticulation is said to have been so perfectly expressive of his meaning that every motion of his hand or head was a kind of dumb eloquence, readily understood by the audience. One evening, when returning from the theatre in a cab, having ordered the coachman to drive to the “Sun,” a tavern in Clare Market, he threw himself out of the coach window and through the open window of the tavern parlour, just as the driver was about to draw up. The man then descended from the box, touched his hat, and stood waiting for his passenger to alight. Finding at length there was no one visible he besought a few blessings on the scoundrel who had imposed upon him, remounted his box, and was about to drive off, when Rich, who had been watching, vaulted back into the vehicle, and, putting his head out, asked, “where the devil he was driving to?” Almost paralyzed with fear the driver got down again, but could not be persuaded to take his fare, though he was offered a shilling for himself, exclaiming, “No no, that won’t do. I know you too well for all your shoes; and so Mr. Devil, for once you’re outwitted.” In addition to his successful pantomimes, his production of the ‘Beggar’s Opera’ was a wonderful hit; but he seems never to have been well off, and was at one time in such difficulties that he hit upon the clever expedient of taking a house situated in three different counties in order to free himself from the attentions of sheriffs’ officers.

One name must not be omitted from this section of the subject, that of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. His adroitness in profiting by his very practical jokes commenced soon after his leaving Harrow, when spending a few days at Bristol. He wanted a new pair of boots, but, not having money to pay for them, ordered a pair from two bootmakers, to be sent home on the morning of his departure, payment being promised on delivery. When the first tradesman arrived he complained of the fit of one boot, and when the second came he objected to his make of the boot for the other foot. Each bootmaker took a boot back to be stretched. When the dupes called next day, each displaying a boot, they found that Sheridan had departed in the fellow pieces of their property.

Later in life his difficulties became chronic, but his ingenuity was generally equal to them. Having arranged to give a banquet to the leaders of the Opposition, he found himself on the morning of the event without port or sherry, his wine-merchant having positively refused to supply any more without payment. In this dilemma he sent for Chalier, and told him he wished to settle his account. The wine-merchant, much delighted, proposed running home for it, when Sheridan stopped him with “What do you say to dining with me to-day? Lord This, and Sir So-and-so That” (mentioning several celebrities), “will be here.” The offer was accepted with enthusiasm, the merchant leaving his office early in order to dress for the occasion. As soon as he made his appearance Sheridan despatched a messenger to the clerk at the office, to the effect that Mr. Chalier desired so many dozen of different kinds of wine sent at once, which instructions were promptly executed, the Burgundy, hock, &c., &c. arriving just in time for the dinner.

One Friday evening at Drury Lane, just after the half-price money had been taken, Sheridan was informed by his treasurer that unless a certain amount could be raised there was not sufficient to pay the salaries of even the subordinates, and the house would have to close the following Monday. After making certain suggestions which were voted useless by his business-man, Sherry took a look at the meagrely-filled house, and calling a servant, said to him, “You see that stout, goodtempered-looking man in such and such a box?” “Yes, sir.” “Immediately the act-drop is down go to him; have a boy who can bow gracefully precede you with a pair of wax candles. Open the box-door, and in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone, say, ‘Mr. Sheridan requests the pleasure of a private interview with you, sir.’ Treat him with the greatest attention, and see that a bottle of the best port and a couple of wine-glasses are placed in my study.” These directions were all carried out, and when the manager was alone with his visitor, after expressing the great pleasure he always experienced in seeing any one from Staffordshire, he said, “I think you told me you came to London twice a year.” “Yes,” was the reply, “January and June, to receive my dividends. I have been to the bank to-day and got my £600.” “Ah you are in Consols, whilst I, alas, am Reduced and can get nothing till April, when you know the interest is paid, and till then I shall be in great distress.” “Oh,” said his constituent, “let not that make you uneasy; if you give me the power of attorney to receive the money for you, I can let you have £300, which I shall not want till then.” “Only a real friend,” said Sheridan, “could have made such a proposition.” The £300 duly changed hands, and when April came the power of attorney was handed to Sheridan to sign, “I never spoke of Consols in Reduced,” said he, “I only spoke of my Consols being reduced. Unhappy is the man who cannot understand the weight of prepositions.” The Stafford man went to Sheridan in a fearful rage, but the latter was as cool as a cucumber. He made a clean breast of it, and told all. “But,” he said, “my dear sir, I am now commanded to go to the Prince Regent, to whom I shall narrate your noble conduct. My carriage is waiting, and I can take you to Carlton House.” The creditor was delighted. He shook Sherry by the hand, exclaiming, “I forgive you, never mention the debt again,” to which Sheridan readily assented, and we may be sure kept his word for once. The carriage came, into which both entered, but when it arrived at Carlton House Sheridan alighted, closed the door, and told the coachman to drive the gentleman to his hotel. The Stafford man expostulated that he understood he was going into Carlton House, when Sheridan calmly told him, “That’s another mistake of yours,” and of course, though his statement inferred as much, he only said he would take his constituent to Carlton House. It goes without saying that at the next election the Staffordshire elector voted on the other side.

There is no doubt that at last Sheridan was so desperately involved that his life became, “not to put too fine a point on it,” that of a schemer. He lived in an atmosphere of duns, but such a thorough master was he of the subject that it was the tradesmen who eventually were “done” by him. It was customary for them to assemble early in the morning to catch him before he went out, and when informed “Mr. Sheridan is not down yet, sir,” they were shown into the rooms on each side of the entrance-hall. When he had finished his breakfast he would say, “Are those doors all shut, John?” and on being informed that they were, would deliberately walk out as pleased as though he had obtained a great moral victory.