Money, whatever those who affect misanthropy or a sublime superiority to
all temporal things may say to the contrary, is a very desirable thing.
We all enjoy the visit of the great Alexander to the contented
inhabitant of the imperishable tub, who was alike independent of the
good will and displeasure of that mighty monarch; we sympathize with all
the bitter things that Timon says when he is reduced from wealth to
beggary; and we are never tired of lamenting, with Virgil, that the
human heart should be such an abject prey to this accursed hunger for
gold. I am not sure that Horace would not be dearer to us, if he had
lived in a "three-pair-back" in some obscure street, and his deathless
odes had been inspired by fear of a shrewish landlady or an inexorable
sheriff, instead of being an honoured guest at the imperial court, and a
recipient of the splendid patronage of a Maecenas and an Augustus.
Poetical justice seems to require a setting of the most cheerless
poverty for the full development of the lustre of genius. At least, we
think so, at times;--though, under it all, admire as we may the
successful struggles of the want-stricken bard,--we do not envy him his
penury. We should shrink from his gifts and his fame, if they were
offered to us with his sufferings. For underneath our abstract
magnanimity lurks the conviction that money is by no means a bad thing,
after all. Our enthusiasm is awakened by contemplating the
self-forgetful career of Francis of Assisi, who chose Poverty for his
bride, and whose name is in benediction among men, even six centuries
after he entered into possession of that kingdom which was promised to
the poor in spirit; and, if we should chance to see a more modern bearer
of that Christian name, who worshipped the wealth which the ancient
saint despised; who trampled down honest poverty in his unswerving march
towards opulence; who looked unmoved upon the tears of the widow and the
orphan; who exercised his sordid apostolate even to the last gasp of his
miserable life; and whose name (unblessed by the poor, and unhonoured by
canonization) became, in the brief period that it outlived him, a byword
and a synonyme of avarice,--we should not fail to visit his memory with
a cordial malediction. But, in spite of all our veneration for Francis,
the apostle of holy poverty, and of loathing for his namesake, the
apostle of unholy wealth, we cannot help wishing that we had a little
more of that which the Saint cast away, and the miser took in exchange
for his soul.
A little more--that is the phrase--and there is no human being, rich or
poor, who does not think that "a little more" is all that is needed to
fill up the measure of his earthly happiness. It is for this that the
gambler risks his winnings, and the merchant perils the gains of many
toilsome years. For this, some men labour until they lose the faculty of
enjoying the fruit of their exertions; and this is the _ignis fatuus_
that goes dancing on before others, leading them at last into that bog
of bankruptcy from which they never wholly extricate themselves. Enough
is a word unknown in the lexicon of those who have once tasted the joy
of having money at interest, and there are very few men who practically
appreciate the wisdom of the ancient dramatist who tells us that
"He is most rich who stops at competence,--
Not labours on till the worn heart grows sere,--
Who, wealth attained, upon some loftier aim
Fixes his gaze, and never turns it backward."
"Give me neither poverty nor riches," has been my prayer through life,
as it was that of the ancient sage; and it has always been my opinion
that a man who owns even a single acre of land within a convenient
distance of State Street or of the Astor House, is just as well off as
if he were rich. My petition has been answered: but it must be confessed
that when I mouse in the book shops, or turn over the rich portfolios of
the print dealers, I feel that I am poor indeed. I do not envy him who
can adorn the walls of his dwelling with the masterpieces of ancient or
modern art on their original canvas; but I do crave those faithful
reproductions which we owe to the engraver's skill, and which come so
near my grasp as to aggravate my covetousness, and make me speak most
disrespectfully of my unelastic purse.
Few people have spent any considerable time abroad without being for a
season in straitened circumstances. A mistake may have been made in
reckoning up one's cash, or a bill may be longer than was expected, or
one's banker may temporarily suspend payment; and suddenly he who never
knew a moment's anxiety about his pecuniary affairs finds himself
wondering how he can pay for his lodgings, and where his next day's
beefsteak is coming from. It was my good fortune once to undergo such a
trial in Paris. I say good fortune--for, unpleasant as it was at the
time, it was one of the most precious experiences of my life. I do not
think that a true, manly character can be formed without placing the
subject in the position of a ship's helm, when she is in danger of
getting aback; to speak less technically, he must (once in his life, at
least) be _hard up_.
