The great financial storm that swept over our country and Europe, in the
'fall of 1857,' overwhelming so many large and apparently staunch
vessels, did not disdain to capsize and send to the bottom many smaller
craft; my own among the number. She was not as heavily freighted (to
continue for a moment the nautical metaphor) as some that sunk around
her; but as she bore my all, it looked at first pretty much like a
life-and-death business, especially the latter. For a time, all was
horror and confusion; but as the wreck cleared away, I soon discovered
that there would, at any rate, remain to me the consolation that others
would not lose through my misfortunes; that the calamity, if such it
were, would affect no one but myself. My own experience, and my
observation of those around me, has led me, naturally enough, to ponder
a good deal on the subject of reverses in life, and as no page of
genuine experience can be considered wholly valueless, it may do no harm
to record my own. Though many have undergone reverses, few, with the
exception of ministers, ever seem to have written about them, a class of
men who, whatever their other troubles, in these days of bronchitis and
fastidious parishes, have usually been exempt from trials of this
peculiar character.
Bishop Butler, in one of his sermons on Human Nature, alludes to a sect
in philosophy, representing, I suppose, the 'selfish system,' one of
whose ideas is that men are naturally pleased on hearing of the
misfortunes of others. La Rochefoucauld expresses the same sentiment as
his own. Couched in plain language, this appears to be a gloomy and
heartless doctrine; but probably nothing more is meant than a refinement
of the common adage, 'Misery loves company,' and that very good and
benevolent persons, if themselves overtaken by misfortune, can not but
feel some alleviation for their sorrows, in reflecting that others have
trials equally great and that they are but partakers of a common though
bitter lot. If there be really any consolation in reflections of this
kind, history furnishes us many striking examples, and, as far as great
changes in worldly condition are concerned, the prince and the plebeian,
the emperor and the exile, have often found themselves for a time on the
same level.
The wheel of fortune, in its revolutions, generally produces changes of
two descriptions, either exalting the lowly or pulling down the great.
In rarer instances, not satisfied with giving the individual a single
turn, it grants him the benefit of a more varied experience. It carries
the country-boy to wealth and power, and then transports him back to his
native fields, whose pure air is not less wholesome, after all, than the
heated atmosphere of the ball-room or caucus-chamber; or it may roll the
wave of revolution over a kingdom, banishing the prince to wander an
exile, perhaps a schoolmaster, in distant lands, to contend with poverty
or duns, and then, on its receding tide, landing him once more safely on
his throne. Frequent revolutions have, however, taught princes wisdom in
this respect. Most of them now seem to be well provided for in foreign
countries, beyond the reach of contingencies in their own, and if time
is given them to escape with their lives, it is generally found that
they have 'laid up treasure' where at any rate the thieves of the new
dynasty can not 'break through and steal.' A very recent instance is
afforded us by his majesty Faustin I., who, notwithstanding his
confidence in the affection of his subjects, seems to have preferred
taking the Bank of England as collateral security.
The first French Revolution probably affords as striking examples of
change in worldly condition as any other period, and among those whom it
affected for the time, few were more remarkable than two persons whom it
sent to our own shores, Talleyrand and Chateaubriand. During the
residence of the former in Philadelphia, he appears at one time to have
been in the most abject poverty. We read of his pawning a watch and
smaller articles, to provide himself and his companion with food; any
care for their wardrobes, beyond the faded garments they were then
wearing, being apparently out of the question. If one who then met the
needy foreigner walking the wide streets of that respectable city, had
predicted that in a few years this shabby Frenchman would be looked up
to as the leader of the diplomacy of Europe, he might with perfect
justice have been regarded as a fit subject for one of that city's
excellent asylums. But a few years did witness this change, and saw him
powerful and the possessor of millions; unfortunately for the Abbé's
reputation, much of the latter being the wages of corruption.[C]
Chateaubriand speaks feelingly of the sufferings he and his companion
underwent in London, about the same period. Lodged in a dismal garret,
they were at one time obliged to economize their food almost as closely
as the inhabitants of a beleaguered town. He speaks of walking the
streets for hours together, utterly uncertain what to do, passing
stately houses and groups of blooming English children, and then
returning late at night to his attic, where his companion, 'trembling
with cold,' would rise from his ill-clad bed to open the door for him.
He strikingly contrasts his position then with his approach to London
twenty years later, as ambassador from France, driving in
coach-and-four through towns whose authorities came out to welcome him
in the usual pompous manner, and, while in London, giving magnificent
balls in one of the stately houses, and perhaps numbering among his
guests some of the blooming children he had once passed, now expanded
into full-blown and gorgeous flowers of aristocracy. These are, of
course, uncommon instances; but they teach that the most brilliant
present may have had the darkest past; that there is always ground for
hope, and that the caprices of fortune, if we take no higher view of
them, are mysterious enough.
