"'Confound it,' at length said the traveller. 'What have you got in the house?'

"'An execution, sir,' was the prompt response of the doleful waiter.

"And so it was at 'The Swan.' When Pellatt and his friend entered the parlour there was but a glimmer of light, and no fire. A most civil man, whose name turned out to be Mathews, informed his guests that he would instantly light a fire and make them comfortable.

"'Not worth while,' said Pellatt, 'We only want a gla.s.s of gin and water, and a pipe.'

"The host would not be denied. In a few minutes there was a blazing fire, the hot grog was upon the table, and Pellatt and Old Beans were smoking away like steam. The supposed landlord was invited to take a seat with them, and during the conversation informed them that he was the man in possession, and that he was allowed to provide a little spirits, and a cask of beer, and reap the profits himself just to keep the house open until a purchaser could be found for it, and he further stated how glad he should be if the gentlemen would come again. Being told by Pellatt all about the 'Never Sink,' when I again left the Queen's Bench Prison, and visited the outer world, I aided them in establishing what we dignified by the t.i.tle of 'The Hard Up Club.' Its inst.i.tution commenced by Old Beans being appointed steward, and in that capacity began his campaign by buying a pound of cold boiled beef at Cautis's, Temple Bar, and four pennyworth of hot roasted potatoes from the man who stood with the baked 'tatur' can in front of Clement's Inn. As the club increased in number so did our commissariat in supplies and importance, and the office of 'Old Beans'

became no sinecure. His duty, and it was performed _con amore_, was to be in attendance early in the day at the club to provide the dinner. The money to pay for this was invariably collected over night; and I have known the funds to be so short that 'Old Beans's' ingenuity has been frequently and greatly taxed to meet the necessary requirements and expenditure. A shoulder of mutton was a familiar dish, Beans preparing heaps of potatoes, and with a skilful culinary nicety, for which he was eminent, making the onion sauce himself. A bullock's heart was also a favourite with us, provided always that Old Beans made the gravy and stuffing. I said to our gracious and economical steward the first day we had the ox heart, 'Beany, you'll want some gravy beef.'

"'The deaf ears' (the hard, gristly substance attached to the top of a bullock's heart), said he, 'will make excellent gravy. The 'Hard Ups'

can't afford beef. No, no, we'll make the deaf ears do.' It may be imagined that Old Beans's place was a difficult one. One Kay, a large, seedy lawyer, who wore shabby black and white stockings, and shoes, was always behindhand with his share of cash. If a shilling were required, Kay would pay into the hands of the steward about nine pence halfpenny, vowing that he had no more, and Beans always declared himself out of pocket by Kay. We had, however, a visitor who added l.u.s.tre to our a.s.sociation, but he was not a dining member--he could not be--his means were too limited even for our humble carousings. This member was a very old man, Colonel Curry, formerly a member of the Irish Parliament. He lodged in one room in Arundel Street, therefore the 'Never Sink' was to him a convenient hostelry, and he could do as he liked. He did so. On a small shelf over the parlour-door the colonel kept his own table-napkin, mustard, pepper, and salt. He also had a small gravy-tight tin case, and in that he brought with him every day four pennyworth of hot meat, generally bought at the corner of Angel Inn Yard, Clement's Inn. All he spent at the 'Never Sink'

was three halfpence for a gla.s.s of rum, which he diluted from six o'clock in the evening till eleven o'clock at night: in the last mixing the rum was unrecognisable, the water colourless. Curry was a proud Irishman, never accepting the oft-proffered hospitality of others. His conversation was delightful, amusing, instructive. He never complained, and we were left to doubt whether his economy proceeded from parsimony or poverty; but from his highly honourable sentiments I should conclude the latter. It was a rule with the club that all the good sort of fellows with whom the members might be acquainted should be pressed into the general service of the club: thus any member who in better days had been a good customer to a thriving publican (and there was scarcely one exception in the whole society) should use his best endeavour to introduce that publican to the 'Never Sink,' and get him to stand treat. The number of dinners and liquors obtained by such endeavours were prodigious. The club included several members of the republic of letters, who, to quote Tom Hood, had not a sovereign amongst them. Indeed, they had but one pa.s.sable crown. One hat served nine; their shirts were latent; their dinners intermittent, and their grog often eleemosynary. Nothing sparkled about them but their wit, which was as keen as their appet.i.tes. The man of genius crouches in social poverty in a commonwealth of mutual privation.

