THE ROMANCE OF IMPECUNIOSITY.
Although at first sight the condition of impecuniosity seems more
calculated to produce practicality, and render persons matter-of-fact, in
the foregoing chapters there have not been wanting illustrations to prove
that impecuniosity has been responsible for some romance. The case of
Angelica Kauffman may be taken as an example. Owing to the poverty of her
father she was compelled to accept the hospitality of an English peer in
Switzerland, who insulted her, and afterwards, when unable to obtain a
favourable reception of his suit, in revenge induced a married adventurer
to make love to and marry her. This was romantic, without question, and
undoubtedly attributable to want of money, as but for that she would never
have been brought in contact with the disgraceful nobleman in question.
When we remember, however, how impecuniosity has been produced, how that
it has been brought about by misfortune, extravagance, heroism, want of
principle, want of foresight, inadequacies of justice, eccentricity of
character, extreme benevolence of disposition, and by other equally varied
causes, it is not surprising that there should be found considerable
connection between it and romance, more especially as the consequences of
the condition have been crime of every description, from comparatively
venial offences against society to the universally reprobated sins of
forgery and murder. Again, the strange and unexpected means by which
people have been delivered from their impecuniosity savours strongly of
the unreal, of the world of fiction rather than of the world of fact. But
that real life is prolific of romance has long been acknowledged by all
but those whose knowledge of human life is small, and whose ignorance of
history is entire. As the poet pithily puts it--
"Truth is always strange,
Stranger than fiction: if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange."
Admitting this, and judging from the facts that we are possessed of, what
marvellously romantic deeds must impecuniosity have been connected with
that will never be recorded!--devoted deeds of self-sacrifice that will
never be known to any save the sufferers! Not long since I read in a
popular periodical of something suggestively similar. A girl on the way to
join her husband, to whom she has been only married by the Scotch law,
learns by accident that her marriage alone stands between her husband and
a fortune. Circumstances so happening that she can make it appear credible
that she was on board a vessel that was lost, she does so, believing that
by her renunciation she is giving up "all for him." "Truth is stranger
than fiction," and it follows, therefore, that such instances of
self-abnegation induced by impecuniosity have been and will be found. But
to facts.
I have included in the list of the causes of impecuniosity the want of
foresight, and this is painfully instanced by the story of a poor old
woman at Plymouth, who did not like the formality, or could not afford the
expense, of having a will prepared. Being exceedingly ill, she thought she
would like to leave her little property--furniture, a small amount of
money, and household movables--to her neighbours and acquaintances. This
wish _viva voce_ she practically carried out. Of her own proper authority
she gave and willed away chairs and tables to one, her bed to this friend,
her cloak to that, money, utensils, nicknacks, to others. Crones,
housewives, and young women gathered sympathetically around her, and soon
carried away the various things bequeathed to them. It was not long after
they had departed that she unexpectedly recovered from her illness, and
sent to have her things back again, but not one of them could she get, and
she was left without a rag to cover her or a friend to give her a kind
word.
Strange as was this circumstance, here is something surpassing strange,
being the romantic record of one who was literally "a funny beggar."
Less than half a century since there used to be seen on the Quai des
Celestines in Paris a mendicant holding in one hand some lucifer-matches.
Wan, self-possessed, scantily but neatly attired, there were in the
beggar's visage traces of refinement and good breeding. Round his neck was
a loop of black silk ribbon, to which was suspended a piece of pasteboard
having an inscription to the effect that the wearer was a poor man, and
craved relief on the plea that "_he had lived longer than he should_."
The petitioner's history was a singular one. Jules Andre Gueret, when
twenty-five years old, became the possessor of a large fortune. He
remained a bachelor, and turned his estate into hard cash. An epicurean, a
man of some taste, and a bit of a philosopher, he began a calculation to
ascertain how he could best enjoy himself. Making no investments, he kept
his cash at home. Gueret came to the conclusion that a sober man's life
averaged seventy years, but that a pleasure-seeking, gay man's life might
only last fifty-five or sixty years. He then divided his finances into so
many equal portions. Each portion was to be an annual allowance, the
pleasure-seeker arranging that the money should last five-and-thirty
years. Gueret, in conclusion, made a compact with himself that if he lived
beyond sixty years of age, suicide would prevent his suffering ills at the
hands of poverty. But when turned sixty years of age, and when his money
was exhausted, either love of life or fear of death prevented the once gay
and opulent Gueret from committing self-destruction. It will be seen that
it was a terribly true inscription on the bit of pasteboard hanging from
the neck of the beggar haunting the Quai des Celestines.
The vicissitudes of Gueret were obviously self-created, and _a propos_ of
a man's idiosyncrasy impelling him on to impecuniosity, there is hardly a
more curious illustration to be found than that contained in the biography
of Combe, the author of the 'Adventures of Dr. Syntax.' This man was a
born eccentric, perverse, whimsical, and humorous. Possessing natural
gifts, and the heir to a large fortune, he frittered away his mental
resources, wasted his patrimony, and often committed acts worthy of the
simpleton or lunatic. He went through the curriculum of Eton and Oxford,
and by the refinements of his taste and the elegance of his manners won
the title of "Duke Combe." In a comparatively short period, by his
prodigality and reckless expenditure he was reduced to penury, and finding
no means of subsistence, enlisted as a private in the army. While in the
ranks he was reading one day, when an officer passing him managed to see
the book, which was a copy of Horace. "My friend," said the officer, "is
it possible that you can read Horace in the original?" "If I cannot," said
Combe, "a great deal of money has been thrown away on my education."
Escaping from the English army, he joined the French service, and again
fleeing, he entered a French monastery, remaining there until he had
passed his noviciate. He subsequently left the Continent and became a
waiter in South Wales. On several occasions, while in that capacity, he
met with acquaintances whom he had known in college days, but he was never
embarrassed even when seen tripping along with a napkin under his arm.
Combe afterwards married an amiable and devoted woman, and settled down
for a time as an author. Some of his writings contained questionable
morality, and others were of scurrilous and venal character. 'Letters from
a Nobleman to his Son,' said to be by Lord Lyttelton, and 'Letters from an
Italian Nun to an English Nobleman,' said to be by Rousseau, were both
from the pen of "Duke Combe." At last he became an inmate of the King's
Bench Prison, and he remained there several years. When a friend offered
to make an arrangement with his creditors, he replied: "If I compounded
with those to whom I owe money I should be obliged to give up the little I
possess, and on which I can manage to live in prison. These rooms in the
Bench are mine at a very few shillings a week in right of my seniority as
a prisoner. My habits have become so sedentary, that if I lived in the
airiest square of West-End London, I should not walk round it once a
month. I am quite content with my cheap quarters."
It was in the King's Bench Prison that Combe wrote for the publisher
Ackerman, 'The Adventures of Dr. Syntax in Search of the Picturesque,'
'The Dance of Life,' and 'The Dance of Death.'
At one period of Combe's career Roger Kemble gave him a theatrical
benefit, and Combe promised to speak an address on the occasion. There had
been much gossip and many conjectures concerning his real name, history,
and condition. To such gossip and conjectures he referred when he stood
before the curtain, and in the presence of a crowded auditory. Then he
added, "But now, ladies and gentlemen, I shall tell you who and what I
am." There was an eager and expectant expression on the countenances
before him. Combe paused--all present leaning forward to hear
him--gathered himself up, as if for a great effort, and then said, "I am,
ladies and gentlemen--your most obedient, humble servant."
