THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE.
The various ways in which misfortunes affect different minds, are
often so opposite, that in contemplating them, we may well be led to
suppose the human soul animated and directed in some persons by
corporeal functions, formed after a different manner from those of
others--persons of the same family frequently differing most widely in
this respect.
It will appear, on a philosophic scrutiny of human feelings, that the
extremes of laughing and crying are more nearly allied than is
sometimes believed. With children, the one frequently dwindles, or
breaks out into the other. I once happened to sit beside a negro, in
the pit of the Edinburgh theatre, while the tragedy of Douglas was
performing. As the dialogue between Old Norval and Lady Randolph
proceeded, he grew more and more attentive; his eyes grew very large,
and seemed set immovably in one direction; the tears started from
them; his features went gradually awry; his under-lip curled and
turned to one side; and just when I expected that he was going to cry
outright, he burst into the most violent fit of laughter.
I have a female friend, on whom unfortunate accidents have the
singular effect of causing violent laughter, which, with her, is much
better proportioned to the calamity, than crying is with many others
of the sex. I have seen the losing of a rubber at whist, when there
was every probability that her party would gain it, cause her to laugh
till her eyes streamed with tears. The breaking of a tureen, or set of
valuable china, would quite convulse her. Danger always makes her
sing, and misfortunes laugh. If we hear her in any apartment of the
farm-house, or the offices, singing very loud, and very quick, we are
sure something is on the point of going wrong with her; but if we hear
her burst out a-laughing, we know that it is past redemption. Her
memory is extremely defective; indeed she scarcely seems to retain any
perfect recollection of past events; but her manners are gentle, easy,
and engaging; her temper good, and her humour inexhaustible; and, with
all her singularities, she certainly enjoys a greater share of
happiness than her chequered fortune could possibly have bestowed on a
mind differently constituted.
I have another near relation, who, besides being possessed of an
extensive knowledge in literature, and a refined taste, is endowed
with every qualification requisite to constitute the valuable friend,
the tender parent, and the indulgent husband; yet his feelings, and
his powers of conception, are so constructed, as to render him a
constant prey to corroding care. No man can remain many days in his
company without saying, in his heart, "that man was made to be
unhappy." What others view as slight misfortunes, affect him deeply;
and in the event of any such happening to himself, or those that are
dear to him, he will groan from his inmost soul, perhaps for a whole
evening after it first comes to his knowledge, and occasionally, for
many days afterwards, as the idea recurs to him. Indeed, he never
wants something to make him miserable; for, on being made acquainted
with any favourable turn of fortune, the only mark of joy that it
produces is an involuntary motion of the one hand to scratch the other
elbow; and his fancy almost instantaneously presents to him such a
number of difficulties, dangers, and bad consequences attending it,
that though I have often hoped to awake him to joy by my tidings, I
always left him more miserable than I found him.
I have another acquaintance whom we denominate "the Knight," who falls
upon a method totally different to overcome misfortunes. In the event
of any cross accident, or vexatious circumstance, happening to him, he
makes straight towards his easy chair--sits calmly down upon
it--clenches his right hand, with the exception of his fore-finger,
which is suffered to continue straight--strikes his fist violently
against his left shoulder--keeps it in that position, with his eyes
fixed on one particular point, till he has cursed the event and all
connected with it most heartily,--then, with a countenance of perfect
good-humour, he indulges in a pleasant laugh, and if it is possible to
draw a comical or ridiculous inference from the whole, or any part of
the affair, he is sure to do it, that the laugh may be kept up. If he
fails in effecting this, he again resumes his former posture, and
consigns all connected with the vexatious circumstance to the devil;
then takes another good hearty laugh; and in a few minutes the affair
is no more heard or thought of.