"'There wit, subdued by poverty's sharp thorn, Was joined by wisdom equally forlorn; And stinted genius took a draught of malt On baked potatoes mixed with attic salt.'"

CHAPTER IV.

THE LUCK AND ILL LUCK OF IMPECUNIOSITY.

Shakespeare, though he says "There's a divinity doth shape our ends, rough-hew them how we will," admits that "There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune," which certainly looks as if we had something to do with the matter. "Man," it has been said, "is the architect of his own fortune," but it is equally a fact that some individuals have many more chances than others of making that fortune, especially those who are apparently undeserving. In the same way, impecuniosity has with some been the very means of introducing them to the road to success, while it has only plunged others in suffering.

Amongst the former may be ranked Benjamin Charles Incledon, who flourished in the latter part of the eighteenth century, and in the beginning of the nineteenth. He was born at Callington, in Cornwall, and at a very early age was a choir-boy in Exeter Cathedral, in which city he received his musical education from Jackson, the composer. At sixteen he entered the navy, and in the course of the two years that he remained in the service was in several engagements. When the _Formidable_ was paid off at Chatham, in 1784, the young sailor turned his steps towards Cornwall, but when he reached Hitchen Ferry, near Southampton, he had got rid of whatever money he started with, and had to ask a.s.sistance of a recruiting sergeant, who not only gave him the means to get ferried over, but invited him to a public-house in the town, where they made merry over bread and cheese, and ale. The company became convivial, and Incledon, in his turn, sang a ballad which delighted everybody, but especially the prompter of the Southampton Theatre, who happened to be sitting in the bar-parlour smoking his pipe, and who rushed out to his manager before the song was finished to tell him of the _rara avis_ he had found. Collins, the manager, returned forthwith, and was so delighted with the sailor's vocal abilities that he offered him an engagement at _half-a-guinea a week_, there and then, which offer was accepted, Incledon making his first appearance as Alphonso in 'The Castle of Andalusia.' His career was most successful, and he is spoken of by more than one authority as the first English singer on the stage of his day.

Under the circ.u.mstances it must surely be conceded, that the impecuniosity which caused him to sing that song at that particular time, was particularly lucky, and Incledon is not the only individual who has been blessed with good fortune through the same means. In 'The Life of a Showman,' by D. G. Miller, that gentleman relates that one winter's afternoon he arrived with his family at a c.u.mberland village in a most pitiable plight, for though he had several "children he had but one sixpence." The journey, effected with a horse and cart, had been extremely trying, because across the road they had travelled ran a small rivulet, which was frozen, and a pa.s.sage through which had to be made for the horse, the driver standing upon the shafts across the back of the horse, while the showman waded through the water nearly up to his waist, a state of discomfort enhanced by the plunging of the horse and the shrieks of the children. When the party arrived at the public-house (where there was a large room which was occasionally let for entertainments, &c.), they were nearly frozen, and proceeded to warm themselves by the kitchen fire. After calling for a quart of ale, and paying for it with the solitary sixpence in his possession, the showman proceeded to look after his properties, and found that the man with the cart, being anxious to get back, had unloaded the luggage at the door. Enquiring of the landlady if he could engage the large room for a few nights for a very superior exhibition, the itinerant performer was informed by her, "I can't tell, but I think not. The last people who were here didn't pay the rent. However, the landlord is not at home, and I can say nothing about it."

After this he asked if they could be supplied with some tea, and on being replied to in the affirmative, says, "The expression on my wife's face seemed to say, 'Are you mad--where will you get the money to pay for it?'

I paid no attention, however, to her look: the tea was got ready, and we sat down and made a hearty meal--at least, the children and I did. As to my wife, she was alarmed at my conduct, and was too frightened to eat, although she had tasted nothing since breakfast."