It is evident Combe's peculiar disposition was the cause of his peculiar
circumstances. He was a perverse, whimsical man, rather than an
unfortunate one, and it was much the same with the son of Lady Mary
Wortley Montague, the Hon. Mr. Wortley Montague, notorious for his roving
and adventurous disposition. When a boy he ran away from home, and became
a chimney sweep. It is true that young Montague's father was cold in his
manners and severe in his discipline to the lad, who in addition chafed
under the somewhat stringent arrangements of the Westminster masters, for
enforcing law and order amongst their pupils. At Westminster School,
however, where the lad was placed in 1729, he at once showed himself
brilliant and precocious, but vain, impatient of control, and of truant
disposition. Reckless and petulant, he resolved to see the world, and
without a single confidant, one day quitted the seminary, roamed the
streets, and at night made his way into the fields about Chelsea, and
there slept till morning. After a few days his stock of money became low,
and while reading the newspapers over his tavern breakfast, he noticed in
an advertisement an accurate description of his face, figure, and costume,
with the notification that a handsome reward would be paid by his parents
to recover their lost child. Hastily paying his bill, he made his way from
the tavern, perambulated the streets, utterly at a loss how to act in
order to shun the humiliation of meeting his father and mother, and of
again having to undergo the restrictions of domestic and scholastic
routine. Meeting a chimney-sweeper's apprentice, Montague entered into
conversation with him and agreed to exchange clothes, which transformation
was accomplished in an empty house. The truant was not satisfied yet, and
actually accompanied the apprentice to his master's house for the purpose
of trying to become a chimney-sweep himself. From motives of benevolence
or cupidity the master sweep agreed to induct young Montague into the
mysteries of cleansing flues, and the lad remained in his employment for
some months.
During the period of his connection with the "sooty trade" the
aristocratic young truant went through many adventures and played many
pranks. His roaming disposition, however, caused him to run away from his
master, which he did without warning, and he soon found himself again
walking about the streets of the metropolis, his money exhausted. He had
but one thing left, a carefully-preserved watch, by which he could obtain
the necessaries of life; driven to desperation, he walked into a
jeweller's shop and offered the watch for sale. The proprietor was
courteous but wary, and being suspicious that the lad had become possessed
of the valuable article in a dishonest manner, took the opportunity of
sending for a constable. Montague was arrested and conveyed to Bow Street,
where the magistrate closely questioned the culprit. Young Montague, with
the utmost frankness, gave an account of his strange and romantic
adventures from the moment when he had quitted Westminster School. It was
not long ere his parents were made acquainted with the particulars of
their son's flight and safety, and the foolish wanderer was speedily taken
back with caresses and delight. All was forgotten and forgiven, and in a
few weeks Montague was reinstated in his old place at Westminster.
It is said that what is bred in the bone comes out in the flesh, and it
was not long before the crack-brained scholar again became unsettled.
Through an older companion, young Montague sought the good offices of a
knavish money-lender, who, making himself acquainted with the lad's
position and prospects, advanced him a sum of money. With the loan he felt
free to make another flight, and away he went to Newmarket. He was amused
and delighted with the spectacle of horses, jockeys, and bruisers.
Enjoying himself at an inn, he fell into the company of card-sharpers, who
soon eased him of the guineas he had brought down from London. His
position was unfortunate and perilous, but wandering out through the town,
he encountered a friend of the family, who resolutely conveyed him back to
his parents, who, as before, after due admonition, forgave him. The debt
to the money-lender was paid, and the youngster again found himself
surrounded by all the luxuries of an aristocratic home. But his restless
spirit could not endure the harness of conventional life.
Once more he sought the office of the usurer, who made the required
advances, and he then made up his mind to taste the joys of sea voyages
and the novelties of foreign travel. Making his way to Wapping, he struck
up a friendship with the captain of a trading-vessel bound for Cadiz.
Montague agreed to visit Cadiz with him, making the commander acquainted
with the particulars of his history. The youth prepared for the journey,
and thought that his last night in England should be a convivial one, and
consequently ordered at one of the Wapping taverns a sumptuous supper. The
landlord during the evening introduced some card-sharping rogues who
proposed play, and in the course of an hour or two the son of Lady Mary
had lost heavily. He was made drunk and taken away senseless to bed.
When he came to himself in the morning he found that he had been robbed of
everything, including his watch, and that he was utterly impotent to pay
the heavy bill for the previous night's banquet. The landlord affected
much indignation, and went out of the house under the pretence of
procuring a constable. Young Montague was at his wit's end, when the
hostess advised him to quit the tavern. Taking the hint, he hurried to the
captain and told his story, and the captain intimated that he would seek
the landlord. Captain James being a rogue, came to an understanding with
the Wapping host, who agreed to hand over part of the spoil. James
returned to the young dupe, and informed him that no redress could be
afforded, but that if he liked he might work his way out to Cadiz. So
Montague was the victim of both landlord and captain. During the voyage to
Cadiz the youth underwent numerous trials and hardships. On landing at
Cadiz he at once left Captain James and found himself in a foreign town
without money and without friends. However, he found the Wapping
card-sharpers had left him a pair of Mocoa sleeve-buttons set in gold, and
having sold them he lived on the money for a few weeks. When that money
was exhausted he happened to make the acquaintance of a muleteer, who,
wanting a helper, found a ready and active one in the adventurous youth.
All his subsequent adventures were of like irrational character, and he
died of a fever contracted during foreign travel when a comparatively
young man.
I now turn to a pathetic story of poverty, in which the victim, but for
the cruel deeds of a crafty and malignant woman, might have been
surrounded by the auxiliaries of wealth and feudal splendour. Fortune
occasionally plays strange pranks, and in the instance I am about to quote
it will be seen that her caprices sometimes fall on unoffending and worthy
men with pitiless and tremendous severity. More than two hundred and
fifty years since a miserable bowed man might have been seen working about
the fields and roads outside Leicester, doing that slavish and drudging
work which falls to the lot of the English peasant. But for an unhappy
episode connected with his ancestors he might have been summoned to dinner
by sound of horn and taken his food from burnished silver. He was the heir
of the famous Sir Robert Scott of Thirlestane, a cadet of the House of
Buccleuch. Sir Robert Scott lived in the time of the sixth James of
Scotland, and was a man of noble character, though of iron will and fiery
blood, and little knew the awful cloud that gathered over his house when
he married his second wife. Scott of Thirlestane had a son by his first
marriage, and the heir was loved by the father with all the intensity and
tenderness of a strong man's nature.
From the time the second wife bore children to Sir Robert, she hated the
stepson with unceasing and sleepless malignity. She saw that as long as he
lived the future possessions of her own children would be but little. She
was cruel, crafty, and unscrupulous: and her worst feelings were excited
when she learned that Sir Robert proposed building a tower at Gamescleugh
in honour of the young laird's majority. The father had also arranged a
marriage for his son. The stepmother then entered upon plans to murder him
on the occasion of the opening of the new castle, when a great festival
was to take place. Her agent in the crime was John Lally, the family
piper, who obtained three adders, from which he abstracted poison, and
conveyed it to Lady Thirlestane, who mixed it with a bottle of wine. On
the day of festivity the young laird inspected the tower and received from
Lally's hand the poisoned wine in a silver flagon, and drank a hearty
draught. In an hour the heir of the house of Thirlestane was dead, and
Lally had fled no one knew whither. News of the heir's death soon reached
the ears of the father, who had the alarm bugle sounded to call together
his retainers. On the earl calling out to his assemblage, "Are we all
here?" a voice answered, "Yes, all but John Lally, the piper." It was
ominous, for the husband knew the confidence his wife placed in that
retainer, and Sir Robert swooned. Strange was it that Sir Robert could not
be induced to make a public example of his wife; but he announced to his
friends that the estate belonged to his murdered son, who, if he could not
enjoy it living, should enjoy it dead. The body of the heir was embalmed
with drugs and spices, and laid out in state for a year and a day. For
twelve months the unhappy father kept up one continuous round of costly
and magnificent revels. Wine flowed like a river, and the scenes of
carousal were of unprecedented extravagance. Soon after the funeral Sir
Robert was borne to the grave and the family reduced to utter beggary. The
stepmother wandered about an outcast and pauper, and in after years the
heir of the Thirlestane family worked as a common ditcher, as I have
described.
