THE INGENUITY OF IMPECUNIOSITY.
In the opening chapter, several instances of considerable ingenuity were
referred to; but as the conduct of the individuals in question was not
_sans peur et sans reproche_, the cases came under the head of the immoral
effects of the want of money, and were necessarily not illustrations of
ingenuity proper, but ingenuity slightly improper.
In the present chapter, the majority of the reminiscences related are
innocent of the unscrupulous characteristics, and are intended to be
examples of the theory that "nothing sharpens a man's wits like poverty,"
which assertion can be supported by the accepted axiom "necessity is the
mother of invention;" for it stands to reason that people are more or less
stimulated to exercise their faculties of contrivance in proportion to
their need. Hence it is that the very needy become exceptionally sharp in
more senses than one.
The men who have made their mark in any department of knowledge, or have
achieved positions of eminence, are for the most part, those who have
wanted to be clever, or those who have wanted to attain certain celebrity.
It is the _want_ of the thing that has enabled them to devote their whole
lives to study, or given them the power to persevere; and so it is with
regard to impecuniosity. The want of money--that is an anxious desire for
it on account of its being needed--has caused men to cudgel their brains
to extricate themselves from their difficulties, has made them plot and
plan, scheme and contrive, or, in other words, has greatly developed the
gift of ingenuity.
Charles Phillips, the barrister, who, when first he practised at the Old
Bailey bar, was remarkably hard up, was wont to relate, with great glee,
how he succeeded with one of his early briefs, which he had from an
Israelite attorney, in what might be termed "Jewing" the Jew. The case
involved an indictment brought by one omnibus company against another
for "nursing" (that is, too closely following one another for the purpose
of driving the rival off the road), and the trial lasted over three days.
For this brief, which was an important one, he had received a
disgracefully small fee, which he could not decline on account of his
necessitous condition; but he determined, if he could get a chance, to be
equal with his parsimonious employer, and on the last day of the trial the
opportunity came. The attorney was most anxious that Phillips himself
should examine a noted Paddington driver, who was a most important
witness, and early on the morning he accosted the barrister, saying: "What
an interesting day this will be in Court. You have to examine the
Paddington coachman. The Court is crowded with conductors and drivers from
all parts."
"Indeed," said Phillips, "I feel no interest in it. The trial has lasted
three days, and look at my miserable fee. Now you _must_ give me ten
guineas, or I won't examine him."
The Jew was thunderstruck, and white with fear for the issue of his cause,
declared he had not such a sum with him, but said he would leave the
amount at Phillips' chambers after the trial. The counsel knowing his man,
and what his promise was worth, declined the proposition, whereupon the
other produced his cheque-book, and forthwith wrote out a cheque for the
sum demanded. As soon as the barrister received it, he asked to be excused
for a few moments, on the plea that he would have to hand over another
brief which he had to a brother counsel. He then privately gave the cheque
to one of the attendants, telling him to run as hard as he could, or take
a cab, and get the cheque cashed as quickly as possible. On his return, he
managed to keep his victim engaged in conversation till he thought the
messenger had obtained a sufficient start, feeling sure that the Jew,
although so much interested in the trial, would rush off to the bank and
stop payment. It was as Phillips anticipated; but the attorney was not
quite quick enough, for, as he rushed into the bank, the man with the
money came out, and the state of perspiration and cursing in which the
baffled Israelite regained the Old Bailey can be understood without
detailing.
There is no doubt in Phillips' case that impecuniosity sharpened his wits;
for the transaction was nothing more nor less than a piece of _sharp
practice_, indefensible on strictly moral grounds, but hardly blameable
when the character and conduct of the grinding attorney are remembered.
The name of Phillips is associated with another record of ingenuity; but
in the second instance it was Harlequin Phillips--no relation whatever of
the legal luminary, though from his aptitude in taking advantage of an
adversary he was worthy to be related, or at any rate his anecdote is.