After tea he asked if they could be accommodated with beds, but was refused by the landlord, who showed his suspicions. The showman pointed to the snow, which was falling heavily, and asked permission for his wife and children to remain by the fire all night, professing to be able to pay, and at last the landlord sulkily agreed to let them have beds. After the wife and children retired, a good number of customers came in, and a raffle was started for a watch, thirty members at a shilling. While this was being arranged the visitors joked and sang, and presently the showman was asked if he would oblige with a song; he readily complied, and was voted a jolly good fellow by all present, including the landlord, who apologised then for having demurred about the accommodation. When the raffle began, it was found there was one more subscriber wanted, and the showman was asked to join, which he said he would gladly do, but his wife kept the purse and she had gone to bed, and being very tired he did not like to disturb her. The landlord at once said, "Certainly not, here's a shilling; pay me in the morning." He accepted the proffered coin, threw the dice, and won the watch, which he sold for a sovereign. He then gave an exhibition of his skill with sleight of hand tricks, to the great delight of the customers, and was informed by the landlord before he went to bed that he could have the big room for a night or two. To this he replied, "I will think it over," and joined his wife, whom he found in a state of the greatest trepidation at the thought of their not having the money to pay for their board and lodging. He set her fears literally at rest, by showing her the proceeds of the watch he had sold. The next and two following evenings he gave three most successful performances in the big room, and finally left the village with flying colours, _en route_ for Carlisle. His good fortune, as in the case of Incledon, being fairly attributable to the singing of a song; which savours strongly to my mind of what is generally understood by the term "lucky."

Though somewhat different in detail, the impecuniosity of the late distinguished journalist, G. A. Sala, when a young man, was equally felicitous. Born in 1827 of not over-wealthy parents (Mrs. Sala was an operatic singer and teacher of music), he from an early age suffered with bad eyes, which prevented him learning to read until he was nine years old. When fourteen he began to earn his own living, and from that time till he was four-and-twenty, his mode of existence seems to have been more or less precarious. At one time engaged in copying plans of projected railways, then acting as a.s.sistant scene-painter at fifteen shillings a week, afterwards designing the cheapest and least elegant description of valentines, and subsequently drawing woodcuts for those inferior periodicals pretty generally known as "penny dreadfuls." In the year 1851 his health gave way while he was pursuing the avocation of an engraver.

The acids used in engraving so affecting his eyes that for a time he was quite blind, and loss of eyesight meant loss of work, and loss of work involved loss of income. The poverty he suffered at this time must have been of the direst; but though he had lost almost everything else, he never apparently quite lost heart, and when his sight improved he dashed off an article called "The Key of the Street," descriptive of a night spent by a poor wanderer in London, which he sent in to d.i.c.kens, who had not long started _Household Words_. The feelings of the homeless man were described in a manner that shows the writer _felt_ his subject, although it is hinted that the experiences related may have been the result of caprice.

He says, "I have no bed to-night. Why, it matters not. Perhaps I have lost my latch-key--perhaps I never had one; yet am fearful of knocking up my landlady after midnight. Perhaps I have a caprice--a fancy--for stopping up all night. At all events, I have no bed; and, saving ninepence (sixpence in silver, and threepence in coppers), no money. I must walk the streets all night; for I cannot, look you, get anything in the shape of a bed for less than a shilling. Coffee-houses, into which--seduced by their cheap appearance--I have entered, and where I have humbly sought a lodging, laugh my ninepence to scorn. They demand impossible eighteenpences--unattainable shillings. There is clearly no bed for me.

"It is midnight--so the clanging tongue of St. Dunstan's tells me--as I stand thus bedless at Temple Bar. I have walked a good deal during the day, and have an uncomfortable sensation in my feet, suggesting the idea that the soles of my boots are made of roasted brickbats. I am thirsty too (it is July and sultry), and just as the last chime of St. Dunstan's is heard, I have half-a-pint of porter, and a ninth part of my ninepence is gone from me for ever. The public-house where I have it (or rather the beer-shop, for it is an establishment of 'the gla.s.s of ale and sandwich'

description) is an early closing one, and the proprietor, as he serves me, yawningly orders the potboy to put the shutters up, for he is 'off to bed.' Happy proprietor! There is a bristly-bearded tailor too, very beery, having his last pint, who utters a similar somniferous intention. He calls it 'Bedfordshire.' Thrice happy tailor!