A similar strange and pathetic story, in which it is shown that the
innocent suffered for the guilty, is that of Sir John Dinely, who, at the
beginning of the century, was one of the Poor Knights of Windsor. Dinely
was a singularly eccentric and unfortunate man. He was often to be seen
mysteriously creeping by the first light of a winter's morning through the
great gate of the lower ward of Windsor Castle into the narrow back
streets of the town. He used to wear a roquelaure, beneath which appeared
a pair of thin legs encased in dirty silk stockings. In wet weather he
carried a large umbrella and walked on pattens. He lived in one of the
houses of the military knights, then called Poor Knights, to which body he
belonged. Except the eccentric possessor, no human being entered his
abode, and he dispensed with all domestic service. Dinely in the morning
went forth to make his frugal purchases for the day--a faggot, a candle, a
small loaf, and perhaps a herring. The Poor Knight of Windsor might have
fared better, but every penny except those laid out for absolute
necessaries of life was capitalised in the promotion of an absorbing and
quixotic scheme. Regular attendance at St. George's Chapel was Dinely's
duty; and the long blue mantle which the Poor Knights wore covered his
shabby habiliments, as the dingy morning cloak hid red herrings and
farthing candles.
Such were some of the phases--sombre, squalid phases--of Sir John's
existence. But there were periods when the Poor Knight assumed the
externals of aristocratic opulence. The poor hunchback lover in the
introduction to the pantomime, who, by the enchanter's wand in the
transformation-scene, becomes the gay and spangled harlequin, typifies
Dinely dressed for his marketing, and Dinely dressed for the promenade.
Any circumstances drawing together a crowd at Windsor, whether the
presence of royalty, the attractions of the military parade, or of the
promenade, did not fail to draw forth Dinely from his poverty-stricken
home. When he appeared on festive occasions, his cloak was cast aside, and
he might have sat to any painter desiring to reproduce on canvas a
gentleman of the time of George II. An embroidered coat, silk flowered
waistcoat, nether garments of velvet, carefully meeting silk stockings,
which surmounted shoes and silver buckles, in addition to a lace-edged
cocked hat, and powdered wig, set off the attenuated figure of the Poor
Knight of Windsor. His object in so presenting himself was to attract the
notice of some rich lady for matrimonial ends, matrimony being the medium
through which he imagined he could transform his splendid dreams into no
less splendid realities--the reason for his eccentric economy being
explained by his history.
In January, 1741, there were two brothers living at Bristol who had become
enemies on account of an entail of property. The elder of these brothers
was Sir John Dinely Goodyere, Baronet, the other Samuel Dinely Goodyere, a
captain in the navy. Estrangement had taken place, but a common friend, at
Samuel's request, brought them together. They dined, had pleasant hours,
and fraternal words were exchanged. On parting Sir John went his way
across College Green, and while there was met by his brother and six other
sailors. Sir John was brutally treated, carried away to a ship, and on it
he was strangled. Retribution followed swiftly, and in two months Samuel
Dinely Goodyere had expiated his crime on the gallows.
The Poor Knight of Windsor was the son of the murderer, and it is
generally believed that the family estates which might have come to
Captain Goodyere were forfeited to the Crown. To recover the family
estates was the day dream of Sir John. Not having sufficient money to
obtain the requisite legal help to regain the lost inheritance, the poor
old man resorted to the matrimonial scheme. His proceedings were perfectly
serious, dignified, and earnest. Frequently has he been seen on the
terrace at Windsor presenting to some county widow or elegantly attired
gentlewoman a printed paper which with the utmost gravity he would take
from his pocket. Should the lady accept the paper, Sir John Dinely would
make her the most profound of bows, and then withdraw.
The following is an extract from one of the documents:--
"_For a Wife._"
"As the prospect of my marriage has much increased lately, I am
determined to take the best means to discover the lady most liberal in
her esteem by giving her fourteen days more to make her quickest steps
towards matrimony: from the date of this paper until eleven o'clock
the next morning: and as the contest evidently will be superb,
honourable, sacred, and lawfully affectionate, pray do not let false
delicacy interrupt you. An eminent attorney here is lately returned
from a view of my superb gates, built in the form of the Queen's
house. I have ordered him, as the next attorney here, who can satisfy
you of my possession in my estate, and every desirable particular
concerning it, to make you the most liberal settlement you can desire,
to the vast extent of three thousand pounds."
Some verses conclude, the words being--
"A beautiful page shall hold,
Your ladyship's train surrounded with gold."
The advertiser alludes to the forfeiture of the estates in another paper:
"Pray, my young charmers, give me a fair hearing; do not let your
avaricious guardians unjustly fright you into a false account of a
forfeiture." Sir John did not scatter his papers broadcast. It was only to
those whom he deemed suitable ladies that he distributed his precious and
grandiloquent invitations. Notwithstanding the seeming allurements of his
circulars, Sir John Dinely found no nibblers for his bait. One morning the
accustomed seat in St. George's Chapel knew him no more. He was missing.
The door of his lodging was forced, and in his room he was found ill and
helpless. Everything about him was of the poorest and most squalid
character. There was little furniture--a table and a chair or two. The
room was strewed with printing type, for he printed his own bills; and in
a few days Sir John Dinely was borne to the grave.
"Wise judges are we of each other," said Claude Melnotte contemptuously to
Colonel Damar when that officer remarked that he "envied" the pretended
Prince of Como, and it would be well for many of us were we to remember
the rebuke in forming our judgment of our fellows in connection with their
pecuniary position. A very pitiful story illustrating the argument is
narrated by Charles Lamb in his essay, "Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty
Years Ago." Referring to some cartoons connected with his old school, the
author writes:--
"L---- has recorded his repugnance of the school to 'gags,' or the fat
of fresh boiled beef, and sets it down to some superstition; but these
unctuous morsels are never grateful to young palates (children are
universal fat-haters), and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted,
are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a ghoul, and
held in equal detestation. There was a lad who suffered under this
imputation.
'It was said
He ate strange flesh.'
"He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the remnants
left at the table (not many nor very choice fragments, you may credit
me), and in an especial manner these disreputable morsels he would
convey, and secretly stow, in the settle that stood at his bedside.
None saw when he ate them. It was rumoured that he privately devoured
them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of them, of such
midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported that on leave-days
he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue check
handkerchief, full of something. This, then, must be the accursed
thing. Conjecture next was at work to imagine how he could dispose of
it. Some said he sold it to the beggars. This belief generally
prevailed. He went about moping--none spake to him. No one would play
with him. He was excommunicated--put out of the pale of the school. He
was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he underwent every mode of
that negative punishment which is more grievous than many stripes.
Still he persevered. At length he was observed by two of his
schoolfellows, who were determined to get at the secret, and had
traced him one leave day for the purpose, to enter a large worn-out
building, such as there exists specimens of in Chancery Lane, which
are let out to various scales of pauperism, with open door and a
common staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed by
stealth up four flights of stairs, and saw him tap at a poor wicket,
which was opened by a poor woman meanly clad. Suspicion was now
ripened into certainty. The informers had secured their victim.