The man who has been overtaken by reverses, need not look far abroad to
see that a system of compensation is pretty generally dealt out in this
life. Set him adrift in the world, with scarcely a dollar; let him walk,
almost a beggar, through the same streets he once trod, a man of wealth,
and it would be idle to assert that he will not be almost overwhelmed by
the force of bitter recollections. In proportion as other days were
happy, will these be miserable. As Dante has truly said, the memory of
former joys, so far from affording relief to the wretched, serves only
to embitter the present, as they feel that these joys have forever
passed away. But unless his lot be one of unusual calamity, as time
blunts the keenest edge of sorrow, he must be devoid of both philosophy
and religion, if he does not feel that life with a mere competence still
has many joys. It is unquestionably true that one's style of living has
not much to do with the sum of his happiness, though this is said with
no disposition to undervalue even the luxuries of life. So far from the
finest houses in a city having the greatest air of comfort about them, I
think rather the reverse is the case. No dwellings have a snugger look
than many of the plain, two-story houses in all our cities; no children
merrier than those that play around their doors; no manlier fathers than
those that struggle bravely for their support. One would suppose that
Stafford House, with its wealth of pictures and furniture, and its
beautiful views over Hyde Park, must contain much to add to the pleasure
of its possessors; but probably the sum of happiness enjoyed by this
noble family has been very little increased by these things. I believe
that palaces are more envied by 'outsiders' than enjoyed by their
owners. In proportion to the number of each, probably far more of those
dreadful tragedies that cast ineffaceable gloom over whole families,
have occurred in these splendid houses than in plainer ones. Our Fifth
Avenue, with all its grandeur, is one of the gloomiest looking streets
in the world, as strangers generally remark. But as all preaching is
vain against many a besetting sin, so will all the talking in the world
do little to convince men that happiness does not lie in externals. One
generation does not learn much from its predecessors in this respect; it
seems to have been intended that each should acquire its own experience.
The task of talking beforehand is therefore an unprofitable one; but it
is a satisfaction to feel that when much that is thought indispensable
has been taken from us, there still remains that which can afford us
happiness.
It is easy to recall instances in which it seemed as if adversity was
really required to bring out the noblest qualities in man, and enable
him to set an example calculated to console and stimulate those who are
treading the sometimes difficult path of duty. Portions of the diary of
Scott, written during the last and most troubled years of his life, have
for many a deeper interest than the most brilliant pages of his novels.
In these days of 'compromise,' which seems to be too often the cant term
for an eternal adieu to all previous obligations, no matter how just,
and no matter what good fortune the future may have in reserve for the
debtor, it is refreshing to read this record of perfect integrity and
long-continued sacrifice. Though carried, in his case, to a point beyond
the strictest requirements of honor, inasmuch as it involved the ruin of
his health, the example is noble and strengthening. It may be said, on
the other hand, that Scott was the possessor of a 'magic wand,' and did
right in attempting what to other men would be impossible. Carlyle, if I
remember his article, attributes Scott's conduct partly to worldly
pride, and thinks he should have owned at once that he had made a great
mistake, involving others in his ruin, and should have abandoned the
tremendous struggle still to bear up under such a weight. This is a
singular view of the matter, and one that a man of Scott's sense of
honor never would have felt satisfied in taking. The lives of Scott and
Charlotte Bronté are worth more than their novels, after all.