"I envy him fiercely, as he goes out, though, G.o.d wot, his bedchamber may be but a squalid attic, and his bed a tattered hop-sack, with a slop great-coat from the emporium of Messrs. Melchisedek & Son, and which he had been working at all day, for a coverlid. I envy his children (I am sure he has a frouzy, ragged brood of them) _for they have at least somewhere to sleep. I haven't_."

Then follows a most graphic account of the persons encountered during the eight hours' enforced prowl (including a flying visit to a fourpenny lodging-house, which was not a "model" of cleanliness), all the personages met with, and the occurrences witnessed being described with a freshness and fidelity that stamped the author as a descriptive writer of uncommon power. Charles d.i.c.kens at once forwarded a cheque for the contribution named, and, in the words of Oliver Twist, "asked for more;" and the late George Augustus Sala has for years been regarded as the journalist _par excellence_ of the day.

In like manner the needy circ.u.mstances of Charlotte Cushman had much to do with her obtaining an engagement at the Princess's Theatre, and making the great reputation she achieved in England. When first introduced to Mr.

Maddox, the then lessee and manager of the house in Oxford Street, she did not impress him favourably. She had no pretensions to beauty, and Mr.

Maddox considered she had not the qualities essential to a stage heroine.

From London she went to Paris, in the hope of getting engaged by an English company performing there, but failing, and having obtained a letter of introduction from some one supposed to have great influence with the lessee, she again sought Mr. Maddox, with no better result. Stung to the quick by this second repulse, and made desperate by her critical situation, she turned when she had almost reached the door, exclaiming, "I know I have enemies in this country, but" (here she cast herself on her knees, raising her clenched hand aloft), "so help me Heaven, I'll defeat them!" Mr. Maddox was at once satisfied with the tragic power of his visitor, and offered her an engagement forthwith.

If there is any doubt as to Charlotte Cushman's success being attributable to impecuniosity the case of O'Brien, the celebrated Irish giant, is most clear.

This lengthy individual, whose height was 8ft. 7in., was born at Kinsale, where, with his father, he laboured as a bricklayer. His extraordinary size soon attracted the attention of a travelling showman, who, on payment of 50 per annum, acquired the right of exhibiting him for three years in England.

Not satisfied with this extremely good bargain, his master tried to sublet him to another person in the show business, a proceeding which Cotter (the giant's real name) objected to, and for which objection he was saddled with a fict.i.tious debt, and thrown into Bristol Jail. This apparent misfortune was, in the end, one of the luckiest things that could have happened to him. While in prison he was visited by a gentleman who took compa.s.sion on his distress, and believing him to be unjustly detained, very generously became his bail, ultimately investigating the affair so successfully as to obtain for him not only his liberty but his freedom to discontinue serving his taskmaster any longer. It happened to be September when he was liberated, and by the further a.s.sistance of his benefactor he was enabled to set up for himself in the fair then held in St. James's, and such an attraction did he prove that in three days he realised the considerable sum of 30. From that time he continued to exhibit himself for twenty-six years, when, having realised a fortune sufficient to enable him to keep a carriage and live in luxury, he retired into private life.

A practical joke led to the ultimate success of Edward Knight, a popular comedian of last century. While with Mr. Nunns, manager of the Stafford company, he received a message from a stranger desiring his presence at a certain inn. On repairing thither he was courteously received by a gentleman who desired to show his gratification at Knight's performance by giving him permission to use his name (Phillips) to Mr. Tate Wilkinson, the manager of the York Theatre, who, the stranger felt sure, on account of his intimacy with him would be sure to give Knight a good engagement.

Next morning a letter was sent by the elated actor, who in due course received the following reply:

"Sir,--I am not acquainted with any Mr. Phillips, except a rigid Quaker, and he is the last man in the world to recommend an actor to my theatre. I don't want you.

"TATE WILKINSON."

This rebuff was so unexpected, and so mortifying, that the recipient sent a short and sharp answer:

"Sir,--I should as soon think of applying to a Methodist parson to preach for my benefit as to a Quaker to recommend me to Mr. Wilkinson.

I don't want to come.

"E. KNIGHT."