Accusation was formally preferred, and retribution most signal was
looked for. Mr. Hatherway investigated the matter. The supposed
mendicants, the receivers of the mysterious scraps, turned out to be
the parents of the boy. This young stork, at the expense of his own
good name, had all this while been feeding the old birds."
A striking story of the unknown resources and trials of the
poverty-stricken is the following, a favourite one with that capital
_raconteur_, the late Julian Young.
A certain diplomatist was many years ago despatched by the English
Government on an embassy extraordinary to one of the continental courts,
where his handsome person and the urbanity of his manners made him a
general favourite. On his departure the sovereign to whom he was
accredited presented him with a small box of unusual value as a mark of
his esteem. It had on its lid a miniature of the king set in brilliants of
great beauty. When he had retired from public life and happened to give a
dinner to any of his friends, he was fond of producing it at the dessert,
as it afforded him an opportunity of descanting on the king's appreciation
of his services. On one of these occasions the box was brought forth,
handed by the butler to the master, and passed round. The last person into
whose hands it went was an old general, who, from some failure in
investments, was known to be in embarrassed circumstances.
In due course all rose to join the ladies, and in so doing the owner of
the snuff-box looked round for it in order that it might be replaced in
the cabinet. Not seeing the box, the owner immediately made inquiries
concerning it, and asked the gentlemen to make search for it, suggesting
that it was possible that some one in a fit of absence might have placed
it in his pocket. Everybody denied having any knowledge of it, though one
or two present declared that the old general was the last person in whose
hands they remembered to have seen it. "Having seen it before," the old
general said, "he had but bestowed a cursory glance upon it and then
placed it in the centre." The strictest search about the room was then
made, but only with fruitless results. The owner of the box assumed much
gravity of manner, and having referred to the seriousness of the loss,
said, "I suspect no one, and that I may have no cause to do so, I must ask
you to let me search you all without distinction." Two or three rose to
depart, but they were anticipated by their entertainer, who put his back
against the door and refused egress to any one. The old general stepped
forward and said, "Sir, do you mean to insult us because we have drunk
your wine? If any one dares to oppose my exit from this room, I shall call
him to account." The old grizzled warrior strode out with a firm and
defiant air. Known to be poor, and from his determined departure on the
occasion of the proposed search, the general was coldly and shyly regarded
by those who knew the circumstances, and by those who afterwards heard of
them.
Some time later, at the same host's table, the butler, hearing the story
of the lost snuff-box, informed his master that on the occasion alluded to
be had taken it up and deposited it in a little drawer at the end of a
sideboard, where it had been occasionally kept, and the butler went to the
drawer and found the lost treasure.
As quickly as possible the next morning the owner of the snuff-box sought
the old general, told him everything, and made him an ample apology. They
were at once friendly as of old. After some conversation, the owner of the
snuff-box said, "But may I ask you why you so resolutely refused to be
searched?" "Alas!" said the soldier, "I refused to be searched because,
though I had not stolen your snuff-box, I had stolen your food. I blush to
own, sir, that the greater part of every morsel put upon my plate was
transferred to a pocket-handkerchief (spread upon my knee beneath the
table), and taken home to a starving wife and family."
Equally, if not more romantic is another military story, also related by
Julian Young, which, were it not for the unquestionable _bona fides_ of
that gentleman, might well be questioned, so suggestive is it of a page
from a novel.
An aristocratic lady residing on the family estate in Ireland advertised
for a governess for her daughters. The successful candidate was a young
French lady of talent and fascinating manners. She had not long taken up
her residence with the lady and her daughters when she inspired the nephew
of her mistress with a tender passion. A gentleman of principle, and only
possessing slender means, he resolved to control his sentiment and in no
way reveal it.
Some months elapsed, and one morning while the family were at breakfast,
they were surprised by the entrance of a servant, who inquired of the lady
of the house if she could see visitors. Asking who they were, she was
informed that the party consisted of two gentlemen, who had travelled
there in a coach-and-four, attended by a livery servant, evidently a
foreigner. Thinking that visitors at such an early hour must have
important business, the servant was told by his mistress that she would at
once see them. She remained with the visitors some little time, and then
returned, informing the governess that her presence was immediately
required by the two gentlemen, who had come on important business.
The governess was absent more than half an hour, and on her return to the
breakfast-room appeared to be labouring under strong excitement. She then
begged Lady E---- to be kind enough to step into the library to speak to
two friends of hers, who had something of great importance to communicate.
The mistress of the establishment complied, and the governess, left with
her pupils, was interrogated with much amusing curiosity by them on the
strange visit of two gentlemen at such an early hour in the day. The
governess, in a tremor of nervousness, answered nothing, left her pupils,
and going to her own apartment, locked herself in.
The interview between Lady E---- and the strangers was exceedingly
interesting. One of the visitors spoke to her in French, and at great
length. Having prefaced what he had to say by apologising for the seeming
intrusion, Lady E---- was informed that he was delegated by the governess
to perform a duty which rightly devolved upon herself, but which she had
not the moral courage to discharge. It was also stated by the speaker that
Mademoiselle H---- acknowledged gratefully the extraordinary kindness with
which she had been treated. Lady E---- was then told that in pretending to
be dependent on her own exertions for bread, the governess had imposed on
her mistress. She was, it was said, as well born as Lady E----, and almost
as opulent. It was at the request of the visitors that Mademoiselle
H---- had answered the advertisement, for the reason that perhaps under
such a roof as Lady E----'s the young lady would be spared the persecution
of an unscrupulous kinsman, who conceived that his cousin was endeavouring
to supplant him in the good graces of a relative whose favours he had
forfeited solely by misconduct. The older kinsman alluded to had just
died, and had bequeathed his sole possessions to the governess. She was
mistress of a chateau in Southern France, in addition to an unencumbered
rent-roll of L7000 a year. In conclusion, the gentleman in his own name
and that of his fellow trustee begged to state that in a month's time the
presence of Mademoiselle H---- would be imperative, for the purpose of
hearing the will read, and to meet the avocat, the executors, and certain
other persons interested. Complimenting the mistress of the Irish mansion
upon her urbanity, the visitors withdrew, jumped into their carriage, and
were driven away as rapidly as they came.
The daughters of Lady E---- and her nephew were made acquainted with the
good fortune of the French governess. She had won the affections of her
pupils, and they regretted parting with her. However, they rejoiced at her
prosperity. The nephew's heart glowed with hope and affection. Had he been
richer he would before have declared his passion. On hearing his aunt's
recital of the governess's actual position he at once resolved to press
his suit. When Mademoiselle H---- had listened to his declaration of love,
she met it with haughty demeanour and frigid words, stating that she
suspected her money had more attraction for him than her person, assigning
as her reason for such impression that he had shunned her while he thought
her poor, but had sought her as soon as he had found her to be rich. He
assured her that he had loved her at first sight, but had been deterred by
honourable motives and the smallness of his fortune from thinking of
matrimony; that he had purposely kept out of danger's way, but that as to
wishing to marry her for the sake of her money, it was a cruel imputation,
and stung him to the quick. He then quitted her soon afterwards, mounted a
horse, rode away and found a notary public. When he again saw Mademoiselle
H---- he put into her hands a document by which he conveyed to her
unconditionally and absolutely every farthing he had in the world. In
return for it he asked for the lady's hand and heart. He added that if he
proved unworthy of her, her money would be in her own power, and that if
he lived to deserve her love, he was sure she would never let him want.