John Leggat is a lad about fifteen, a character of great singularity,
whom nature seems to have formed in one of her whims. He is not an
entire idiot, for he can perform many offices about his master's
house--herd the cows, and run errands too, provided there be no dead
horses on the road, nor any thing extremely ugly; for, if there be,
the time of his return is very uncertain. Among other anomalies in his
character, the way that misfortunes affect him is not the least
striking. He once became warmly attached to a young hound, which was
likewise very fond of him, paying him all the grateful respect so
often exhibited by that faithful animal. John loved him above all
earthly things--some even thought that he loved him better than his
own flesh and blood. The hound one day came to an untimely end. John
never got such sport in his life; he was convulsed with laughter when
he contemplated the features of his dead friend. When about his
ordinary business, he was extremely melancholy; but whenever he came
and looked at the carcass, he was transported with delight, and
expressed it by the most extravagant raptures. He next attached
himself to a turkey-cock, which he trained to come at his call, and
pursue and attack such people as he pointed out for that purpose. John
was very fond of this amusement; but it proved fatal to his
favourite--an irritated passenger knocked it dead at a stroke. This
proved another source of unbounded merriment to John; the stiff
half-spread wing, the one leg stretched forward, and the other back,
were infinitely amusing; but the abrupt crook in his neck--his
turned-up eye and open bill were quite irresistible--John laughed at
them till he was quite exhausted. Few ever loved their friends better
than John did while they were alive; no man was ever so much delighted
with them after they were dead.
The most judicious way of encountering misfortunes of every kind, is
to take up a firm resolution never to shrink from them when they
cannot be avoided, nor yet be tamely overcome by them, or add to our
anguish by useless repining, but, by a steady and cheerful
perseverance, endeavour to make the best of whatever untoward event
occurs. To do so, still remains in our power; and it is a grievous
loss indeed, with regard to fortune or favour, that perseverance will
not, sooner or later, overcome. I do not recommend a stupid insensible
apathy with regard to the affairs of life, nor yet that listless
inactive resignation which persuades a man to put his hands in his
bosom, and saying, It is the will of Heaven, sink under embarrassments
without a struggle. The contempt which is his due will infallibly
overtake such a man, and poverty and wretchedness will press hard upon
his declining years.
I had an old and valued friend in the country, who, on any cross
accident happening that vexed his associates, made always the
following observations: "There are just two kinds of misfortunes,
gentlemen, at which it is folly either to be grieved or angry; and
these are, things that can be remedied, and things that cannot be
remedied." He then proved, by plain demonstration, that the case under
consideration belonged to one or other of these classes, and showed
how vain and unprofitable it was to be grieved or angry at it. This
maxim of my friend's may be rather too comprehensive; but it is
nevertheless a good one; for a resolution to that effect cannot fail
of leading a man to the proper mode of action. It indeed comprehends
all things whatsoever, and is as much as to say, that a man should
never suffer himself to grow angry at all; and, upon the whole, I
think, if the matter be candidly weighed, it will appear, that the man
who suffers himself to be transported with anger, or teased by regret,
is commonly, if not always, the principal sufferer by it, either
immediately, or in future. Rage is unlicensed, and runs without a
curb. It lessens a man's respectability among his contemporaries;
grieves and hurts the feelings of those connected with him; harrows
his own soul; and transforms a rational and accountable creature into
the image of a fiend.
Impatience under misfortunes is certainly one of the failings of our
nature, which contributes more than any other to imbitter the cup of
life, and has been the immediate cause of more acts of desperate
depravity than any passion of the human soul. The loss of fortune or
favour is particularly apt to give birth to this tormenting sensation;
for, as neither the one nor the other occurs frequently without some
imprudence or neglect of our own having been the primary cause, so the
reflection on that always furnishes the gloomy retrospect with its
principal sting.
So much is this the case that I hold it to be a position almost
incontrovertible, that out of every twenty worldly misfortunes,
nineteen occur in consequence of our own imprudence. Many will tell
you, it was owing to such and such a friend's imprudence that they
sustained all their losses. No such thing. Whose imprudence or want of
foresight was it that trusted such a friend, and put it in his power
to ruin them, and reduce the families that depended on them for
support, from a state of affluence to one of penury and bitter regret?