After an interval of twelve months, when the elder Mathews seceded from his company, he wrote to Knight as follows:

"Mr. Methodist Parson,--I have a living that produces twenty-five shillings per week. Will you hold forth?

"TATE WILKINSON."

The invitation was gladly accepted, and for seven years he continued at York with unvarying success; at the end of which time he obtained an engagement at Drury Lane, and became a metropolitan favourite.

Though perhaps not so striking an example as any of the foregoing, an episode in the life of William Dobson (called by Charles the First "the English Tintoret") is more or less of the same fortunate nature. Dobson, who always betrayed in his best efforts the want of proper training, was, as a boy, apprenticed to a Mr. Peake, who was more of a dealer in, than a painter of, pictures, and who consequently was anything but a competent teacher. Nevertheless, his collection of paintings, which included some by t.i.tian and Van Dyck, was most valuable to the youngster, who copied both those masters with such wonderful correctness that none but an _expert_ could detect the difference. When very young, and very poor, he managed to get one of his copies of a Van Dyck exhibited in a shop window on Snow Hill, which, strangely enough, was seen by no less a person than the author of the original, who immediately sought out the individual who had reproduced his work with such fidelity, and finding him toiling away in a miserable garret, took him by the hand, and brought him to the notice of King Charles.

Another instance of luck not dissociated with impecuniosity is found in the case of Perry, of _The Morning Chronicle_. Educated at Marischal College, Aberdeen, which he entered in 1771, he was first employed in that town as a lawyer's clerk; but full of literary ambition, and possessed of much literary culture, he made his way to Edinburgh, where he almost starved, not being able to find employment of any kind. From Edinburgh he went to Manchester, where he just managed to eke out an existence; but believing London was the El Dorado for men of letters, he was not content till he had started for the great city. Amongst others who had promised him work was Urquart, the bookseller, to whom he wrote without success.

One morning he called upon that gentleman, and was leaving the shop after a fruitless interview, when the bookseller said he had just experienced great pleasure in reading an article in _The General Advertiser_, and, said he, "If you could write like that, I could soon find you an engagement." It so happened that Perry had sent in an article to that paper, and his joy may be imagined when he was able to claim the lauded production as his own; bringing out of his pocket another of the same sort, which he was about to drop into the editor's box as before. He was immediately engaged as a paid contributor to _The General Advertiser_ and _Evening Post_, and ultimately became editor and proprietor of _The Morning Chronicle_.

One of the most remarkable of the lucky ill.u.s.trations, however, is that of Hogarth, when he was a struggling artist. At the time referred to, when studying at St. Martin's Lane Academy, he was oftentimes reduced to the lowest possible water-mark; and while laying the foundation of his future celebrity, he was exposed to all the humiliating inconveniences too frequently a.s.sociated with penury, not the least of such annoyances being the contemptuous insolence of an ignorant letter of lodgings. The story goes that on one of these occasions when he was unmercifully dunned by his landlady for the small sum of a sovereign, he was so exasperated that, with a view to being revenged upon her, he made a sketch of her face so excruciatingly ugly, that it revealed at once his marvellous power as a caricaturist.

Turning to the opposite side of the subject--the unlucky, there is, it must be admitted, a dearth of similarly appropriate examples. It is not that there is any scarcity of cases of great misfortune in connection with impecuniosity, but the circ.u.mstances connected with such cases are not so apparently the result of accident. In the lucky instances enumerated the chance element was conspicuous, but the same cannot be said of the adverse anecdotes; for they, or rather those that have come under my notice, are unfortunate cases rather than unlucky. For instance, the impecuniosity that introduced the Irish giant to some one he would not otherwise have met, who put him in the way of realising a competency, was manifestly lucky; but the impecuniosity that attended Stow, the antiquary, in his latest years, could not in the same sense be called _un_lucky, inasmuch as it was owing to no particular act or chance circ.u.mstance that he continued poor. The kind of cases that I consider would more properly ill.u.s.trate this phase of the subject would be those of persons who, from, say, missing an appointment with some patron of eminence owing to being hard up, lost an opportunity of advancement, which never occurred again; or by not having some small amount of ready money were unable to avail themselves of an advantageous offer, which would have resulted in a fortune. That such mishaps have occurred in the long list of unrecorded lives there is little doubt; but I cannot call any to remembrance at the present time. The only instances I have met with in my research being those of unfortunate persons, whose histories of hardship would be more fittingly recounted as the sad side of impecuniosity.