She yielded to his solicitations, and they eloped.
Scarcely had the honeymoon run its course when the husband discovered that
he was united to a penniless woman. In spite of his reserve the governess
had detected his passion, and by the aid of confederates and her own
adroitness had made herself possessor of his patrimony. The victim sought
to repair his fortune at the sword's point in the Crimean war, where he
obtained considerable distinction.
Incredible as this narrative may seem, there is a yet more marvellous one
which must be true, since "it was in the papers."
In the autumn of 1827 two men were examined at the Marylebone police-court
under circumstances of a peculiar and suspicious nature. The night
previously a patrol in the New Road watched the men, and subsequently saw
them deep in conversation by a lamp-post, and soon afterwards one man
deliberately began to tie his companion up to the lamp-post, the suspended
man offering no resistance to the labours of the improvised Jack Ketch.
The patrol interfered, and both men proceeded to beat him with great
violence. Some watchmen of the district hearing the cries of the assailed
constable hastened to the spot, and the constable's assailants were
secured. While being examined before the magistrate, the men stated that
they had been gambling by the light from the lamp, and that one of them
had lost all his money to the other, and had then staked his clothes. The
winner demurred to continue playing for the reason that if he again won he
should not care to strip the loser of his habiliments. His enthusiastic
companion rejoined that should he again lose, life would be worthless to
him. A bargain was made to again play, it being understood that the
unsuccessful gambler if again unlucky should be hung by his companion, who
should strip him when dead. The fellow lost, and informed the magistrate
that he was only submitting to the terms of the treaty when the patrol
came up and interfered with himself and his companion. The magistrate
concluding they had been intoxicated, discharged them with a caution.
A remarkably grim passage this in a gambler's life, and unfortunately most
of the selections in this section of the subject are more or less sombre,
for romance is naturally more associated with tragedy than comedy.
"Pitiful, wondrous pitiful," is my next illustration, which is related by
Sir Walter Scott, who when attending Dugald Stewart's lectures on Moral
Philosophy used to sit by the side of an amiable youth, in whose society
he afterwards took great interest. They became companions, and frequently
used to stroll out beyond the city, enjoying the charms of road and
stream. One day during the perambulation they met a singularly venerable
"Blue Gown," a beggar of the Edie Ochiltree stamp, clean and ruddy. The
beggar had three or four times previously encountered Scott, who with his
usual good-heartedness had relieved him in answer to solicitation. When
Mr. Scott and his fellow-student passed the old man, the companion of
Scott exhibited peculiar restlessness and confusion. The beggar again had
something dropped into his hand by Scott, who said soon afterwards to his
companion, "Do you know anything to the dishonour of the old beggar?"
"God forbid!" said the youth, and bursting into tears added, "I am ashamed
to speak to him; he is my father! He has laid by for himself, but he
stands bleaching his head in the wind, that he may get means to pay for my
education." Scott spoke words of tenderness and sympathy to the
mendicant's son, and kept his secret.
Some time afterwards he again met the hale "Blue Gown." "God bless you!"
said the old man; "you have been kind to Willie. He has often spoken of
it. Come to our roof, for my boy has been ill. It will strengthen him, if
you will go and see him." At 2 o'clock on the following Saturday, Willie's
old fellow-student found the old man and his son waiting to receive him at
their little cottage outside the city. It was a modest little tenement,
and Willie sat on a bench before the door to enjoy the sunshine. The son
of the voluntary mendicant looked wan and emaciated. He had been very ill.
There was a dinner of mutton, potatoes and whisky. They all enjoyed
themselves, and during their conversation the old man said, "Please God I
may live to see my bairn wag his head in a pulpit yet." Scott left them
with tokens of good will and friendship. He communicated the story to his
mother, who informed her husband, and it was at no distant time that Dr.
Erskine's influence (through the good offices of Mr. and Mrs. Scott)
obtained the old man's son a tutorship in the north of Scotland.
To quit the pathetic for a moment, it would scarcely be thought likely
that that necessary but extremely practical article--blacking--has ever
been associated with romance; but Mr. Smiles tells the story of a poor
soldier having one day called at the shop of a hairdresser who was busy
with his customers and asked relief, stating that he had stayed beyond his
leave of absence, and unless he could get a lift on the coach, fatigue and
severe punishment awaited him. The hairdresser listened to his story
respectfully, and gave him a guinea. "God bless you, sir!" exclaimed the
soldier, astonished at the amount. "How can I repay you? I have nothing in
the world but this," pulling out a dirty piece of paper from his pocket;
"it is a receipt for making blacking--it is the best that was ever seen;
many a half-guinea I have had for it from the officers, and many bottles I
have sold. May you be able to get something for it to repay you for your
kindness to the poor soldier!" Oddly enough that dirty piece of paper
proved worth half a million of money to the hairdresser. It was no less
than a receipt for the famous Day and Martin's blacking, the hairdresser
being the late Mr. Day.
The picture of little ones asking for bread and the parents finding none
in the cupboard is a very old story. Domestic affection, struggling amidst
difficulties and distress, has produced heroes and martyrs innumerable,
but few more interesting than Peter Stokes, famous in years gone by as the
"Flying Pieman." Every day at the beginning of the present century
(excepting when it rained) the familiar figure of that now historic
personage might have been seen in the steep thoroughfare between Staple's
Inn and Field Lane. Peter obtained the _sobriquet_ of "Flying Pieman" from
the celerity of his movements. There was some slight mistake concerning
his nickname, for Peter Stokes sold baked plum pudding, not pies. Stokes
was one of the celebrated old-fashioned London characters, as well known
to cockneys of that period as Billy Waters or the negro crossing-sweeper
at the foot of Ludgate Hill.
Soon after the clock of St. Andrew's Church struck twelve, Stokes used to
turn out of Fetter Lane with a tray of smoking hot plum pudding, the
pudding cut into twelve slices, the price of each being a penny. Peter
carried his tray in one hand and a bright silver scapula in the other. The
customer received his slice of pudding from the scapula after a penny had
been deposited upon the tray (Peter never gave change), the "Flying
Pieman," as he perambulated or as he stopped, never being known to utter
any other word than "Buy, buy, buy." He always wore a black vest,
swallow-tailed coat, stout silk stockings, and shoes with bright silver
buckles, while a snowy white apron and faultlessly frilled shirt completed
a modish and impressive costume. No hat or cap adorned his head, the hair
of which was close cropped and powdered.
Peter Stokes was sometimes known to have disposed of fifty rounds of
pudding _per diem_. His customers have often included aldermen, ladies of
quality, and blue blood bucks, but they received no more attention than
did rougher and humbler patrons. The "Flying Pieman" was attentive to
everybody, but he never turned back for anybody. Making his way deftly
through crowds of pedestrians, hackney coaches or waggons, the "Flying
Pieman" went straight on, calling out "Buy," and only stopped for the
proffered penny; but his real history was indeed a curious one.
Contemporary with him was a portrait painter in Rathbone Place. The artist
painted with great assiduity in the morning, and his evening parties
though homely, were pleasant and refined. A devoted wife and affectionate
children cheered the life of the amiable and industrious artist. He was a
genial-faced man, with dark brown hair. This artist and Peter Stokes were
identical. When young, Stokes made a love-match, married upon next to
nothing, and in a few years found himself the father of several children.
A modest, industrious, painstaking artist, he found but few to sit to him
for a portrait. Things grew exceedingly bad with him.
