empty chair--"here sat Wee Scotty; here sat Monkey Jim, and there
sat Never Sweat; here sat Rags, and there sat Cinders; here sat Tim,
and there sat Oaklahoma Sam." Indeed, there could be no mistake as
to where Sam sat, for he had used his knife to such purpose, in
describing the position of Napoleon, Blucher, and Wellington, and
their rapid movements in the heat of battle, that the table-cloth was
all in rags, and that part of the table was in splinters for nearly
two feet square.
I stood undecided, for I had tasted their life, and I knew that it
was after all far better than the chained life I was now leading.
In an instant I made up my mind to follow Brum, and again enjoy the
open-air camp fires, and saunterings in strange towns, and lying
under shady trees in quiet woods, beside fresh springs. But I had
scarcely moved when the room turned into a stone cell, and the wooden
door became steel, and thick iron bars crossed the window. It must
have been the strong feeling, incident to such a change, that made me
wake.
I found myself sleeping alone in a small, poorly-furnished cottage, a
stranger newly arrived in a strange village; and I had to admit, as
a man in possession of all his senses, that I had far less cause to
be happy than when I was a nameless wanderer with Brum in Louisiana,
with Australian Red in Michigan, or cabined with Wee Scotty and
Oaklahoma Sam on the cattleship _Tritonia_.
XXXVI
The Literary Life
One day, when I was small, my grandmother called me to her knee, and
asked me if I knew where the White House was. No doubt I did, for I
not only knew the town well, being a truant, but the green country
for many a mile around. However, I did not know the house by name,
and shook my head, at the same time looking at her with some anxiety,
thinking that the White House was a place to whitewash the souls of
wicked boys. Then she began to describe its beautiful situation,
its numerous windows, the long drive through trees and the acres of
green land that surrounded it. Did I know it now? I should think
I did. It stood a long way back off a main road, and we truants
often passed it. And we knew the apple orchard which belonged to
that house, but was a long way from it; and it was less than a week
before my grandmother asked this question, that I and a boy called
"Trousers" had trespassed on the land, and filled our pockets and
open shirts with red apples. So, when she continued talking about
this house, I became a great deal confused, thinking that someone
had been to her making enquiries of me; and I only had one thought
to console me--"Trousers" was guilty also. My relief can be imagined
when I found that such was not the case, but that my grandmother was
thinking of her own days of childhood and, having no one else near,
could not contain herself, but must make a confidant of a thoughtless
boy, or--to use her own words--"a little black and a rodney." She
was looking at the child that was dead in her, and could not feel me
tremble at her knee, nor see my colour come and go. However, when I
began to see that she knew nothing of my doings, and began to speak
of her own childhood, I gradually became interested.
The White House, it seemed, had once belonged to a relative, and my
grandmother had lived there for several months as a little girl. Now,
my grandmother was an only child, and that she was allowed out of
her mother's care for several months seemed strange. Perhaps it was
owing to domestic strife. Her mother had married a worthless fellow
who had at last drunk himself to death. So, I suppose she sent her
only child away while she took steps to get rid of him and make a
comfortable home of her own. Having a little property, and being a
woman of great spirit, she ordered him out of the house and dared
him to enter again. After which she started a small private school
and, having the rent of four little houses, lived happy with her only
child. No doubt she had come of good birth and was well educated. It
was much against her wish that her daughter married my grandfather,
in spite of his being captain of his own vessel--because of his want
of education. Nevertheless, she lived to see her daughter married to
an honest and affectionate man, even though his grammar was bad, and
his roaring voice was not ashamed of it.
However, what interested me now was to hear from my grandmother that
the lady at the White House had not only been very beautiful, but had
been clever enough to write a book. As to her looks, my grandmother
said that she and her husband made such a fine pair that even people
that met them often turned and looked after them. They were both
very tall, he being six feet three inches, and she being six feet;
and they looked so stately that people made their admiration heard.
My grandmother said that they were so fond of each other that they
always walked arm-in-arm, as when lovers; and for this reason they
were admired by those who would otherwise have frowned on their rich
clothes and proud grace. But one day, when they had returned from
riding, he, in assisting her from her horse, squeezed her breast, and
this accident somehow caused her death. Such was my grandmother's
account of former occupants of the White House. When I told these
things to "Trousers," saying that we ought not to have robbed that
orchard, he claimed that we had a right to the apples, because my
grandmother used to live there. It was a great consolation to hear
this, but still, I claimed the only right, and trusted that he would
not lead others there on the sly.