If the above position is admitted, then there is, as I have already
remarked, but one right and proper way in which misfortunes ought to
affect us; namely, by stirring us up to greater circumspection and
perseverance. Perseverance is a noble and inestimable virtue! There is
scarcely any difficulty or danger that it will not surmount. Whoever
observes a man bearing up under worldly misfortunes, with undaunted
resolution, will rarely fail to see that man ultimately successful.
And it may be depended on, that circumspection in business is a
quality so absolutely necessary, that without it the success of any
one will only be temporary.
The present Laird of J--s--y, better known by the appellation of Old
Sandy Singlebeard, was once a common hired shepherd, but he became
master of the virtues above recommended, for he had picked them up in
the severe school of misfortune. I have heard him relate the
circumstances myself, oftener than once. "My father had bought me a
stock of sheep," said he, "and fitted me out as a shepherd; and from
the profits of these, I had plenty of money to spend, and lay out on
good clothes; so that I was accounted a thriving lad, and rather a
dashing blade among the lasses. Chancing to change my master at a
term, I sold my sheep to the man who came in my place, and bought
those of the shepherd that went from the flock to which I was engaged.
But when the day of payment came, the man who bought my sheep could
not pay them, and without that money, I had not wherewith to pay mine
own. He put me off from week to week, until the matter grew quite
distressing; for, as the price of shepherds' stock goes straight
onward from one hand to another, probably twenty, or perhaps forty
people, were all kept out of their right by this backwardness of my
debtor. I craved him for the money every two or three days, grumbled,
and threatened a prosecution, till at last my own stock was poinded.
Thinking I should be disgraced beyond recovery, I exerted what little
credit I had, and borrowed as much as relieved my stock; and then,
being a good deal exasperated, resorted immediately to legal measures,
as they are called, in order to recover the debt due to me, the
non-payment of which had alone occasioned my own difficulties.
Notwithstanding every exertion, however, I could never draw a farthing
from my debtor, and only got deeper and deeper into expenses to no
purpose. Many a day it kept me bare and busy before I could clear my
feet, and make myself as free and independent as I was before. This
was the beginning of my misfortunes, but it was but the beginning;
year after year I lost and lost, until my little all was as good as
three times sold off at the ground; and at last I was so reduced, that
I could not say the clothes I wore were my own.
"This will never do, thought I; they shall crack well that persuade me
to sell at random again.--Accordingly, I thenceforth took good care of
all my sales that came to any amount. My rule was, to sell my little
things, such as wool, lambs, and fat sheep, worth the money; and not
to part with them till I got the price in my hand. This plan I never
rued; and people finding how the case stood, I had always plenty of
merchants; so that I would recommend it to every man who depends for
procuring the means of living on business such as mine. What does it
signify to sell your stock at a great price, merely for a boast, if
you never get the money for it? It will be long ere that make any one
rich or independent! This did all very well, but still I found, on
looking over my accounts at the end of the year, that there were a
great many items in which I was regularly taken in. My shoemaker
charged me half-a-crown more for every pair of shoes than I could have
bought them for in a market for ready money; the smith, threepence
more for shoeing them. My haberdasher's and tailor's accounts were
scandalous. In shirts, stockings, knives, razors, and even in
shirt-neck buttons, I found myself taken in to a certain amount. But I
was never so astonished, as to find out, by the plain rules of
addition and subtraction, assisted now and then by the best of all
practical rules--(I mean the one that says, 'if such a thing will
bring such a thing, what will such and such a number bring?')--to
find, I say, that the losses and profits in small things actually come
to more at the long-run, than any casual great slump loss, or profit,
that usually chances to a man in the course of business. Wo to the man
who is not aware of this! He is labouring for that which will not
profit him. By a course of strict economy, I at length not only
succeeded in clearing off the debt I had incurred, but saved as much
money as stocked the farm of Windlestrae-knowe. That proved a fair
bargain; so, when the lease was out, I took Doddysdamms in with it;
and now I am, as you see me, the Laird of J--s--y, and farmer of both
these besides. My success has been wholly owing to this:--misfortune
made me cautious--caution taught me a lesson which is not obvious to
every one, namely _the mighty importance of the two right-hand columns
in addition_. The two left-hand ones, those of pounds and shillings,
every one knows the value of. With a man of any common abilities,
those will take care of themselves; but he that neglects the pence and
farthings is a goose!"--
Any one who reads this will set down old Singlebeard as a miser; but I
scarcely know a man less deserving the character. If one is present to
hear him settling an account with another, he cannot help thinking him
niggardly, owing to his extraordinary avidity in small matters; but
there is no man whom customers like better to deal with, owing to his
high honour and punctuality. He will not pocket a farthing that is the
right of any man living, and he is always on the watch lest some
designing fellow overreach him in these minute particulars. For all
this, he has assisted many of his poor relations with money and
credit, when he thought them deserving it, or judged that it could be
of any benefit to them; but always with the strictest injunctions of
secrecy, and an assurance, that, if ever they hinted the transaction
to any one, they forfeited all chance of farther assistance from him.