This celebrated pantomimist, who was contemporaneous with Garrick, and was
regarded as one of the cleverest men in his profession at that time, was
not clever enough to keep himself out of debt and the spunging-house,
though he proved himself equal to making his escape from custody by an
admirably-conceived plan. After treating the bailiff very freely, he
pretended that he had a dozen of particularly choice wine at home, already
packed, which he begged permission to send for, to drink while he was
detained, offering to pay sixpence a bottle for the privilege.
His custodian acceded to the request, and Phillips wrote a letter giving
particulars of what he wanted, which letter was duly despatched to his
residence. Some time after, a sturdy porter presented himself with the
load, and the turnkey called to his master that a porter with a hamper for
Mr. Phillips had come. "All right," replied the bailiff; "then let nothing
but the porter and hamper out." The messenger, who was an actor thoroughly
accustomed to "heavy business," came in, apparently loaded with a weighty
hamper, and went out as lightly as if he were carrying an empty package,
though in reality it contained Mr. Phillips inside.
This was indeed _carrying out the character of harlequin_ (who is always
supposed to be invisible) "to the letter;" and shows that the pantomimist
of the past was an inventive genius, in addition to being an agile
acrobat, and more or less up to tricks. _A propos_ of tricks, the life of
Philippe, the conjuror, introduces a legitimate illustration of a man poor
in pocket, but rich in resource. Though he appeared at the St. James' and
Strand Theatres in 1845, under the name of Philippe, his real cognomen was
Talon-Philippe Talon.
Born at Alais, near Nismes, where he carried on the trade of confectioner,
he came to London, and subsequently went to Aberdeen, in the hope of
succeeding as a manufacturer of Scotch sweets; but found himself unable to
compete with the native makers, and in possession at last of nothing but a
quantity of unsaleable confectionery. In utter despair of being ever able
to get rid of his stock, he bethought him of turning conjuror, having
always had a great _penchant_ for sleight-of-hand performances, and being,
he believed, equal to giving an exhibition in public. Certain apparatus,
was, however, necessary, which, of course, in his insolvent condition, he
was unable to purchase. He made a visit to the theatre, and found
that--fortunately for him--the entertainment being given was anything but
successful; the bill, theatrically speaking, was "a frost," and the
manager consequently open to discuss any scheme for pulling up the
business. In a moment Philippe saw his opportunity, and suggested that two
or three special performances should be given, at which every person
paying for admission should have with his check a packet of confectionery
given to him, and a ticket entitling the holder to a chance in a prize of
the value of L15. The suggestion was acted upon, the bait took, and the
result was a succession of crowded houses, whereby Talon cleared off all
his stock of sweets, netting a sufficient sum to enable him to purchase
conjuring apparatus, which enabled him to give a series of entertainments
with great success; the same that were subsequently represented with such
profit in England, France, Austria, and elsewhere. Talon, or Philippe, as
he was known to the entertaining public, was the first to perform with
bare arms, and was one of the first to introduce the "globes of fish"
trick in this country.
Another of the "legitimate" description of examples is found connected
with the theatrical experience of Mr. C. W. Montague, who for years was a
very well-known circus-manager, having been connected at one time or
another with the equestrian establishments of Messrs. Sanger, Bell, F.
Ginnetts, Myers, Newsome, and George Ginnett. Some years ago, when he
joined the circus owned by the last-named at Greenwich, he found that
business was in a most melancholy condition; the show, although a very
good one, failed to fetch the people in, and the receipts, not sufficient
to pay expenses, were getting worse and worse. This dismal state of things
was most disheartening to Montague, who was at his wits' end to know what
to do, when one day, while he was being shaved, the barber noticing some
one who had just passed the shop, said: "There goes poor Townsend." "And
who might he be?" asked the manager; being told in reply that the
gentleman referred to had originally represented Greenwich in Parliament,
but owing to great pecuniary difficulties had been obliged to resign. It
also transpired that the late M.P. was a most excellent actor, the barber
having seen him enact Richard III. "quite as good as any right down
reg'ler perfeshional." In addition, Mr. Townsend had been deservedly
popular in the district, and especially in Deptford; for he had been the
means, when in the House of Commons, of getting dockyard labourers' wages
considerably advanced. These two facts, combined with the broken-down
appearance of the gentleman spoken of, immediately presented themselves to
Mr. Montague in a business light. What a capital idea it would be if he
could manage to get the ex-M.P. to appear in the circus! So popular a man
would be a tremendous draw! With this object in view, he waited upon Mr.