I was younger in those days than I am now, and was living for a time in
the gay capital of France. My lodgings were in one of those quiet
streets that lead to the _Place Ventadour_, in which the Italian Opera
House stands. My room was about twelve feet square, was handsomely
furnished, and decorated with a large mirror, and a polished oaken floor
that rivalled the mirror in brilliancy. Its window commanded an
unobstructed view of a court-yard about the size of the room itself;
but, as I was pretty high up (on the second floor coming down) my light
was good, and I could not complain. As I write, it seems as if I could
hear the old _concierge_ blacking boots and shoes away down at the
bottom of that well of a court-yard, enlivening his toil with an
occasional snatch from some old song, and now and then calling out to
his young wife within the house, with a clear voice, "Marie!"--the
accent of the final syllable being prolonged in a preternatural manner.
And then out of the same depths came a melodious response from Marie's
blithesome voice, that made me stop shaving to enjoy it--a voice that
seemed in perfect harmony with the cool breath and bright sky of that
sunny spring morning. Marie was a representative woman of her class. I
do not believe that she could have been placed in any honest position,
however high, that she would not have adorned. Her simplicity and good
nature conciliated the good will of every one who addressed her, and I
have known her quiet, lady-like dignity to inspire even some loud and
boastful Americans, who called on me, with a momentary sentiment of
respect. They appeared almost like gentlemen for two or three minutes
after speaking with her. Upon my honour, sir, it was worth considerably
more than I paid for my room to have the privilege of living under the
same roof with such a cheery sunbeam--to see her seated daily at the
window of the _conciergerie_ with a snow-white cap on her head and a
pleasant smile on her face; to interrupt her sewing, with an inquiry
whether any letters had come for me, and be charmed with her alacrity in
handing me the expected note, and the key of _numero dix-huit_. Her
nightly _Bon soir, M'sieur_, was like a benediction from a guardian
angel; her vivacious _Bon jour_ was an augury of an untroubled day; it
would have made the darkest, foggiest November afternoon seem as bright,
and fresh, and exhilarating as a morning in June. These are trifles, I
know, but it is of trifles such as these that the true happiness of life
is made up. Great joys, like great griefs, do not possess the soul so
completely as we think, as Wellington victorious, or Napoleon defeated,
at Waterloo, would have discovered, if, in that great hour, they had
been visited with a twinge of neuralgia in the head, or a gnawing
dyspepsia.
The influenza, or _grippe_, as the French call it, is not a pleasant
thing under any circumstances; but I think of a four days' attack,
during which Marie attended to my wants, as a period of unmixed
pleasure. She seemed to hover about my sick bed, she moved so gently,
and her voice (to use the words of my former cherished friend, S. T.
Coleridge,) was like
"----a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune."
"Was it that Monsieur would be able to drink a little tea, or would it
please him to taste some cool lemonade?" _Helas!_ Monsieur was too
_malade_ for that; but the kind attentions of that estimable little
woman were more refreshing than a Baltic Sea of the beverage that cheers
but does not inebriate, or all the aid that the lemon groves of Italy
could afford. Marie's politeness was the genuine article, and came right
from her pure, kind heart. It was as far removed from that despicable
obsequiousness which passes current with so many for politeness, as
old-fashioned Christian charity is from modern philanthropy.