One day he heard one of his boys crying for something to eat, and the
artist found that his wife had no bread to give the hungry child. Peter
Stokes hurried from his home with an almost wet picture, which he
deposited at a neighbouring pawnbroker's. Returning, the needy artist saw
at a street-corner a boy selling baked potatoes, and moreover the artist
observed that the boy was doing a busy trade. Crushing pride, and taking
his faithful and devoted wife into close confidence, Peter unfolded a plan
by which he too might sell something profitable in the street. Mrs. Stokes
seconded the suggestion, and Peter soon commenced his career as a vendor
of baked plum pudding. He threw a desperate card, but it turned up trumps.
Stokes's portraits have gone to the limbo of oblivion, but the peculiar
method by which he impressed the crowd with his tray of baked plum pudding
shows at any rate that its vendor had a good eye for artistic effect.
If it were, as some will doubtless say, "a sin and shame" that an artist
of Peter Stokes's ability should have to turn itinerant vendor of
pennyworths of pudding, the old adage "Be sure your sin will find you out"
was at fault for once; but to make up for the omission in his case, how
wonderfully true was the proverb in the romantic history of Lord Chief
Justice Holt, whose impecuniosity caused him to commit an act that
resulted in a truly tragic _finale_.
Sir John Holt, famous for his integrity, firmness, and great legal
knowledge, who filled the office of Recorder of London for a year and a
half, losing it in consequence of his uncompromising opposition to the
abolition of the "Test" Act, and whose upright discharge of the important
duties of Lord Chief Justice gained him the highest honour and esteem,
was as a youth wilful and dissipated. In some respects his deeds at that
period bore likeness to those of the madcap Prince Hal, when that
personage was the associate of Falstaff. He was a roysterer, gambler and,
according to some, highwayman. To use Lord Campbell's words, "They even
relate, many years after that, when he was going the circuit as Chief
Justice, he recognised a man convicted capitally before him as one of his
own accomplices in a robbery, and that having visited him in gaol, and
inquired after the rest of the gang, he received this answer: 'Ah! my
lord, they are all hanged but myself and your lordship.'"
On one occasion, Holt, with a band of dissolute and reckless companions,
found himself participator in the perplexing results of a common
bankruptcy. They were without the prospect of obtaining a supper. It was
then agreed that they should make their way singly, each individual to do
the best he could for himself. The band of roysterers separated, Holt
finding himself on a lonely and cheerless road. He was intrepid, nimble
witted, and full of self-possession. Spurring his horse, he set off at a
gallop. Arriving in front of a little hostelry, he alighted from his
steed, handed it over to the care of an ostler, and without more ado went
into the house and ordered the best entertainment that it could afford.
Whatever hardships he had undergone, Holt had now the pleasing expectation
of a savoury supper and comfortable lodgment. Waiting for a smoking dish,
the odour from which pleasantly saluted his nostrils, he carelessly
strolled from the chamber where he had been sitting into the kitchen.
There the hostess was busy in her culinary labours, while near the blazing
fire sat a girl about thirteen years old, pale, haggard, and shivering in
an ague fit. John Holt, though a "ne'er do weel," and a wild impetuous
fellow was not without the instinct of a compassionate heart. He asked
many questions concerning the malady of the young girl as she moaned and
rocked herself in the warmth of the ruddy embers. The mother replied that
for a year her daughter had been stricken by the ague, that the labour of
the doctors trying to cure her had been in vain, and that their charges
had nearly brought the fortunes of the house to ruin.
The young student having listened to the story of the mother's misfortune,
then spoke in contemptuous terms of doctors all round, bade her take
courage and be of good cheer, for he was acquainted with a specific that
would speedily take away her daughter's ague. "Indeed," said Holt, "you
need be under no further concern, for you may assure yourself the girl
shall never have another fit." Taking a piece of parchment from his breast
pocket, he with much gravity and deliberation proceeded to inscribe some
Greek characters on the scrap, and having concluded his work, charged the
mother to bind the parchment upon her daughter's wrist, allowing it to
remain there until the ague departed. By some strange coincidence, or by
the effects wrought upon the sympathies of the girl at the appearance and
touch of the supposed charm, her ague did depart, and returned no more, at
least not during the week John Holt remained the guest of mine hostess.
When he deemed it prudent or convenient to depart, he asked for his bill
with that confidence so often masking the demeanour of the bold adventurer
reduced to impecuniosity. But the hostess, smiling and embarrassed, said
she could make no demand for payment, and further added that she rather
felt in the position of one owing something, than as one having something
to receive. Indeed, she expressed sorrowfully that she could in no way
compensate her guest for the miraculous cure which he had wrought, and
that had she but known him sooner the expense of forty pounds would not
have been swallowed up by the _posse_ of useless doctors. Overcome by the
profuse thanks and grateful acknowledgments of his hostess John Holt
condescended to waive paying his week's bill, and departed with much
hilarity on his journey.
As months and years rolled away, the incidents of a busy life and the
assiduous practice of his profession crowded out of John Holt's memory the
recollection of his strange and facetious adventure at the hostelry on the
Oxford road. Holt's habits changed. He became the wise and impartial
judge, so admirable and so competent, that even his stern Tory father
(spite of the son's Liberal politics) grew proud of the man who in his
youthful career at Oxford had been the wildest of the wild, and the most
erring of the erring. The years have gone on, and when we turn again to
John Holt, he is approaching his sixtieth year. The scene is still in the
county of Oxford, but this time in one of the principal towns. The Summer
Assizes are being held, and the judges are sitting in all wonted
solemnity and state. In the Criminal Court a cause of unusual interest is
being heard.
At the bar there stands a poor, miserable and decrepit old woman. As she
looks at the grave and dignified judge she shakes with terror. The causes
of her fear are solemn and significant, for she is about to be tried for
her life, on the charge of being a witch. In those days of which I am
writing, there existed a terrible superstition in the popular mind
concerning witchcraft, believed as it was to be the crime of all others
the most destructive to man and the most impious in the sight of God. The
comely, dignified and shrewd-eyed judge excites the keenest interest in
the crowded court, for he is one of the "men of mark" of his age, the
profound lawyer, the incorruptible dispenser of justice, and the champion
of truth and freedom.
Witnesses are called. They give their evidence in a plain unpretentious
manner, and it is certain that they possess a firm faith in what they
allege against the miserable prisoner. The principal accusation against
her is that she holds in her possession a potent and mysterious charm. It
enables her to spread disease, or to cure it, and it is further stated
that she has lately been detected using it. "Has anybody seen it?"
inquires the judge. "Yes, please you, my lord, and it is now here ready to
be produced." His lordship directs that it shall be handed to him, and his
order is obeyed. Behold! nothing but a dirty ball wrapped round with rag
and pack-thread. Removing these, he discovers a scrap of stained and
time-worn parchment inscribed with characters in his own handwriting.
Chief Justice Holt, after the lapse of forty years, recognises the Greek
letters which he had scrawled in the inn kitchen situate on the Oxford
road.
Deep silence reigns in the crowded court-house, and every eye is turned on
the judge. Lifting his head from his hands, in which it had been buried
for a few moments, he says to the jury,--
"Gentlemen, I must now relate an incident of my life which ill-suits my
position. To conceal that incident would be to increase the awful folly
which I must atone. Did I conceal that folly of which I was guilty, I
should endanger innocence and countenance superstition. This so-called
charm which these poor ignorant people suppose to have the power of life
and death is a senseless piece of parchment, on which with my own hand I
wrote and gave the poor woman. This poor woman for no other reason stands
before me accused of witchcraft." Chief Justice Holt then narrated the
whole story of his adventure in his early years at the woman's hostelry on
the Oxford road, and the recital produced such an effect upon the minds of
the jury that his old hostess was not only acquitted, but was one of the
last persons tried for the crime of witchcraft in this country.