Townsend the next morning, and put the proposition to him, but without
success. The unfortunate gentleman admitted that his circumstances were
such that the prospect of making money by the venture was most tempting;
but his pride would not admit of his accepting the offer. The idea of
appearing as a paid performer in a circus in the very place where he had
been regarded with such respect was repugnant to his feelings, and he felt
that he could not consent to the sacrifice of dignity. Away from Greenwich
he would not have minded; but this arrangement of course would have been
no good to Mr. Montague. Nothing daunted by the refusal, the theatrical
man of business determined not to give up the idea, but on several
subsequent occasions pressed him hard, using such powerful arguments in
favour of the scheme that at last Mr. Townsend consented to appear as
Richard "for twelve nights only," on sharing terms. As soon as this was
arranged, another and by no means unimportant difficulty presented itself.
With the exception of Mr. Ginnett and his manager, there was no one in the
company capable of supporting the tragedian; but stimulated by the
seriousness of the situation, Mr. Montague set to work, cut down the
tragedy with unsparing energy, and so arranged a version that enabled Mr.
Ginnett and himself to double the parts of Richmond, Catesby, Norfolk,
Ratcliffe, Stanley, and the ghosts. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, the
production (which would never have been thought of or undertaken but for
the impecunious state of affairs) proved a palpable hit, Townsend's share
being so considerable that he insisted on treating the company to a
supper, shortly after which he went to America.
The mention of America, and connected with circus managing, naturally
suggests to the mind the name of that arch-humbug, but most successful
showman, P. T. Barnum, who was not always the wealthy caterer he now is.
On the contrary, his early life was associated with such poverty-stricken
surroundings, that the want of money had undoubtedly much to do with that
smartness for which his name has become famous. His father died leaving
the family very badly off, the mother being put to all sorts of straits to
keep the home together; and when Barnum--who was first of all a farmer's
boy--commenced his career, he, according to his own account, "began the
world with nothing, and was barefooted at that." His first berth of any
consequence was a clerkship in a general store, at which time he was
"dreadfully poor;" but, says he, "I determined to have some money."
Consequently, impelled by impecuniosity, he speedily became ingenious. One
day, when left in charge of the business, a pedlar called with a waggon
full of common green glass bottles, varying in size from half a pint to
half a gallon. The store was what was called a barter store. A number of
hat manufacturers traded there, paying in hats, and giving store orders to
many of their _employes_, and other firms did likewise, so that the
business boasted an immense number of small customers. The pedlar was
anxious to do business, and Barnum knew that his employers had a quantity
of goods that were regarded as unsaleable stock. Upon these he put
inordinately high prices, and then expressed his willingness to barter
some goods for the whole lot of bottles. The pedlar was only too glad,
never dreaming of disposing of all his load, and the exchange was
effected. Shortly after, Mr. Keeler, one of the firm, returned, and, on
beholding the place crowded with the bottles, asked in amazement, "What
_have_ you been doing?" "Trading goods for bottles," replied Barnum; to
which his employer made the unpalatable rejoinder, "You are a fool;"
adding, "You have bottles enough for twenty years."