The consequence of this has always been, that while he was doing a
great deal of good to others by his credit, he was railing against the
system of giving credit all the while; so that those who knew him not,
took him for a selfish, contracted, churlish old rascal.
He was once applied to in behalf of a nephew, who had some fair
prospects of setting up in business. He thought the stake too high,
and declined it; for it was a rule with him, never to credit any one
so far as to put it in his power to distress him, or drive him into
any embarrassment. A few months afterwards, he consented to become
bound for one half of the sum required, and the other half was made up
by some less wealthy relations in conjunction. The bonds at last
became due, and I chanced to be present on a visit to my old friend
Singlebeard, when the young man came to request his uncle's quota of
the money required. I knew nothing of the matter, but I could not help
noticing the change in old Sandy's look, the moment that his nephew
made his appearance. I suppose he thought him too foppish to be
entirely dependent on the credit of others, and perhaps judged his
success in business, on that account, rather doubtful. At all events,
the old Laird had a certain quizzical, dissatisfied look, that I never
observed before; and all his remarks were in conformity with it. In
addressing the young man, too, he used a degree of familiarity which
might be warranted by his seniority and relationship, and the
circumstances in which his nephew stood to him as an obliged party;
but it was intended to be as provoking as possible, and obviously did
not fail to excite a good deal of uneasy feeling.
"That's surely a very fine horse of yours, Jock?" said the
Laird.--"Hech, man, but he is a sleek ane! How much corn does he eat
in a year, this hunter of yours, Jock?"
"Not much, sir, not much. He is a very fine horse that, uncle. Look at
his shoulder; and see what limbs he has; and what a pastern!--How much
do you suppose such a horse would be worth, now, uncle?"
"Why, Jock, I cannot help thinking he is something like Geordy Dean's
daughter-in-law,--nought but a spindle-shankit devil! I would not
wonder if he had cost you eighteen pounds, that greyhound of a
creature?"
"What a prime judge you are! Why, uncle, that horse cost eighty-five
guineas last autumn. He is a real blood horse that; and has won a
great deal of valuable plate."
"Oh! that, indeed, alters the case! And have you got all that valuable
plate?"
"Nay, nay; it was before he came to my hand."
"That was rather a pity now, Jock--I cannot help thinking that was a
great pity; because if you had got the plate, you would have had
something you could have called your own.--So, you don't know how much
corn that fellow eats in a year?"
"Indeed I do not; he never gets above three feeds in a day, unless
when he is on a journey, and then he takes five or six."
"Then take an average of four: four feeds are worth two shillings at
least, as corn is selling. There is fourteen shillings a-week:
fourteen times fifty-two--why, Jock, there is L36, 8s. for horse's
corn; and there will be about half as much, or more, for hay, besides:
on the whole, I find he will cost you about L50 a-year at livery.--I
suppose there is an absolute necessity that a manufacturer should keep
such a horse?"
"O! God bless you, sir, to be sure. We must gather in money and
orders, you know. And then, consider the ease and convenience of
travelling on such a creature as that, compared with one of your vile
low-bred hacks; one goes through the country as he were flying, on
that animal."