I turn to another country and to incidents enveloped in a brighter and
pleasanter atmosphere. Readers of the older French literature are familiar
with the notes, verses, and dramas of Alexis Piron. The Burgundian
_bon-vivant_ knew many adventures and much impecuniosity; but
notwithstanding Fortune's buffets he retained "a revenue of good spirits,"
and when turned fifty years of age he participated in a bit of romance.
One evening after supper he went to the shop of a grocer, Gallet, a
song-writer and boon companion. A female entered the shop and asked for
some coffee and matches. Gallet was away, so the poet undertook to serve
the lady, saying to her, "Is that all you want?" The grocer entering
added, "Mademoiselle ought to have a husband in the bargain." "Excellent,"
said Piron, "if the damsel will take up with any kind of wood for her
arrow." A blush suffused the lady's cheeks, and she departed without
making rejoinder.
Next morning she visited the poet. "Monsieur," said she with trepidation,
"we are two children of Burgundy. I have long wanted to see a man of so
much wit, and having learned yesterday that it was you with whom I had to
do in M. Gallet's shop, I have come to-day without ceremony to pay you a
visit. How weary you must grow here! I was very much afraid of finding
some handsome lady from the theatre, but, heaven be praised!"--with a
glance at the extreme poverty of his surroundings--"you live like a
Trappist. Have you never thought of making an end of this?" Said Piron: "I
leave the care of that to la Camarde; but if you please, what do you
mean?" "I wish to say, have you ever thought of marriage?" "Not much.
Mademoiselle, pray sit down while I light the fire." "You don't know,
Monsieur Piron! it will make you laugh." "So much the worse." "I shall
speak plainly. If your heart, has the same sentiment as mine"--the poet
was wonder-stricken, and looked at the lady in silence--"in a word,
Monsieur Piron, I come to offer you my hand and heart, not forgetting my
life-annuity of two thousand livres."
The poet controlled his merry temper, and was touched when he thought what
a compassionate friend had been vouchsafed to him. He saw the woman's eyes
moist with tears, and he embraced her. "I leave to you," said he, "all the
preparations for the wedding. Gallet will write the epithalamium." "You
will make me, Monsieur Piron, the happiest person in the world I did not
hope for so happy a conclusion, for--I do not wish to conceal anything
from you--I am _fifty-five_!" "Well," said Piron, with a slight shrug, "we
have over a hundred years between us. We would have done well to have met
sooner."
This marriage took place amid festivity. The old maid had a good heart and
an amiable temper. She proved a faithful sister, friend, and servant to
Piron. He had aromatic coffee in the morning, the beverage being all the
more palatable, as it was accompanied by the maker's cheerful gossip in
the chimney-corner. Madame Piron expressed herself enthusiastically about
her husband's writings, and Piron felt no longer alone, was able to refuse
going out to dinner in bad weather, and had a crown in his pocket when he
sauntered in the sunshine. He was well off enough to occasionally give
alms, and at last he could receive friends at his hearth. This episode in
the life of Piron is one of the brightest romances of impecuniosity.
Scarcely less happy is an anecdote of Quin the actor, who, if he said many
spiteful things, was not incapable of a generous action. James Thomson,
another of the brotherhood of genius, found himself immured in a
sponging-house. In his dolorous and solitary condition he was one evening
surprised by a visit from Quin. They cracked a bottle, and as the night
wore away a choice supper was served by one of the attendants of the
prison. Thomson, a sensitive nervous man, partook of the dishes with
indifferent appetite, for his thoughts wandered to the payment of the
bill. Another bottle of claret was drunk, and the visitor rose to depart.
"Mr. Thomson," said Quin, "before I go, let me say that there is an
account between us." Thomson was alarmed, and stammered out that he was
unaware of any obligations. "They are mine," replied Quin. "I have
received so much delight from the writings of James Thomson, that I
consider myself his debtor at least for a hundred pounds." Saying this,
he placed a note for that amount on the table, shook the astonished poet
by the hand, and bowed himself out.
I will conclude the selections of romantic impecuniosity with the case of
Thomas De Quincey, who, according to some authorities, being afraid of an
oral examination at Oxford College, left the university by stealth and
wandered away, his stock of money being scant and his whereabouts quite
unknown to his friends. He wandered about Denbighshire, Merionethshire,
and Carnarvonshire. Lodging at some place, De Quincey took affront at
something said by a landlady, and abruptly left his quarters. In his
"Confessions of an Opium Eater" he says,--
"This leaving the lodgings turned out a very unfortunate occurrence
for me, because living henceforward at inns, I was drained of my money
very rapidly. In a fortnight I was reduced to short allowance, that is
I could allow myself only one meal a day. From the keen appetite
produced by constant exercise and mountain air acting on a youthful
stomach I soon began to suffer greatly on this slender regimen, for
the single meal which I could venture to order was coffee or tea.
This, however, was at length withdrawn, and afterwards so long as I
remained in Wales I subsisted either on blackberries, hips, haws,
etc., or on the usual hospitalities which I now and then received for
such little services as I had an opportunity of rendering. Sometimes I
wrote letters of business for cottagers who happened to have relations
in Liverpool or London. More often I wrote love-letters to their
sweethearts for young women who had lived as servants in Shrewsbury or
any other towns on the English border. On all such occasions I gave
great satisfaction to my humble friends, and was generally treated
with hospitality; and once in particular near the village of
Llan-y-styndw (or some such name), in a sequestered part of
Merionethshire, I was entertained for upwards of three days by a
family of young people with an affectionate and fraternal kindness
that left an impression upon my heart not yet impaired. The family
consisted at that time of four sisters and three brothers, all grown
up, and all remarkable for elegance and delicacy of manners. So much
beauty and so much native good breeding and refinement I do not
remember to have seen before or since, in any cottage, except once or
twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire. They spoke English, an
accomplishment not often met with in so many members of one family,
especially in villages remote from the high road. There I wrote, in my
first introduction, a letter about prize-money for one of the
brothers, who had served on board an English man-of-war, and more
privately, two love-letters for two of the sisters. They were both
interesting-looking girls, and one of uncommon loveliness. In the
midst of their confusion and blushes whilst dictating, or rather
giving me general instructions, it did not require any great
penetration to discover that what they wished was "that their letters
should be as kind as was consistent with proper maidenly pride." I
continued so to temper my expressions as to reconcile the
gratification of both feelings, and they were as much pleased with the
way in which I expressed their thoughts as, in their simplicity, they
were astonished at my having so readily discovered them. The reception
one meets with from the women of a family generally determines the
tenor of one's whole entertainment. In this case I had discharged my
confidential duties as secretary so much to the general satisfaction,
perhaps also amusing them with my conversation, that I was pressed to
stay with a cordiality which I had little inclination to resist. I
slept with the brothers, the only unoccupied bed standing in the
apartment of the young women; but in all other points they treated me
with a respect not usually paid to purses as light as mine, as if my
scholarship were sufficient evidence that I was of gentle blood."