Barnum took the reproof very meekly, only saying that he hoped to get rid
of them in less than three months, and then explained what goods he had
given in exchange. The master was very pleased when he found that his
assistant had got rid of what was regarded as little better than lumber,
but still was dubious as to how on earth he would be able to find
customers for the glass, more especially as there was a quantity of old
tinware, dirty and flyblown, about which Barnum was equally sanguine. In a
few days the secret was out. His _modus operandi_ was this: a gigantic
lottery--1000 tickets at 50 cents each. The highest prize 25 dollars,
payable in goods; any that the customers desired to that amount. Fifty
prizes of five dollars each, the goods to that amount being mentioned, and
consisting as a rule of one pair cotton hose, one cotton handkerchief,
two tin cups, four pint glass bottles, three tin skimmers, one quart glass
bottle, six nutmeg graters, and eleven half-pint glass bottles. There were
100 prizes of one dollar each, and 100 prizes of fifty cents each, and 300
prizes of twenty-five cents each, glass and tinware forming the greater
part of each prize. Headed in glaring capitals "Twenty-five dollars for
fifty cents; over 500 prizes." The thousand tickets sold like wild-fire,
the customers never stopping to consider the nature of the prizes.
Journeyman hatters, boss hatters, apprentice boys, hat-trimmers, people of
every class and kind bought chances in the lottery, and in less than ten
days all the tickets were sold.
This was Barnum's first stroke of business, the success of it no doubt
having much to do with his subsequent enterprises; and as, according to
his own showing, the scheme was the result of needy circumstances, and a
determination to have money, it is impossible to say how much his present
prosperity is due to that early expedient.
To give a less modern instance of the power of impecuniosity to render
people ingenious, there is an anecdote of this nature recorded of Captain
William Winde, a celebrated architect, the dates of some of whose designs
are 1663-1665. Amongst many other of his achievements is included
Buckingham House, in St. James's Park, which he designed for the Duke of
Buckingham, but the money for which he could not obtain. The edifice was
nearly finished when the arrears of payment were so considerable that the
architect felt he could not continue unless he obtained a settlement; but
how to do it? That was the thing. Asking was perfectly useless, and
writing to his grace was equally ineffectual. At last a brilliant idea
occurred to him. He requested the duke to mount the leads, to behold the
wonderful view that could be obtained therefrom, and when the noble owner
complied, he locked the trap-door, and threw the key away.
"Now," said Winde, "I am a ruined man, and unless I have your word of
honour that the debts shall be paid, I will instantly throw myself over."
"What is to become of me?" asked the duke.
"_You shall come along with me!_" replied Winde; whereat his grace
immediately promised to pay, and the trap was opened at a given signal by
a workman who was in the plot.
There is a similar kind of story told of Sir Richard Steele and a
carpenter who had built a theatre for him, but who was unable to get his
money. Finding all ordinary means of no avail, the carpenter took the
opportunity when Sir Richard had some friends present, who had assembled
for the purpose of testing the capabilities of the building, of going to
the other end of the theatre; and when told to speak out something pretty
loudly, to test the acoustic properties, roared as loud as ever he could
that he wished to goodness Sir Richard Steele would settle his account.
This is the same individual who gave a splendid entertainment to all the
leading people of the time, and had them waited upon by a number of
liveried servants. After dinner Steele was asked how such an expensive
retinue could be kept upon his fortune, when he replied he should be only
too glad to dispense with his servants' services, but he found it
impossible to get rid of them.
"Impossible to get rid of them?" asked his friends. "What do you mean?"
"Why, simply that these lordly retainers are bailiffs with an execution,"
replied Steele, adding that "he thought it but right that while they
remained they should do him credit."
It is said that his friends were so amused by the humorous ingenuity
displayed, that they paid the debt, which is not unlikely, considering how
popular he was. As a literary man, Steele was always regarded with the
highest esteem, and his personal merits were equally recognised, since his
want of economy was considered his only sin, it having been said of him
that "he was the most innocent rake that ever entered the rounds of
dissipation."
The same could not be said of Sheridan unfortunately, whose ingenuity
under monetary pressure (and when wasn't he pressed for money?) was
remarkable. One of the least harmless of the many incidents recorded of
this character is the circumstance of his obtaining a handsome watch from
Harris the proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre. He had made innumerable
appointments with Harris, none of which had ever been kept, and at last
the manager sent word through a friend that if Sherry failed to be with
him at one o'clock as arranged, he would positively have nothing more to
do with him. Notwithstanding the importance of the interview, at three
o'clock Sheridan was at Tregent's, a famous watchmaker's, and in course of
conversation he told Tregent that he was on his way to see Harris.