But what I mean to say is this--the wonderful effect it had on me,
young as I was, to hear that a relative of mine, however distant,
had written a book! My feelings will be understood by all those who
remember what books were to them as children. To children books do
not reach millions, nor thousands; and when they have a book they
think it is the first and last copy, and never dream that there
are thousands more. It would be very hard to describe a child's
opinion of a book, but there are thousands of grown people who are
as innocent of the business side of literature, and who are still
children in their knowledge of books. In fact, speaking of my own
experience, I did not know until three or four years ago but what
books must be published on their merit, and could not be published
otherwise. I did not know, what I know so well now, that any person
with money can publish a book, and that merit has little to do
with it before publication, however much it may assist it after.
Even now, speaking as the author of five books, I am still being
surprised at the business side of literature. I find that books are
pleasant things to brood on in an egg state, but that they are no
sooner hatched and begin to move than they fill one with disgust
and disappointment; and the author feels like the hen that without
knowing hatched a brood of ducklings and, to her disgust, saw them
run into the water.
Even in those early days I had made up my mind to write a book, so
that it can be imagined what a sacred place the White House became to
me. Day after day I thought of the lovely tall lady; and it was not
her height, grace, or beauty, nor her wealth and social position that
were uppermost in my thoughts--but that she had written a book! Time
and again I asked my grandmother the name of it, but she could not
tell. Of course I was too young to think of enquiring the author's
name, and going to libraries, and trying to trace it that way. Very
few grown people would have had sense enough for that.
Thinking of these things has led me to the contrast of literature as
it seems to the young, and what it really is to a man of experience.
You could never persuade a young man--and very few old men--that he
could be one of the best writers of the day and yet starve, had he
not the assistance of private means. "True," people say, "men of
genius have starved, but the fault was that they were not recognized
in their day." But the real truth is that a man may be so much
recognized that the world's praise of his work would make a very
large book indeed, and yet he may not have a second shirt to his
back. It would be impossible to make people believe that a man could
be so famous as to be invited to the houses of the great and yet be
so shabby in appearance that beggars meet him on the road and, taking
him for one of themselves, say, "Hallo! mate; what's yer luck?" And
that when he did meet people of consequence, he had to sneak into
back slums at night and sleep in a common lodging-house. People could
not be made to believe any of these things while a man lives, but
after he is dead they will believe anything.
XXXVII
The Sport of Fame
People have professed themselves amazed at my past life, and perhaps
I can amaze them a little more by relating what great sport I and
Fame have had; how she coaxed me into making several attempts
to enrich the English language--some people think the attempts
successful--and how she served me afterwards. Other people can be
amazed at my past life, but my turn to be amazed comes now. The world
has had its revenge for the few years I made it keep me as an idler.
In fact I have found Fame to be the most amusing companion I have
ever had. She has placed me in such a position that I am now regarded
as a liar, a miser, and a woman-hater. I am considered to be a liar
by those who have read so much about my work, and who at last begin
to doubt when I say that Fame in England does not pay so good as
begging in America, and that a very small income of my own supports
me. They cannot believe this to be possible after reading such noble
accounts of my work--therefore I am a liar.
Again, I am regarded in the neighbourhood as a miser and a
woman-hater because I do my own cooking, washing, and housework,
when there are plenty of women around that would be glad of such
work. Of course, these things are not done thoroughly and well, or I
would have very little time to make attempts to enrich the English
language. The truth of the matter is that they are so ill done, that
I have had to write and stop several people from coming to interview
me, because of spiders that often rope me to the ceiling, Jacky
Longlegs that dance on my head, and--fleas. I am quite used to these
things now, and take little notice of them, regarding them indeed as
peculiar to the house of Fame.
Again, see what fun there must be when a man, grown famous, receives
scores of letters, most of which address him as "Esquire"--"Esquire,"
mark you, and living in a three-shilling-a-week cottage! How his
Majesty's proud servant in uniform must be amused at this, knowing
that a man who lives in a cottage no larger than his cannot be of
much consequence. He knows full well that innocent people far away
mistake such a man for a fine gentleman, and he is apt to laugh at
times, and in his serious moods to pity him. He has seen inside
the cottage of this man, called "Esquire," and he saw nothing but
bare walls and a few common things on the floor. If the poor man of
genius said that he had enough praise to paper his walls, he would be
laughed at for taking more pride in that than in a nice, comfortable
home; and the idiot deserves to be laughed at, and to hang his head
for shame.
Nothing worse could befall a living writer than to be compared to the
mighty dead. It is most certainly a great compliment, and a great
help to a man's spirit, but the consequence is apt to be fatal to
his flesh. The mistake is that people are likely to think of him as
one dead, and, of course, dead men need no food, clothing, or rent.
Being regarded as one dead, he is naturally not thought of when there
is anything given away; and the vast multitudes of powerful English
people who are so eager to reward struggling genius--foreign or
native--must, in consequence, overlook a man so highly rated.
All this is quite natural, but it is very amusing. It is very amusing
to receive by post a request for one's autograph when one is in the
act of washing a dirty pair of stockings, and lucky to have them to
wash.