Farther on he says,--
"The only friend I had in this strange poverty of mine on first coming
to London was a young woman. She was one of that unhappy class who
belong to the outcasts and pariahs of our female population. For many
weeks I had walked at night with this poor friendless girl up and down
Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps, or under the shelter
of porticoes. One night when we were pacing slowly along Oxford
Street, and after a day when I had felt unusually ill and faint, I
requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square. Thither we went,
and we sat down on the steps of a house which to this hour I never
pass without a pang of grief and an inner act of homage to the spirit
of the unhappy girl in memory of the noble act she performed. Suddenly
as we sat I grew much worse: I had been leaning my head against her
bosom. I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. Uttering
a cry of terror, but without a moment's delay, she ran off into Oxford
Street, and in less time than could be imagined returned to me with a
glass of port wine and spices that acted upon my empty stomach, which
at that time would have rejected all solid food, with an instantaneous
power of restoration, and for this glass the generous girl without a
murmur paid out of her own humble purse, at a time, be it remembered,
when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of
life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever
be able to reimburse her."
I will conclude this chapter with two most truly remarkable stories. The
first is one which Sir Walter Scott used to relate with his own inimitable
powers of story-telling, and which, as the victim was his own cousin, the
narrative on the lips of the novelist ever excited profound interest in
the minds of listeners. It would seem that as a midshipman his cousin
Watty was extremely popular on ship-board and on shore. He was a bit of a
rip, but generous to a fault, handsome, merry and reckless. After one
memorable long voyage he put in with others at Portsmouth, and enjoyed
those roysterings, love passages, tavern pleasures, and adventures so
dear to the heart of "Jack ashore." With a couple of companions Watty
Scott was in the unenviable position of being left high and dry on the
strand of impecuniosity. Moreover the three jolly sailors had run up an
immense bill at a tavern on the Point, the settlement of which haunted
them by day and by night. In their recklessness, almost amounting to
despair, they still went on living high, and steeping recollection of
their liabilities in the fumes of baccy and the odours of the flowing
bowl.
At last came the fatal and imperative orders from official quarters that
they must "ship off." Summoning up their best graces and most insinuating
powers of expression in the way of eloquence, they sought an interview
with their hostess, and acquainted her with their foolish but unfortunate
position; to which account she listened with attention and deep interest.
She was informed not only of their perfect inability to meet the bill, but
that in a short period they were bound to be on board ship. Their caterer
turned a deaf ear to the revelation of their poverty, and in the most
virago-like manner fiercely informed them "that they could not budge an
inch." The sailors pleaded in earnest tones for her mercy, but in the
course of an hour they found themselves guarded by bailiffs, and in one of
the parlours of the hostelry the three youths, for they were nothing more,
sat in moody contemplation of their impending disgrace.
Towards evening their creditor sought them with a less fierce aspect and
uttered words less bitter and explosive than those of which she had
delivered herself in the morning. She told her debtors she would give them
a chance, and proposed a plan by which her claim could be cancelled. The
sailors were told by her that she was a lone woman and had long wanted a
marriage certificate "to give her a respectable position in her calling,"
that one of them must marry her--which one she didn't care a curse--but by
all that was holy if she didn't marry one of them, all three should be
packed off to gaol, and the ship must go without them. Remonstrance,
promises to pay in a few months, the unreasonableness of the request, in
fact everything said by the discomfited sailors was in vain. It was
impossible to pacify her, and the victims of impecuniosity saw that the
woman's proposal was the only means of escaping from disgrace and
humiliation. After taking counsel among themselves, the three sailors drew
lots for the hymeneal martyrdom, and the ill-luck fell on Watty Scott.
Next morning the midshipman and the landlady were spliced, and returned to
the tavern, where a rich and liberal dinner awaited the newly married
couple and the two fortunate companions of the bridegroom; and in the
afternoon the three sailors were tumbled into a wherry, and were soon
aboard ship. The marriage was kept a secret, and the first to reveal it
was Watty Scott, who one day at a town in Jamaica, reading a newspaper,
saw an account of a trial for murder and robbery in connection with a
Portsmouth tavern, and having read all particulars, exclaimed, "Thank God,
my wife's hanged!"
The other anecdote is more appalling in detail than anything I can
remember, and is recorded of a German nobleman who was a contemporary of
the first Napoleon.
The story opens in the solitary chamber of a dilapidated chateau situated
on the skirts of the Black Forest in Germany. In a corner of the chamber
sits a young man of aristocratic mien and military garb, his face buried
in his hands, and his whole demeanour indicating the most intense
hopelessness and sorrow. The courtyard and gardens of the chateau, as they
may be seen from the windows of the room in which the young man has sunk
upon a seat, are everywhere pervaded by an air of desolation. Tokens of
past opulence and taste may be observed in dismantled and untended
flower-beds, fallen vases and statues, and in the unhinged and rusting
iron gates. Forlorn as is the appearance of the interior and exterior of
the once beautiful chateau, it is not more forlorn and desolate than the
heart of the young soldier, sole tenant of the silent and deserted
chamber. The young man's history had been most melancholy. His mother,
harshly used by the man who at the altar had sworn to love and cherish
her, had died when he was only nineteen years of age. Her death was caused
by a broken heart, and the son, finding that he held no place in the
esteem or affections of the surviving parent, gladly accepted the offer of
a commission in an Austrian company of hussars.
After five years of hard and active service, respite and tranquil leisure
fell to the lot of the young soldier, and with the instincts of a loyal
and affectionate heart, he set out in the direction of his father's
residence on horseback, attended by his ordinary military servant.
On the second day's journey while going in the direction of the parental
home he found himself benighted in the midst of the Black Forest. It was a
perilous and wearisome journey, which, however, found relief by the
appearance of lights in what seemed to be some kind of human habitation.
It proved to be a rough and isolated inn, where the officer and his
orderly were soon housed, after accommodation had been found for their
horses. Everything about the cabaret was rough, uncomfortable, and
unprepossessing. The only man in attendance was of ruffianly and sinister
aspect. The orderly after supper was requested by his master to sleep
(ready for call) near the horses under the manger in the stable, and
afterwards the officer (carefully concealing a pair of pistols under his
cloak) requested to be shown to his sleeping apartment, which proved to be
little better than a loft. He placed the oil lamp on a chair, laid his
sword by it, and threw himself down on the rude pallet-bed without taking
off his clothes. Not feeling sleepy he turned his pillow, and found that
it was stained with blood recently shed, and which strengthening the
apprehensions formed on his entrance into the house, at once impelled him
to cock his pistols and draw his sword.
For an hour or two the house seemed to be wrapped in profound silence, and
just as the wearied guest found that drowsiness was stealing over him he
cast his eyes across the room and noticed that a portion of the flooring
heaved and rose. The officer crept from the bed and stood sword in hand
watching a trap-door which had been quietly raised by a hand. With all the
strength he could command and with all the quickness he could exercise he
smote the hand, when the trap closed, and beneath it he heard a smothered
cry. Hurrying down stairs, he reached the front door, unbarred it, made
his way to the stable, and roused the servant. In a short time master and
man were galloping away on the road, and the rest of their journey was
secure and without adventure. On the third day he reached the chateau of
his father. It was the soldier's birthplace, and his heart filled with
grief when he saw that his once-loved home was deserted and seemingly
tenantless. Decay seemed to have invaded everything. No summons awaited
their thundering knocks at the hall-door, but at one of the windows could
be seen the pallid, ghastly visage of a man watching. Master and man made
a forcible entry into the house, and sought the room at the window of
which had peered the strange and repulsive face. On entering the room the
young soldier recognised his father, haggard and scowling, who when he saw
his son's extended hand held up a mutilated stump and said, "That's your
answer." The father, ruined by reckless living, had, owing to his
impecuniosity, joined a lawless gang frequenting the cabaret, and had
sought to rob and murder his own son.
THE END
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
End of Project Gutenberg's Curiosities of Impecuniosity, by H. G. Somerville