"Ah!" said the watchmaker, "I was at the theatre a little while ago, and
he was in a terrible rage with you--said he had been waiting for you since
one."
"Indeed," said Sheridan; "and what took you to Covent Garden?"
"Harris is going to present Bate Dudley with a gold watch," was the reply;
"and I took him a dozen to choose from."
Sheridan left on hearing this, and went straight to the theatre, where he
found Harris exceedingly wroth at having, as he said "had to wait over two
hours."
"My dear Harris," began the incorrigible one, "these things occur more
from my misfortune than my faults, I assure you. I thought it was but one
o'clock. It happens I have no watch, and am too poor to buy one. When I
have one, I shall be as punctual as any one else."
"Well," replied the manager, "you shall not want one long. Here are
half-a-dozen of Tregent's best--choose whichever you like."
Sheridan did not hesitate to avail himself of the offer; nor did he, as it
will be understood, select the least expensive one of the number.
_A propos_ of watchmakers, there is the story of Theodore Hook dining with
one with whom he was utterly unacquainted save by name, which ingenious
plan was evolved through lack of funds. Driving out one afternoon with a
friend in the neighbourhood of Uxbridge, Hook remembered that he had not
the means wherewith to procure dinner, and turning to his companion said,
"By the way, I suppose you have some money with you?" But he had reckoned
without his host. "Not a sixpence--not a sou," was the reply, the last
turnpike having taken his friend's last coin. Both were considerably
crestfallen, for it was getting late, and the drive had made them
remarkably hungry. What was to be done? Presently they passed an
exceedingly pretty residence. "Stay," said Hook, "do you see that
house--pretty villa, isn't it? Cool and comfortable--lawn like a
billiard-table. Suppose we dine there?" "Do you know the owner?" asked the
friend. "Not the least in the world," laughed Hook. "I know his name. He
is the celebrated chronometer-maker. The man who got L10,000 premium from
Government, and then wound up his affairs and his watches." Without
another word they drove up to the door, asked for the proprietor, and were
ushered into the worthy tradesman's presence. "Oh, sir," said Hook,
"happening to pass through your neighbourhood, I could not deny myself the
pleasure and honour of paying my respects to you. I am conscious it may
seem impertinent, but your celebrity overcame my regard for the common
forms of society, and I, and my friend here, were resolved, come what
might, to have it in our power to say that we had seen you, and enjoyed
for a few minutes, the company of an individual famous throughout the
civilised world." The old man blushed, shook hands, and after conversing
for a few minutes, asked them if they would remain to dinner, and partake
of his hospitality? Hook gravely consulted with his friend, and then
replied that he feared it would be impossible for them to remain. This
only increased the watchmaker's desire for their society, and made him
invite them more pressingly, till, at length the pretended scruples were
overcome, the pair sitting down to a most excellent repast, to which they
both did more than justice.
On another occasion, when Hook was very much worried for money, he went as
a _dernier ressort_ to a publisher who knew him, in the hope that he would
help him; but unfortunately the man knew him "too well," and refused,
unless he had something to show that he would get his money's worth, or at
any rate a portion of it. Thereupon Hook went home, sat up all night,
wrote an introduction to a novel "on a new plan," appended a hurried
chapter, which he took the next day to the publisher, asserting that he
had had a most liberal offer for it elsewhere, and so persuaded the man to
advance the required sum.
Amusing as are many of the anecdotes quoted, there is one which may be
called "divinely" funny, being connected with a once well-known
theologian--Dr. John Brown of Haddington. This famous Biblical
commentator, who flourished from 1784 to 1858, was anything but rich in
this world's goods; and so poor when staying at Dunse, that he went into a
shop and asked to be accommodated with a halfpennyworth of cheese. The
shopman, awfully disgusted with the meanness of the order, remarked
haughtily, that "they did not make" such small quantities; upon which the
doctor asked, "Then what's the least you can sell?" "A penn'orth," was the
reply. On the divine saying "Very well," the man proceeded to weigh that
quantity, and then placed it on the counter, anticipating to be paid for
it. "Now," said Dr. Brown, "I will show you how to sell a halfpennyworth
of cheese;" upon which, in the coolest manner conceivable, he cut the
modicum into two pieces, and appropriating one half, put down his coin and
departed.