Old Sandy paddled away from the stable, towards the house, chuckling
and laughing to himself; but again turned round, before he got
half-way.--"Right, Jock! quite right. Nothing like gathering in plenty
of money and orders. But, Jock, hark ye--I do not think there is any
necessity for _flying_ when one is on such a commission. You should go
leisurely and slowly through the towns and villages, keeping all your
eyes about you, and using every honest art to obtain good customers.
How can you do this, Jock, if you go as you were flying through the
country? People, instead of giving you a good order, will come to
their shop-door, and say--There goes the Flying Manufacturer!--Jock,
they say a rolling stone never gathers any moss. How do you think a
flying one should gather it?"
The dialogue went on in the same half-humorous, half-jeering tone all
the forenoon, as well as during dinner, while a great number of
queries still continued to be put to the young man; as--How much his
lodgings cost him a-year? The answer to this astounded old Sandy. His
comprehension could hardly take it in; he opened his eyes wide, and
held up his hands, exclaiming, with a great burst of breath, "What
enormous profits there must be in your business!" and then the Laird
proceeded with his provoking interrogatories--How much did his
nephew's fine boots and spurs cost? what was his tailor's bill yearly?
and every thing in the same manner; as if the young gentleman had come
from a foreign country, of which Sandy Singlebeard wished to note down
every particular. The nephew was a little in the fidgets, but knowing
the ground on which he stood, he answered all his uncle's queries but
too truly, impressing on his frugal mind a far greater idea of his own
expenditure than was necessary, and which my old friend could not help
viewing as utterly extravagant.
Immediately on the removal of the cloth, the young gentleman withdrew
into another room, and sending for his uncle to speak with him, he
there explained the nature of his errand, and how absolutely necessary
it was for him to have the money, for the relief of his bond. Old
Sandy was off in a twinkling. He had no money for him--not one
copper!--not the value of a hair of his thin grey beard should he have
from him! He had other uses for his money, and had won it too hardly
to give it to any one to throw away for him on grand rooms and
carpets, upon flying horses, and four-guinea boots!
They returned to the parlour, and we drank some whisky toddy together.
There was no more gibing and snappishness. The old man was civil and
attentive, but the face of the young one exhibited marks of anger and
despair. He took his leave, and went away abruptly enough; and I began
to break some jests on the Flying Manufacturer, in order to try the
humour of my entertainer. I soon found it out; old Singlebeard's shaft
was shot; and he now let me know he had a different opinion of his
nephew from what had been intimated by the whole course of his
conversation with the young man himself. He said he was a good lad; an
ingenious and honest one; that he scarcely knew a better of his years;
but he wanted to curb a little that _upsetting spirit_ in him, to
which every young man new to business was too much addicted.
The young gentleman went to his other friends in a sad pickle, and
represented himself to them as ruined beyond all redress; reprobating
all the while the inconsistency of his uncle, and his unaccountable
and ill-timed penury.
The most part of the young gentleman's relations were in deep dismay,
in consequence of the Laird's refusal to perform his engagement. But
one of them, after listening seriously to the narration, instead of
being vexed, only laughed immoderately at the whole affair, and said
he had never heard any thing so comic and truly ludicrous. "Go your
ways home, and mind your business," said he; "you do not know any
thing of old uncle Sandy: leave the whole matter to me, and I shall
answer for his share of the concern."
"You will be answerable at your own cost, then," said the nephew. "If
the money is not paid till he advance it, the sum will never be paid
on this side of time.--You may as well try to extract it from the rock
on the side of the mountain."
"Go your ways," said the other. "It is evident that you can do nothing
in the business; but were the sum three times the amount of what it
is, I shall be answerable for it."
It turned out precisely as this gentleman predicted; but no man will
conceive old Sandy's motive for refusing that which he was in fact
bound to perform: He could not bear to have it known that he had done
so liberal and generous an action, and wished to manage matters so,
that his nephew might believe the money to have been raised in some
other way attended with the utmost difficulty. He could not put his
nephew to the same school in which he himself had been taught, namely,
the School of Actual Adversity; but he wanted to give him a touch of
Ideal Misfortune; that he might learn the value of independence.