In these days of reduction of rents, or of total abstinence from
rent-paying, it is, I am told, the correct thing to be 'a little
pressed for money.' It is a sign of connection with the landed interest
(like the banker's ejaculation in 'Middlemarch') and suggests family
acres, and entails, and a position in the county. (In which case I know
a good many people who are landlords on a very extensive scale, and
have made allowances for their tenants the generosity of which may be
described as Quixotic.) But as a general rule, and in times less
exceptionally hard, though Shakespeare tells us 'How apt the poor are
to be proud,' they are not proud of being poor.
'Poverty,' says the greatest of English divines, 'is indeed despised
and makes men contemptible; it exposes a man to the influences of evil
persons, and leaves a man defenceless; it is always suspected; its
stories are accounted lies, and all its counsels follies; it puts a man
from all employment; it makes a man's discourses tedious and his
society troublesome. This is the worst of it.' Even so poverty seems
pretty bad, but, begging Dr. Jeremy Taylor's pardon, what he has stated
is by no means 'the worst of it.' To be in want of food at any time,
and of firing in winter time, is ever so much worse than the
inconveniences he enumerates; and to see those we love—delicate women
and children perhaps—in want, is worse still. The fact is, the
excellent bishop probably never knew what it was to go without his
meals, but took them 'reg'lar' (as Mrs. Gamp took her Brighton ale) as
bishops generally do. Moreover, since his day, Luxury has so
universally increased, and the value of Intelligence has become so well
recognised (by the publishers) that even philosophers, who profess to
despise such things, have plenty to eat, and good of its kind too.
Hence it happens that, from all we hear to the contrary from the
greatest thinkers, the deprivation of food is a small thing: indeed, as
compared with the great spiritual struggles of noble minds, and the
doubts that beset them as to the supreme government of the universe, it
seems hardly worth mentioning.
In old times, when folks were not so 'cultured,' starvation was thought
more of. It is quite curious, indeed, to contrast the high-flying
morality of the present day (when no one is permitted, either by
Evolutionist or Ritualist, however dire may be his necessity, so much
as to jar his conscience) with the shocking laxity of the Holy
Scriptures. 'Men do not despise a thief if he steal to satisfy his soul
when he is hungry,' says Solomon, after which stretch of charity,
strange to say, he goes on to speak of marital infidelity in terms
that, considering the number of wives he had himself, strike one as
severe.
It is certain, indeed, that the sacred writers were apt to make great
allowances for people with empty stomachs, and though I am well aware
that the present profane ones think this very reprehensible, I venture
to agree with the sacred writers. The sharpest tooth of poverty is
felt, after all, in the bite of hunger. A very amusing and graphic
writer once described his experience of a whole night passed in the
streets; the exhaustion, the pain, the intolerable weariness of it,
were set forth in a very striking manner; the sketch was called 'The
Key of the Street,' and was thought by many, as Browning puts it, to be
'the true Dickens.' But what are even the pangs of sleeplessness and
fatigue compared with those of want? Of course there have been fanatics
who have fasted many days; but they have been supported by the prospect
of spiritual reward. I confess I reserve my pity for those who have no
such golden dreams, and who fast perforce. It is exceedingly difficult
for mere worldlings—such as most of us are—not to eat, if it is
possible, when we are hungry. I have known a great social philosopher
who flattered himself that he was giving his sons an experience of High
Thinking and Low Living by restricting their pocket-money to two
shillings a day, out of which it was understood they were to find their
own meals. I don't know whether the spirit in their case was willing,
but the flesh was decidedly weak, for one of them, on this very
moderate allowance, used to contrive to always have a pint of dry
champagne with his luncheon. The fact is, that of the iron grip of
poverty, people in general, by no means excepting those who have
written about it, have had very little experience; whereas of the pinch
of it a good many people know something. It is the object of this
paper—and the question should be an interesting one, considering how
much it is talked about—to inquire briefly where it lies.
It is quite extraordinary how very various are the opinions entertained
on this point, and, before sifting them, one must be careful in the
first place to eliminate from our inquiry the cases of that
considerable class of persons who pinch themselves. For, however
severely they do it, they may stop when they like and the pain is
cured. There is all the difference in the world between pulling one's
own tooth out, and even the best and kindest of dentists doing it for
one. How gingerly one goes to work, and how often it strikes one that
the tooth is a good tooth, that it has been a fast friend to us for
ever so many years and never 'fallen out' before, and that after all it
had better stop where it is!