Impecuniosity in addition to sharpening men's wits, by which expression
is understood the sharpening of the inventive faculties, has also the
power of making sharp man's wit, as instanced in the case of the beggar
who accosted Marivaux, the well-known French writer of romance. This
mendicant, who appears to have been what we were wont to call a "sturdy
rogue," looked so unlike what one soliciting alms should, that the man of
letters said to him, "My good friend, strong and stout as you are, it is a
great shame that you do not go to work;" when he was met with the reply,
"Ah, master, if you did but know how lazy I am!" for which amazing
audacity, he was rewarded by Marivaux, who said, "Well, I see thou are an
honest fellow. Here's a piece of money for you."
Though, perhaps not strictly witty, the man's remark was excessively
comic, and for aught I know, it may have been his conduct that gave rise
to the now well-known expression--"funny beggar."
For impromptu wit connected with impecuniosity, there is the case of Ben
Jonson, who was invited to dinner at the Falcon Tavern, by a vintner, to
whom he was much in debt, and then told that if he could give an immediate
answer to four questions, his debt should be forgiven him. The
interrogatories put to him by the vintner were these, "What is God best
pleased with? What is the Devil best pleased with? What is the World best
pleased with? and what am I best pleased with?" To which Ben replied:
"God is best pleased when men forsake their sin.
The devil is best pleased when they persist therein.
The world's best pleased when thou dost sell good wine,
And thou'rt best pleased when I do pay for mine."
To return to the instances of ingenuity, the late Charles Mathews must be
remembered; for he claims the credit of having been successful in
extracting money from Jew bailiffs, which, incredible as it may seem at
first, would really appear to have been the case. He says, "I might relate
a thousand stories of my hair-breadth 'scapes and adventures, with a class
of persons wholly unknown, happily, to a large portion of the population,
and whose names inspire terror to those who do not know them;--officers of
the Jewish persuasion, who are supposed to represent the majesty of the
law in its most forbidding aspect, but to whom I have been indebted for so
many acts of kindness, that I have frequently blessed my stars that they
were interposed between me and the tomahawking Christians by whom they
were employed, and from whom no mercy could have been extracted. I have
had two of those functionaries in adjacent rooms, and _have borrowed the
money from one to pay out the other_, with many such like incidents."
There is no doubt that on the subject of bailiffs this most popular light
comedian was an authority; for his experience of them was considerable,
and it is therefore gratifying to find him bearing testimony to the good
qualities of the much-maligned individual, who, as "the man in
possession," is so often provocative of anger, malice, and all
uncharitableness in the breasts of those who have to entertain him. It
would be unwise, however, for any one to be so led away by the eulogistic
remarks of Charles Mathews as to expect to be able to go and do likewise,
in the matter of borrowing money from them; for it must be remembered,
that without exception he was the most entertaining man in existence, and
blest with persuasive powers unparalleled. At the same time, it is
perfectly true that they are nothing like as formidable as they are
supposed to be (this is reliable--for a distant relation of mine once knew
a person, who had a friend that was sold up--Ahem!), and if it were not
for their partiality for wearing an extra number of coats and waistcoats,
and invariably carrying a stout stick, which characteristics render them
unmistakable to the practised eye, they would not be so objectionable, as
they are by no means devoid of sympathy, and are always open to reason in
the shape of gin and water.