In spite of leading a lonely life, I do not often talk or laugh
aloud, but I did on this occasion. It was that merry kind of laugh a
man makes when he has just had a letter to say that he is ruined and
a beggar, and while he is in the act of reading it his wife comes
into the room and says, "George, I want ten pounds for a new dress."
He has read the letter, and he has heard his wife's words, and he
shrieks with merry laughter--as I did.
I know well that a man of genius has shivered on a winter's night, in
a bed with insufficient clothing, in spite of using all his wearing
apparel, after having received that day a noble tribute from the
press, in which a well-known critic said he was unrivalled by his
contemporaries. That he lay all night shivering with the cold, and
expected to be poor Cock Robin before morning.
True, a man's first book of poetry may run into a second edition,
but people should not write and congratulate him on his success
before they know what that means. He may have received a cheque that
never mentioned pounds, only shillings and pennies, and perhaps far
more pennies than shillings. Of course, these are the impish tricks
of Fame, and people can hardly be blamed.
But the innocence of this world has often annoyed and surprised me. A
man, who knew my circumstances thoroughly, was so little astonished
to know how I could buy provisions, coal, oil, wood, clothes,
boots, etc. etc. etc., and to also answer a kind world's forced
correspondence--he, I say, was so little amazed to know how all
these things could be done on a paltry few shillings a week, that he
suggested it would save me much time and trouble to hire a woman once
a week to clean the place; and that it would only cost two or three
shillings; I did not answer him, for I was very much afraid of having
one of those merry laughing fits that have come on me so often since
I have been the companion of Fame.
I shall never forget the day when I was compared to the great Daniel
Defoe. At that time I could not spare money for a pair of stockings,
so I tore an old shirt in strips and wound them round my feet, as
tramps often do. Several times I noticed that people glanced down
at the feet of the second Daniel Defoe, but I could not think how
they could possibly know of my self-made stockings. In fact Fame was
having such sport with me on this occasion that I had forgotten all
about them. The name of Daniel Defoe had had a wonderful effect on
me; it had put fire under my feet, and a steel rod in my back.
While I was marching along in this stiff frame of pride, a little
girl came running forward, and said, "Please, sir, you've dropped
something." Looking on the ground I saw, to my amazement, that one
of the toe-rags, which had unwound itself, was lying in sight, but
still attached to my boot. But what amused me more was to think that
it had been trailing on the ground for a considerable time, and that
I had passed several ladies; and one of them I was beginning to be
interested in, for she had often looked at me as if she knew I was
famous. This is only one of the many funny little things that have
happened since I have been compared in England to the mighty dead,
and you can imagine my laughter.
The following day a great literary paper praised my work, and said
that it deserved its success, and that no man would envy such a
writer a four-storey mansion in the West End. Alas! a few days after
this I received a letter to congratulate me on my success, which made
special mention of my four-storey mansion; whereas at the same time
I was living in a small cottage with no more furniture than a little
boy could lift, and a friend was paying my rent.
Of course, we know very well that nothing can be done for genius.
Unfortunately, Nature does not mark him at birth, or we could soon
put an end to him; and not only save the State worry, but, better
still, save him from the cruel sport of Fame. If we give him twenty
pounds, what will he do with it? Will he open a fish shop or buy a
milk round? Not he; he has not the sense to do anything of the kind.
The idiot will buy books, and idle his time away at writing, and
his twenty pounds is soon gone, and the money is wasted. "But if
he enriches the English language?" one suggests. Ha! ha! tell that
nonsense to an Organized Charity, and hear their opinion. No, he had
his chance to open a fish shop and make a living, but he sat down and
idled his time away at writing.
For all that we cannot allow this poor wretch to suffer; but what,
in the name of goodness, can we do? I suggest this: no sooner is
a man acclaimed as a genius, and compared to the mightiest dead,
than the State should at once supply him with a distinguishing
uniform; so that he would not only be sure of clothes, but would
also be able to command the respect of strangers, however humble his
circumstances are. Not only that, but the vast multitudes of powerful
English people who are so eager to reward genius would then have
an opportunity to recognize him in the street, and assist him with
cheques, bank-notes, etc.; which the man of genius--poet, painter,
musician, no matter what--could take with dignity, as his due, and
not be expected to demean himself by a great show of thanks. All he
would then have to do would be to walk abroad, and give his address
to such rich people as accosted him, so that they could send to his
house food ready cooked, clean bed-clothes, money for rent, and other
things.
XXXVIII
Beggars in the Making
I often feel upset to think that these articles on begging may rob
honest men of charity; that people will become under the impression
that beggars are born instead of made; aye, even born full-fledged,
without having had childhood or youth. I would not like people to
think that every man that knocks at their door is a professional
tramp; or every voice they hear singing in the street is that of an
impostor. It must be confessed that the latter is very probably one,
seeing that a man either has to be on the road a long time before he
takes courage to sing in public, or must be under the influence of
drink. I have seen in provincial towns as many as four men singing
together. In a case of this kind, they are almost sure to be real
out-of-works, and the reason they sing instead of beg houses is that
they cannot all four go to one house, and individually they lack
courage; but they can sing all together, each one getting courage
from the presence of his companions.