To the truly benevolent mind, indeed, nothing is more satisfactory than
to hear of a miser denying himself the necessaries of life a little too
far and ridding us of his presence altogether. Our confidence in the
average virtue of humanity assures us that his place will be supplied
by a better man. The details of his penurious habits, the comfortless
room, the scanty bedding, the cheese-rinds on his table, and the fat
banking-book under his thin bolster, only inspire disgust: if he were
pinched to death he did it himself, and so much the better for the
world in general and his heir in particular.
Again, the people who have a thousand a year, and who try to persuade
the world that they have two thousand, suffer a good deal of
inconvenience, but it can't be called the pinch of poverty. They may
put limits to their washing-bills, which persons of cleanlier habits
would consider unpleasantly narrow; they may eat cold mutton in private
for five days a week in order to eat turtle and venison in public (and
with the air of eating them every day) on the sixth; and they may
immure themselves in their back rooms in London throughout the autumn
in order to persuade folks that they are still at Trouville, where for
ten days they did really reside and in splendour; but all their stint
and self-incarceration, so far from awakening pity, only fill us with
contempt. I am afraid that even the complaining tones of our City
friend who tells us that in consequence of 'the present unsettled state
of the markets' he has been obliged to make 'great retrenchments'—which
it seems on inquiry consist in putting down one of his carriages and
keeping three horses instead of six—fail to draw the sympathising tear.
Indeed, to a poor man this pretence of suffering on the part of the
rich is perhaps even more offensive than their boasts of their
prosperity.
On the other hand, when the rich become really poor their case is hard
indeed; though, strange to say, we hear little of it. It is like
drowning; there is a feeble cry, a little ineffectual assistance from
the bystanders, and then they go under. It is not a question of pinch
with _them_; they have fallen into the gaping mouth of ruin, and it has
devoured them. If we ever see them again, it is in the second
generation as waiters (upon Providence), or governesses, and we say,
'Why, dear me, that was Bullion's son (or daughter), wasn't it?' using
the past tense, as if they were dead. 'I remember him when he lived in
Eaton Square.' This class of cases rarely comes under the head of
'genteel poverty.' They were at the top, and hey presto! by some
malignant stroke of fate they are at the bottom; and there they stick.
I don't believe in bachelors ever experiencing the pinch of poverty; I
have heard them complaining of it at the club, while ordering Medina
oysters instead of Natives, but, after all, what does it signify even
if they were reduced to cockles? They have no appearances to keep up,
and if they cannot earn enough to support themselves they must be poor
creatures indeed.
It is the large families of moderate income, who are delicate, and have
delicate tastes, that feel the twinge: and especially the poor girls. I
remember a man, with little care for his personal appearance, of small
means but with a very rich sense of humour, describing to me his
experiences when staying at a certain ducal house in the country, where
his feelings must have been very similar to those of Christopher Sly.
In particular he drew a charming picture of the magnificent attendant
who in the morning _would_ put out his clothes for him, which had not
been made by Mr. Poole, nor very recently by anybody. The contempt
which he well understood his Grace's gentleman must have felt for him
afforded him genuine enjoyment. But with young ladies, in a similar
position, matters are very different; they have rarely a sense of
humour, and certainly none strong enough to counteract the force of a
personal humiliation. I have known some very charming ones, compelled
to dress on a very small allowance, who, in certain mansions where they
have been occasionally guests, have been afraid to put their boots
outside their door, because they were not of the newest, and have
trembled when the officious lady's-maid has meddled with their scanty
wardrobe. A philosopher may think nothing of this, but, considering the
tender skin of the sufferer, it may be fairly called a pinch.
In the investigation of this interesting subject, I have had a good
deal of conversation with young ladies, who have given me the fullest
information, and in a manner so charming, that, if it were common in
witnesses generally, it would make Blue-Books very pretty reading.