Though not of so pronounced a type as some that have been quoted, there is
an anecdote illustrative of ingenuity, recorded of Samuel Foote, who, in
the days of his youth, and hard-upishness, wrote 'The Genuine Memoirs of
the Life of Sir John Dinely Goodere, Bart., who was murdered by the
contrivance of his own brother.' The author was nephew to the murdered
man, and the assassin; but so poor was he, that on the day he took his MS.
to the publishers he was actually without stockings. On receiving his pay
for the book (L10), he stopped at a hosier's in Fleet Street, to replenish
his wardrobe, but just as he issued from the shop, he met two old Oxford
associates, lately arrived in London for a frolic, and they bore him off
to a dinner at the "Bedford:" where, as the wine began to take effect, his
unclad condition began to be perceivable, and he was questioned as to
"what the deuce had become of his stockings?" "Why," said Foote--the
stockingless Foote--"I never wear any at this time of the year, till I am
going to dress for the evening, and you see"--pulling his purchase out of
his pocket, and silencing the laugh and suspicion of his friends--"I am
always provided with a pair for the occasion."
Equally humorous is the story told of the Honourable George Talbot, the
brother of the Earl of Shrewsbury, a man well known about town during the
time of the Peninsular War. He was a reckless spendthrift, and in Paris,
where he had spent thousands, he was reduced to absolute want. Though a
man of decidedly bad principles, he was what is termed a good Roman
Catholic; that is to say, a regular attendant at Mass, and when he found
it impossible to raise money anywhere else he bethought him of the clergy,
and repaired to confession. He revealed everything to the priest, at least
with regard to his penniless condition, and after much interrogation, and
deliberation, was told to "trust in Providence." Seemingly much struck by
the advice, he said he would come again, and on his second visit, retold
his story, with the addition that nothing at the time of the interview had
turned up; when he was met with the same counsel as before, and enjoined
to "trust in Providence." Somewhat chapfallen at the failure of his visit,
he went away, but after a few days again presented himself to the abbe,
whom he thanked effusively for his good advice on the two previous
occasions, and then begged the pleasure of his company to dinner at a
well-known fashionable restaurant. The invitation was accepted, and the
two sat down to a most sumptuous repast, the delicacy of the viands being
only surpassed by the choiceness of the wine. When the meal was concluded
the bill was handed to Talbot, who said that his purse was quite empty,
and had been so for a long time, but that he thought he could not do
better than follow his confessor's advice and "trust in Providence." The
Abbe Pecheron (the confessor) saw the joke, paid for the dinner, and so
interested himself in Talbot's case, that he obtained from the
spendthrift's friends in England sufficient to enable him to return to
this country.
Not the least ingenious of the many instances to be met with, however, is
one attributed to a widow, who, in the days of Whitecross Street and the
Bench, was arrested for debt. This lady, who is described as of fair and
dashing appearance, with great powers of fascination, soon began to pine
for her liberty, and petitioned for leave "to live within the rules,"
which request was granted. She then took a house in Nelson Square, and
became a reigning queen of pleasure, her Thursday evening _reunions_ being
deemed so delightful, that invitations for them were most eagerly sought
for. Her admirers were legion (that is of the male sex), one at last
being successful in obtaining her coveted hand, and the marriage took
place in due course. When the happy pair returned to Nelson Square after
the ceremony, the tipstaves, who had become acquainted with the affair,
put in an appearance as the newly married couple were about to start on
their honeymoon, informing the lady that they would arrest her, and take
her to the Bench, if she attempted to leave "the rules." Nothing
disconcerted by this apparent stopper to her happiness, she calmly, but
majestically exclaimed, "Indeed! You forget there is no such person as the
lady named in your warrant. I am no longer Mrs. A., but Mrs. B. There is
my husband, and he is responsible for my debts."
"Then, sir," said the tipstaff, "I must arrest you."
The lady smiled sarcastically, saying, "I think it will be time enough to
arrest my husband when you have served him with a writ. If you have one,
produce it; if not, kindly stand aside, and allow us to enter the coach."
The officers could but comply, for they saw they had been outwitted, and
were compelled to stand meekly by, while the clever widow, observing "Now,
my love, let us be off," jumped into the carriage, and drove away with her
husband.