The individual just referred to, John Stow, the antiquary, is a most melancholy case in point. A profound scholar in every sense, he devoted his life and substance to the study of English antiquities; oftentimes travelling tremendous distances on foot to save monuments, and rescue rare works from the dispersed libraries of monasteries. His enthusiasm for study was unbounded, and at his death he left stupendous excerpts in his own handwriting. At an advanced age, when worn out by study and travel, and the cares and anxieties of poverty--for he was utterly neglected by the pretended patrons of learning--his other troubles were increased by most acute pains in the feet, which he good-humouredly referred to by saying "his affliction lay in that part which formerly he had made so much use of." At last he became so necessitous that he pet.i.tioned James the First for a licence to collect alms for himself, "as a recompense for his labour and travel of forty-five years, in setting forth the Chronicles of England, and eight years taken up in the Survey of the Cities of London and Westminster, towards his relief now in his old age: having left his former means of living, and only employing himself for the service and good of his country"--which pet.i.tion was granted by letters patent under the Great Seal, permitting him to seek a.s.sistance from all well-disposed people within this realm of England. The terms in which this permit was set forth ("to ask, gather, and take the alms of all our loving subjects") were scarcely correct; that is to say, "to ask, gather, and take the alms of all our loving subjects--who will give" would have been more complete; for though the letters patent were published by the clergy from their pulpits, the result was so trifling that they had to be renewed for another twelvemonth; one entire parish in the city subscribing but seven and sixpence to the poor scholar's appeal.

Learning in Stow's time, and for a long time after, was evidently but poorly patronised, for his is by no means an isolated experience. Myles Davies, author of 'Athenae Britannicae,' &c., published in 1716, suffered similar neglect; his mind, it is alleged, becoming quite confused amidst the loud cries of penury and despair.

Alluding to those who were supposed to support such as himself, he scathingly says, "Some parsons would halloo enough to raise the whole house and home of the domestics to raise a poor crown; at last all that flutter ends in sending Jack or Tom out to change a guinea, and then 'tis reckoned over half-a-dozen times before the fatal crown can be picked out, which must be taken as it is given, with all the parade of almsgiving [Davies, be it remembered, was a Welsh divine], and so to be received with all the active and pa.s.sive ceremonial of mendication and alms-receiving, as if the books, printing, and paper were worth nothing at all, and as if it were the greatest charity for them to touch them, or let them be in the house. 'For I shall never read them,' says one of the five-shilling chaps.

'I have no time to look into them,' says a third. "Tis so much money lost,' says a grave dean. 'My eyes being so bad,' said a bishop, 'that I can scarce read at all.' 'What do you want with me?' said another. 'Sir, I presented you the other day with my 'Athenae Britannicae,' being the last part published.' 'I don't want books, take them again; I don't understand what they mean.' 'The t.i.tle is very plain,' said I, 'and they are writ mostly in English.' 'I'll give you a crown for both the volumes.' 'They stand me, sir, in more than that, and 'tis for a bare subsistence I present or sell them; how shall I live?' 'I care not a farthing for that--live or die, 'tis all one to me.' 'd.a.m.n my master,' said Jack, "twas but last night he was commending your books and your learning to the skies, and now he would not care if you were starving before his eyes; nay, he often makes game at your clothes, though he thinks you the greatest scholar in England.'"

So much for the way literature was encouraged in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and that it was little better in the eighteenth century is only too well-known a fact; for "in those days, a large proportion of working literary men were little better than outcasts;--persons exiled from decent society, partly by their own vices, partly by the fact of their following a profession which had hardly acquired a recognised standing in the world, or found for itself a definite and indisputable sphere of usefulness. The reading public was not sufficient to maintain an extensive fraternity of writers, and the writers consequently often starved, and broke their hearts in wretched garrets, or earned a despicable living by flattering the great."

These animadversions are especially meant to apply to that cla.s.s of _litterateurs_ known as "Grub Street pamphleteers," but not a few notable names in the world of letters can be found to verify the gloomy picture.