'I consider it to be "a pinch,"' says one, 'when I am obliged to put on
black mittens on occasions when I know other girls will have long white
kid gloves.' I must confess I have a prejudice myself against mittens;
they are, so to speak, 'gritty' to touch; so that the pinch, if it be
one, experienced by the wearer, is shared by her ungloved friends. The
same thing may be said of that drawing-room fire which is lit so late
in the season for economical reasons, and so late in the day at all
times: the pinch is felt as much by the visitors as by the members of
the household. These things, however, are mere nips, and may be placed
in the same category with the hardships complained of by my friend
Quiverfull's second boy. 'I don't mind having papa's clothes cut up for
me,' he says, 'but what I do think hard is getting Bob's clothes' (Bob
being his elder brother), 'which have been papa's first; however, I am
in great hopes that I am out-growing Bob.'
A much more severe example of the pinch of poverty than these is to be
found in railway travelling; no lady of any sense or spirit objects to
travel by the second, or even the third class, if her means do not
justify her going by the first. But when she meets with richer friends
upon the platform, and parts with them to journey in the same
compartment with their man-servant, she suffers as acutely as though,
when the guard slams the door of the carriage with the vehemence
proportioned to its humble rank, her tender hand had been crushed in
it. Of course it is very foolish of her; but it demands democratic
opinions, such as almost no woman of birth and breeding possesses, not
to feel _that_ pinch. Her knowledge that it is also hard upon the
man-servant, who has never sat in her presence before, but only stooped
over her shoulder with ''Ock, miss,' serves but to increase her pain.
A great philosopher has stated that the worst evil of poverty is, that
it makes folks ridiculous; by which, I hope, he only means that, as in
the above case, it places them in incongruous positions. The man, or
woman, who derives amusement from the lack of means of a
fellow-creature, would jeer at a natural deformity, be cruel to
children, and insult old age. Such people should be whipped and then
hanged. Nevertheless there are certain little pinches of poverty so
slight, that they tickle almost as much as they hurt the victim. A lady
once told me (interrupting herself, however, with pleasant bursts of
merriment) that as a young girl her allowance was so small that when
she went out to spend the evening at a friend's, her promised pleasure
was darkened by the presentiment (always fulfilled) that the cabman was
sure to charge her more than the proper fare. The extra expense was
really of consequence to her, but she never dared dispute it, because
of the presence of the footman who opened the door.
Some young ladies—quite as lady-like as any who roll in chariots—cannot
even afford a cab. 'What _I_ call the pinch of poverty,' observed an
example of this class, 'is the waiting for omnibus after omnibus on a
wet afternoon and finding them all full.'
'But surely,' I replied with gallantry, 'any man would have given up
his seat to you?'
She shook her head with a smile that had very little fun in it. 'People
in omnibuses,' she said, 'don't give up their seats to others.' Nor, I
am bound to confess, do they do so elsewhere; if I had been in their
place, perhaps I should have been equally selfish; though I do think I
should have made an effort, in this instance at least, to make room for
her close beside me. [4]
[4] There is, however, some danger in this. I remember reading of some
highly respectable old gentleman in the City who thus accommodated on
a wet day a very nice young woman in humble circumstances. She was as
full of apologies as of rainwater, and he of good-natured rejoinders,
intended to put her at her ease; so that he became, in a Platonic and
paternal way, quite friendly with her by the time she arrived at her
destination—which happened to be his own door. She turned out to be
his new cook, which was afterwards very embarrassing.
A young governess whom some wicked fairy endowed at her birth with the
sensitiveness often denied to princesses, has assured me that her
journeys by railway have sometimes been rendered miserable by the
thought that she had not even a few pence to spare for the porter who
would presently shoulder her little box on to the roof of her cab.
It is people of this class, much more than those beneath them, who are
shut out from all amusements. The mechanic goes to the play and to the
music-hall, and occasionally takes his 'old girl,' as he calls his
wife, and even 'a kid' or two, to the Crystal Palace. But those I have
in my mind have no such relaxation from compulsory duty and importunate
care. 'I know it's very foolish, but I feel it sometimes to be a
pinch,' says one of these ill-fated ones, 'to see them all [the
daughters of her employer] going to the play, or the opera, while I am
expected to be satisfied with a private view of their pretty dresses.'