But--pardon my garrulity--I am forgetting my story. In a moment of
kindly forgetfulness I lent a considerable portion of my available funds
to a friend who was short, and who was obliged to return to America,
_via_ England. I was in weekly expectation of a draft from home that
would place me once more upon my financial legs. One, two, three weeks
passed away, and the letters from America were distributed every Tuesday
morning, but there was none for me. It gave me a kind of faint sensation
when the clerk at the banker's gave me the disappointing answer, and I
went into the reading-room of the establishment to read the new American
papers, and to speculate upon the cause of the unremitting neglect of my
friends at home. I shall never forget my feelings when, in the third
week of my impecuniosity, I found my exchequer reduced to the small sum
of eight francs. I saw the truth of Shakespeare's words describing the
"consumption of the purse" as an incurable disease. I had many
acquaintances and a few friends in Paris, but I determined not to borrow
if it could possibly be avoided. Five days would elapse before another
American mail arrived, and I resolved that my remaining eight francs
should carry me through to the eventful Tuesday, which I felt sure would
bring the longed-for succor. I found a little dingy shop, in a narrow
street behind the Church of St. Roch, where I could get a breakfast,
consisting of a bowl of very good coffee and piece of bread (I asked for
the end of the loaf) for six sous. My dinners I managed to bring down to
the sum of twelve sous, by choosing obscure localities for the obtaining
of that repast, and confining myself to those simple and nutritious
viands which possessed the merit attributed to the veal pie by Samuel
Weller, being "werry fillin' at the price." Sometimes I went to bed
early, to avoid the inconveniences of a light dinner. One day I dined
with a friend at his lodgings, but I did not enjoy his hospitality; I
felt guilty, as if I had sacrificed friendship to save my dwindling
purse. The coarsest bread and the most suspicious beef of the Latin
Quarter would have been more delicious to me under such circumstances
than the best ragout of the Boulevards or the Palais Royal.
Of course, this state of things weighed heavily upon my spirits. I heard
Marie tell her husband that Monsieur l'Anglais was _bien triste_. I
avoided the friends with whom I had been used to meet, and (remembering
what a sublime thing it is to suffer and be strong) sternly resolved not
to borrow till I found myself completely gravelled. It grieved me to be
obliged to pass the old blind man who played the flageolet on the _Pont
des Arts_ without dropping a copper into his tin box; but the severest
blow was the being compelled to put off my obliging washerwoman and her
reasonable bill. The time passed away quickly, however. The _Louvre_,
with its treasures of art, was a blessed asylum for me. It cost me
nothing, and I was there free from the importunities of distress which I
could not relieve. In the halls of the great public library--now the
_Bibliotheque Imperiale_--I found myself at home. Among the studious
throng that occupied its vast reading rooms, I was as independent as if
my name had been Rothschild, or the treasures of the Bank of France had
been at my command. The master spirits with whom I there communed do not
ask what their votaries carry in their pockets. There is no
property-test for admission to the privileges of their companionship. I
felt the equality which prevails in the republic of letters. I knew that
my left hand neighbour was not, in that quiet place, superior to me on
account of his glossy coat and golden-headed cane, and that I was no
better than the reader at my right hand because he wore a blouse. I
jingled my two or three remaining francs in my pocket, and thought how
useless money was, when the lack of it was no bar to entrance into the
hallowed presence of
"Those dead but sceptred sovereigns who still rule
Our spirits from their urns."
I shall not soon forget the intense satisfaction with which I read in
the regulations of the library a strict prohibition against offering any
fees or gratuities whatever to its blue-coated officials.
At last the expected Tuesday morning came. My funds had received an
unlooked-for diminution by receiving a letter from my friend whose wants
had led me into difficulty. He was just embarking at Liverpool--hoped
that my remittance had arrived in due season--promised to send me a
draft as soon as he reached New York--envied my happiness at remaining
in Paris--and left me to pay the postage on his valediction. It would be
difficult for any disinterested person to conceive how dear the
thoughtless writer of that letter was to me in that unfortunate hour.
Then, too, I was obliged to lay out six of those cherished copper coins
for a ride in an omnibus, as I was caught in a shower over in the
vicinity of St. Sulpice, and could not afford to take the risk of a
rheumatic attack by getting wet. I well remember the cool, business-like
air with which that relentless _conducteur_ pocketed those specimens of
the French currency that were so precious in my sight. Yet, in spite of
these serious and unexpected drains upon my finances, I had four sous
left after paying for my breakfast on that memorable morning. I felt
uncommonly cheerful at the prospect of being relieved from my troubles,
and stopped several minutes after finishing my coffee, and conversed
with the tidy shopwoman with a fluency that astonished both of us. I
really regretted for the moment that I was so soon to be placed in
funds, and should no longer enjoy her kindly services. I chuckled
audibly to myself as I pursued my way to the banker's, to think what an
immense joke it would be for some skilful Charley Bates or Artful Dodger
to try to pick my pocket just then. An ancient heathen expecting an
answer from the oracle of Delphos, a modern candidate for office
awaiting the count of the vote, never felt more oppressed with the
importance of the result than I did when I entered the banking-house. My
delight at having a letter from America put into my hands could only be
equalled by my dismay when I opened it, and found, instead of the draft,
a request from a casual acquaintance who had heard that I might possibly
return home through England, and who, if I did, would be under great
obligations if I would take the trouble to procure and carry home for
him an English magpie and a genuine King Charles spaniel!