One of the minor evils of loss of fortune has, I think, been
exaggerated, and that is the idea that persons are frequently slighted,
sometimes even cut, by their fashionable acquaintances; and connected
with this is the other idea, that what some sneeringly call 'fashionable
society,' is generally more heartless than any other. For the honor of
human nature, I am glad to believe that the first is not the case, nor
does the second exactly stand to reason. In every city, there is a class
of persons, moneyed or not as the case may be, who, living only for
selfish enjoyment, pay court to those that can yield it to them, and are
sometimes rude enough to slight those who can not. Whether the
companionship of such persons is very desirable, or their loss much to
be deplored, each man must decide for himself. Persons who, when rich
themselves, have been overbearing to others, are perhaps those who
notice most difference when misfortunes overtake them. What is called
fashionable society, generally comprises a good deal of the education
and refinement of a city; with a portion of what is hollow and
worthless, it includes much that is substantial and true. Certainly, the
finer and more delicate feelings of our nature, and those which lead us
to sympathize with the unfortunate, are partly the result of education,
and we should naturally expect to find these in the higher rather than
in the humbler walks of life. There is a vast deal of genuine charity in
humble life, and the poor of every city derive a large part of their
support from those but moderately blessed with worldly goods themselves;
but many a well-meaning man will unintentionally make a remark that
wounds your feelings and makes you uncomfortable for hours afterwards,
while a person whose perceptions and sympathies have been more nicely
trained would spare you the infliction. A certain fortune is
indispensable to those who wish to keep with the party-going world, and
those who have not this competence can not indulge much in this more
expensive mode of life; but that they are forgotten is not because
persons wish to neglect them, but because men naturally forget those
they are not often in the habit of meeting. Might not the aged, even if
wealthy, say they are forgotten, excepting by their immediate
connection? They are forgotten because, in the rush and turmoil of life,
every thing is soon forgotten. The dead, who were beloved and honored
while living, are soon comparatively forgotten beyond their families and
familiar circle. This is not exactly owing to the heartlessness of men,
but rather to the fact that their minds are occupied with the persons
and things they see every day around them, and this is probably as much
the case with the poor as with the rich; but it seems to have become a
sort of custom to speak of the heartlessness of society. It is rather
owing to the imperfection of our constitution. Loss of fortune renders
us more sensitive, and we are apt to fancy slights where none were
intended; but we may be pretty certain that the better men and women of
society do not make money the index of their treatment of others.
Persons sometimes speak lightly and hastily of reverses sustained by
others as mere trifles, compared with loss of friends. I hold that these
persons are wrong, and believe that to many, and those not particularly
selfish and narrow-minded people either, loss of fortune may prove a
greater and more lasting sorrow than loss of dear friends; nay, that a
great reverse, such as a plunge from prosperity into utter poverty, (and
many such instances can be cited,) is perhaps the heaviest trial that
can be imposed on man. Let any one call up the instances he has known of
the tenderest ties being severed, and except in those rare cases we
sometimes meet with of persons pining away and following the beloved
object to the grave, do we not see the overwhelming grief gradually
subsiding into a gentler sorrow, and, as was intended by a merciful
providence, other objects closing in, and though not entirely filling up
the void, still furnishing other sources of happiness? This happens with
the best and tenderest beings on earth. The departed one is not
forgotten, nor have the survivors ceased to mourn him; but their
feelings now cling more affectionately than before to the remaining
members of the circle. This is not so in the case of a reverse such as I
have imagined, and many of us have seen. Where, as in the failure of
some great bank or 'Life and Trust Company,' reckoned perfectly
impregnable, the fortune of delicate ladies, always accustomed to
luxury, has been swept away; where there are no relatives able or
willing to render much assistance, and daughters have to seek employment
that will give themselves and an aged mother a bare competence, with all
my disposition to bear things bravely and philosophically, I contend
that human nature can hardly be visited with a heavier trial. For men,
it is comparatively easy; but there are instances, in every large city,
of ladies, once wealthy, now reduced to a sort of genteel beggary, that
a man would shrink from, but that women can not very well avoid. Fancy
the bitterness of such a life; the constant memory of happier days
contrasted with the present condition, which has no prospect of
improvement; the keenness of present sorrow rendered more acute by
education and refinement; the necessity not merely of economy, for most
of us can bear a large portion of this pretty cheerfully; but the
difficulty, with close economy, of supplying the decent comforts of
life, and tell me, as some who have never been visited by any trial of
this kind would tell me, if it is selfish and sordid to compare this
lasting sorrow with that great ordinance of death and separation which
all must share alike? Alas! these are objects not generally reached by
charitable societies; but not less deserving, and subjected to trials no
less hard than those whose lot has always been one of poverty.
Having admitted that, under some circumstances, the loss of property may
occasion grief so deep and lasting as to make it worthy of comparison
even with loss of dear friends, I would say, on the other hand, that
instances often occur where no comparison can be made between the two
evils. We hear sometimes of dreadful calamities at sea, where entire
families are swept away; where, as on the 'Austria,' the only
alternative is the _mode_ of death, whether it shall be on the burning
ship or beneath the cold, dark billow. What experience can be more
awful, in the life of any man, than that which compelled this father to
throw child after child into the sea, not with any hope of rescue, but
merely to prolong for a few moments a life that could no longer be
endured on the burning deck? Different, but scarcely less painful, the
burial of hope in a father's breast, as in the death of the sons of
Hallam. Industry may repair the wrecks of fortune; but the hopes and
affections that have centered here must be laid aside forever.