People never give it a thought how difficult it is for a stranger to
get work, even where there is work in abundance. In new countries
things are different; a man is hired at once, without a question of
name and address. But in our old countries masters will not hire
strange tramps, until they are at the last extremity. I have seen,
this last summer, almost within a stone's throw of me, a farmer let
his hay be spoilt by the rain, through having insufficient labour,
and refusing to employ one or two of the many poor fellows that came
looking for work. He, and the few men he had, worked day and night,
rather than he would hire a stranger. No doubt he expected Providence
to withhold the rain for his sake, and she, kind soul, gave him more
than two weeks happy sunshine, quite sufficient if he had not been
too greedy to do as much work as possible himself, and pay away
little to others. So the rain came, and he suffered in consequence.
If people knew the number of men of this kind there are in the land,
they would not be so hasty in telling tramps that the farmers are
busy with their harvest, and are in sad need of men.
Although I have met several men and women that could claim to being
born beggars, having been born of beggars on the road, yet for all
that, people must not think that this is quite common. One time I met
one of these in Bedfordshire, and he recommended me to a good row
of houses, which he advised me to call at that evening. What this
man did not know about begging was not much. After doing business
in several streets, and finding trade very quiet indeed, I made up
my mind to call at that row of small cottages on my way back to the
lodging-house. It was then almost dark, being winter, and I could
not well make out my surroundings. However, I went the whole length
of the row, and was only refused at one cottage. Two of them gave
pennies, one gave a halfpenny, one gave three farthings, and two gave
food. This was certainly not bad, in so short a time, and from such
humble dwellings, and considering the ill-luck I had had at rows and
rows of fine villas. That night, when I was in the lodging-house
kitchen, my born beggar asked me if I had called at the cottages,
and, if so, how they had treated me. "Splendid," I answered, with
a smile of gratitude, for it is not often that a beggar will give
information of this kind to a stranger. "The almshouses are always
good," he said, in a whisper. "Almshouses!" I ejaculated, with
astonishment, and a good deal of annoyance. "Yes; you will always
find them good," he continued, with the utmost unconcern, and
beginning to whistle a popular tune. This man was a born beggar,
without the least shame.
But men of this kind are rare, and people must not forget that the
man who stands before them has gone through the various stages--from
a respectable working man with a home, to a man without employment,
who is looking for work; one that must either beg or starve, who
has wandered from his native town, where his friends are, to places
where cruel Rumour has said abundant work is to be had. For three or
four months he is an honest seeker of work, but after that despair
makes him indifferent. He gets disappointed so many times, running
here and there, at the recommendation of people that would do him a
kindness, and others that tell him lies to get rid of him--he gets
disappointed so often that in a short while he will not go out of his
way at all, although he says that he will do so. He soon begins to
see that there is not very great difficulty in getting enough to eat
and a few coppers for his lodging, and, of course, the consequence is
that he soon becomes contented with a beggar's lot. It will not be
long after this change of feeling that he will be heard to say in a
lodging-house kitchen, while he is drinking hot tea and eating fresh
toast--"Who's looking for work, eh? Not me!" But people must remember
that this man may come to beg them when he is in the first stage, and
desirous of work, and is therefore a well-deserving man.
The fact of the matter is that no outsider can tell a beggar from an
honest seeker of work. A woman gives a man charity because he talks
nice and approaches her in a respectable manner; and she believes him
at once when he says that he has only been out of work six weeks. The
dear lady cannot see that he has not a thing on his body that was
bought by himself. His boots are two sizes too large, and have turned
up at the toes; his coat is too short, and his waistcoat is too long;
his trousers were made for a fat man; not to mention a shirt that
either cannot be buttoned at the collar, or could be buttoned around
two necks like his. Even if the lady or gentleman noted these things,
they could not read any tales in them, and it would never occur to
them to try to do so. Now, seeing that this man is so ill-fitted, it
plainly shows that all his things are begged; and seeing that clothes
last a man a considerable time, and that this beggar has nothing of
his own, is sufficient proof that he must have been on the road six
months at the least.
Of course, there have been cases of men starting on the road with
good clothes and boots, which they had to sell almost at once for
food and lodging at a second-hand shop. The dealer that buys must
give these men substitutes to cover their nakedness, and these old
things would be hardly likely to fit well. This would account for the
strange appearance of a few men, but very few; for when men start on
the road they are so full of confidence in getting work soon that
they do not dress in clothes good enough to sell, but leave them at
home, or in their lodgings, to be sent for when they are settled.