I did not stop to read the papers that morning. As I was leaving the
establishment, I met its chief partner, to whom I could not help
expressing my disappointment. He was one of your hard-faced,
high-cheek-boned Yankees, with a great deal of speculation in his eyes.
I should as soon have thought of attempting the cultivation of figs and
dates at Franconia as of trying to get a small loan from _him_. So I
pushed on into those busy streets whose liveliness seemed to mock my
pitiable condition. I had come to it at last. I had got to borrow. A
physician, who now stands high among the faculty in Boston, was then
residing in Paris, and, as I had been on familiar terms with him, I
determined to have recourse to him. He occupied two rooms in the fifth
story of a house in the Rue St. Honore. His apartments were more
remarkable for their snugness than for the extent of accommodation they
afforded. A snuff-taking friend once offered to present the doctor with
one of his silk handkerchiefs to carpet that parlour with. But the
doctor's heart was not to be measured by the size of his rooms, and I
knew that he would be a friend in need. The _concierge_ told me that the
doctor had not gone out, and, in obedience to the instructions of that
functionary, I mounted the long staircase and _frapped_ at the door of
that estimable disciple of Galen. It was not my usual thrice-repeated
stroke upon the door; it was a timid and uncertain knock--the knock of a
borrower. The doctor said that he had been rather short himself for a
week or two, but that he should undoubtedly find a letter in the General
Post that morning that would place him in a condition to give me a lift.
This was said in a manner that put me entirely at my ease, and made me
feel that by accepting his loan I should be conferring an inestimable
favour upon him. As we walked towards the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, I
amused him with the story of the preceding week's adventures. He laughed
heartily, and after a few minutes I joined with him, though I must say
that the events, as they occurred, did not particularly impress me as
subjects for very hilarious mirth. The doctor inquired at the _poste
restante_ in vain. His friends had been as remiss as mine, and we had
both got to wait another week. The doctor was not an habitually profane
man, but as we came through the court-yard of the post office, he
expressed his anxiety as to what the devil we should do. He examined his
purse, and found that his available assets amounted to a trifle more
than nineteen francs. He looked as troubled as he had before looked gay.
I generously offered him my four remaining coppers, and told him that I
would stand by him as long as he had a centime in his pocket. Such an
exhibition of magnanimity could not be made in vain. We stopped in front
of the church of Our Lady of Victories, and took the heroic resolve to
club our funds and go through the week of expectation together. And we
did it. I wish that space would allow of my describing the achievements
of that week. Medical books were cast aside for the study of domestic
economy. I do not believe that a similar sum of money ever went so far
before, even in Paris. We found a place in a narrow street, near the
Odeon, where fried potatoes were sold very cheap; we bought our bread by
the loaf, as it was cheaper--the loaves being so long that the doctor
said that he understood, when he first saw them, why bread was called
the staff of life. We resorted to all sorts of expedients to make a
franc buy as much as possible of the necessaries of life. We frequented
with great assiduity all places of public amusement where there was no
fee for admission. The public galleries, the libraries, the puppet shows
in the Champs Elysees, were often honoured with our presence. We made a
joke of our necessities, and carried it through to the end. The next
Tuesday morning found us, after breakfasting, on our way to the post
office, with a franc left in our united treasury. I had begun to give up
all hopes of our ever getting a letter from home, and insisted upon the
doctor's trying his luck first. He was successful, but the severest part
of the joke came when he found that his letter (contrary to all
precedent) was not postpaid. The polite official at the window must have
thirty-two sous for it, and we had but twenty. Our laughter showed him
the whole state of the case, and we left him greatly amused at our
promises to return soon, and get the desirable prize. My application at
the banker's was successful, too, and before noon we were both prepared
to laugh a siege to scorn. I paid the rosy-cheeked washerwoman, bought
Marie a neat crucifix to hang up in the place of a very rude one in her
_conciergerie_, out of sheer good humour; and that evening the doctor
and I laughed over the recollections of the week and a good dinner in a
quiet restaurant in the Palais Royal.