Are there many of us, after all, who would care for a career of unbroken
prosperity? Men of talent and worth have been crushed and hurried to
their graves by the iron hand of poverty; but for one such, there have
probably been ten who have passed through life with energies and talents
never fully called forth; because easy circumstances have never demanded
any great exertion from them. This leaves out a class larger probably
in our country than in any other, of children of fortune, who have
plunged headlong into ruin, finding an early and dishonored death, who,
had they been compelled to work, would at least have acquitted
themselves decently in life. Some of the most dreadful death-scenes on
record are those of men who have had few earthly trials to bear, men of
wealth, who have wrought their own ruin, and half of whose lives have
been passed in efforts to work the ruin of the young and innocent of the
other sex. If Chatterton and Otway are sad instances of genius subdued
and crushed by adversity, Beckford and many others show where the too
lavish gifts of fortune have perverted talent and rendered its possessor
far worse than a merely useless member of society.
The world-wide Burns Celebration probably caused many humble men to
think of the number of great minds who have been compelled to undergo
this ordeal of poverty. How perfectly, in some instances, does the man's
soul and intellect seem to have been separated from _the man himself_.
It does seem a marvel that seventy years ago _this_ man should have been
in want and harassed by fears for the family he was to leave behind him,
when now so many hundred thousand men seem ready to worship him. How
many envy fame! and how proud men are, for generations afterward, who
can trace back their descent to one who, while on earth, may have
suffered all the annoyances and discomforts of penury! The poet seemed
to know that he would be more highly esteemed after he had left the
world than while he was in it; but did this thought really afford him
much consolation, or would he have been willing, if possible, to
sacrifice a more prosperous present for a great posthumous fame? How
many great men have languished long years in dungeons, as some languish
in them even now. How many have borne years of bodily infirmity. How
many have died just as they seemed about to realize the fruit of years
of preparation and exertion. These reflections tend to make us contented
with a comparatively humble lot, as all great trials tend to lessen our
undue attachment to life.
Finally, it occurs to me that very few men have lost fortunes, without
spending too much time in unavailing regrets that they should have lost
them just in the manner they did. If they had only avoided this or that
particular investment, all would have been well. This is nonsense.
Undoubtedly, a great deal of money is lost very foolishly, but though no
fatalist, I do not believe that all the care and prudence in the world
will materially alter the great Scriptural law, that the riches of this
world will often take wings to themselves and flee away. There is far
too much recklessness, far too much of what is called in business
circles 'expansion;' but the time will never come, in our country, when
generation after generation, in one family, will keep on in the path of
success. Great fortunes will still melt away, and the shrewdest maxims
of those who built them up will fail sometimes. Nothing can be
considered certain in regard to worldly goods, beyond the fact that
industry, good principles, and average capacity will always, in the long
run, secure a competence; but wealth will still be the prize that only a
few need expect to draw.
I have endeavored to call up a few of the reflections that may console a
man under adversity, remembering that drooping fortunes may revive, that
many of the noblest men have suffered the same privations, and
remembering how much lighter this form of affliction generally is than
some others that Providence often sees fit to lay upon us. Trite as it
is, I can not help echoing the remark, how vastly the sum of human
happiness would be increased, if men could only learn to prize more
highly the blessings they have. Those of us who are in moderate
circumstances find it so much easier to envy our rich neighbors than to
think with gratitude of our happy lot, contrasted with the many thousand
of our needier brethren. We enjoy so many blessings, that we become
unmindful of them. We rarely think at all about our health, until a few
days' sickness reminds us of the boon we have been enjoying so
unconsciously. In the darkest days of the great crisis, accounts reached
us every week from India, telling us that refined and delicately-reared
English men and women were being brutally slaughtered or exposed to the
loathsome horrors of a lingering siege. What a paradise the humblest
cottage at home would have seemed to these poor creatures, though some
of them had been accustomed to 'stately homes.'
How beautifully this sentiment of gratitude for the common blessings of
life has been expressed by Emile Souvestre, one of the purest and
noblest writers of our time, and one whose early history presents an
instance of great obstacles and trials nobly met and overcome!
'If a little dry sand be all that is left us, may we not still make it
blossom with the small joys we now trample under foot. Ah! if it be the
will of God, let my labor be still more hard, my home less comfortable,
my table more frugal; let me even assume a workman's blouse, and I can
bear it all willingly and cheerfully, provided I can see the loved faces
around me happy, provided I can feast upon their smiles and strengthen
myself with their joy. O holy contentment with poverty! it is thy
presence I invoke. Grant me the cheerful gayety of my wife, the free,
unrestrained laughter of my children, and take in exchange, if
necessary, all that is yet left me.'
* * * * *