No doubt it is the sense of comparison (especially with the female)
that sharpens the sting of poverty. It is not, however, through envy
that the 'prosperity of fools destroys us,' so much as the knowledge of
its unnecessariness and waste. When a mother has a sick child who needs
sea air, which she cannot afford to give it, the consciousness that her
neighbour's family (the head of which perhaps is a most successful
financier and market-rigger) are going to the Isle of Wight for three
months, though there is nothing at all the matter with them, is an
added bitterness. How often it is said (no doubt with some
well-intentioned idea of consolation) that after all money cannot buy
life! I remember a curious instance to the contrary of this. In the old
days of sailing-packets a country gentleman embarked for Ireland, and
when a few miles from land broke a bloodvessel through seasickness. A
doctor on board pronounced that he would certainly die before the
completion of the voyage if it was continued; whereupon the sick man's
friends consulted with the captain, who convoked the passengers, and
persuaded them to accept compensation in proportion to their needs for
allowing the vessel to be put back; which was accordingly done.
One of the most popular fictions of our time was even written with this
very moral, that life is unpurchasable. Yet nothing is more certain
than that life is often lost through want of money—that is, of the
obvious means to save it. In such a case how truly has it been written
that 'the destruction of the poor is their poverty'! This, however, is
scarcely a pinch, but, to those who have hearts to feel it, a wrench
that 'divides asunder the joints and the marrow.'
A nobler example, because a less personal one, of the pinch of poverty,
is when it prevents the accomplishment of some cherished scheme for the
benefit of the human race. I have felt such a one myself when in
extreme youth I was unable, from a miserable absence of means, to
publish a certain poem in several cantos. That the world may not have
been much better for it if I had had the means does not affect the
question. It is easy to be incredulous. Henry VII. of England did not
believe in the expectations of Columbus, and suffered for it, and his
case may have been similar to that of the seven publishers to whom I
applied in vain.
A man with an invention on which he has spent his life, but has no
means to get it developed for the good of humanity—or even patented for
himself—must feel the pinch of poverty very acutely.
To sum up the matter, the longer I live, the more I am convinced that
the general view in respect to material means is a false one. That
great riches are a misfortune is quite true; the effect of them in the
moral sense (with here and there a glorious exception, however) is
deplorable: a shower of gold falling continuously upon any body (or
soul) is as the waters of a petrifying spring. But, on the other hand,
the occasional and precarious dripping of coppers has by no means a
genial effect. If the one recipient becomes hard as the nether
millstone, the other (just as after constant 'pinching' a limb becomes
insensible) grows callous, and also (though it seems like a
contradiction in terms) sometimes acquires a certain dreadful
suppleness. Nothing is more monstrous than the generally received
opinion with respect to a moderate competence; that 'fatal gift,' as it
is called, which encourages idleness in youth by doing away with the
necessity for exertion. I never hear the same people inveighing against
great inheritances, which are much more open to such objections. The
fact is, if a young man is naturally indolent, the spur of necessity
will drive him but a very little way, while the having enough to live
upon is often the means of preserving his self-respect. One constantly
hears what humiliating things men will do for money, whereas the truth
is that they do them for the want of it. It is not the temptation which
induces them, but the pinch. 'Give me neither poverty nor riches,' was
Agur's prayer; 'feed me with food convenient for me, lest I be full and
deny Thee, and say, Who is the Lord? or lest I be poor and steal.' And
there are many things—flatteries, disgraceful humiliations,
hypocrisies—which are almost as bad as stealing. One of the sharpest
pinches of poverty to some minds must be their inability (because of
their dependency on him and that of others upon them) to tell a man
what they think of him.
Riches and poverty are of course but relative terms; but the happiest
material position in which a man can be placed is that of 'means with a
margin.' Then, however small his income may be, however it may behove
him to 'cut and contrive,' as the housekeepers call it, he does not
feel the pinch of poverty. I have known a rich man say to an
acquaintance of this class, 'My good friend, if you only knew how very
small are the pleasures my money gives me which you yourself cannot
purchase!' And for once it was not one of those cheap and empty
consolations which the wealthy are so ready to bestow upon their less
fortunate fellow-creatures. Dives was, in that instance, quite right in
his remark; only we must remember he was not speaking to Lazarus. 'A
dinner of herbs where love is,' is doubtless quite sufficient for us;
only there must be enough of it, and the herbs should be nicely cooked
in an omelette.
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