Part 21 (1/2)

Sydney Smith had a severe struggle with poverty in the early part of his life. He had a poor living, a wide parish, and a large family. His daughter says that his debts occasioned him many sleepless nights, and that she has seen him in an evening, when bill after bill has poured in (carefully examining them, and gradually paying them off), quite overcome by the feeling of the debt hanging over him, cover his face with his hands, and exclaim, ”Ah! I see I shall end my old age in a gaol.”[1] But he bore up bravely under the burden, labouring onward with a cheerful heart, eking out his slender means by writing articles for the _Edinburgh_, until at length promotion reached him, and he reaped the reward of his perseverance, his industry, and his independence.

[Footnote 1: LADY HOLLAND--_Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith_, vol. i, p.

206.]

De Foe's life was a long battle with difficulty and debt. He was constantly involved in broils, mostly of his own stirring up. He was a fierce pamphleteer from his youth up; and was never for a moment at rest, He was by turns a soldier with the Duke of Monmouth, a pantile maker, a projector, a poet, a political agent, a novelist, an essayist, a historian. He was familiar with the pillory, and spent much of his time in gaol. When reproached by one of his adversaries with mercenariness, he piteously declared how he had, ”in the pursuit of peace, brought himself into innumerable broils;” how he had been ”sued for other men's debts, and stripped naked by public opinion, of what should have enabled him to pay his own;” how, ”with a numerous family, and with no helps but his own industry, he had forced his way, with undiscouraged diligence, through a sea of debt and misfortune,” and ”in gaols, in retreats, and in all manner of extremities, supported himself without the a.s.sistance of friends and relations.” Surely, there never was such a life of struggle and of difficulty as that of the indefatigable De Foe. Yet all his literary labours, and they were enormous, did not suffice to keep him clear of debt, for it is believed that he died insolvent.[2]

[Footnote 2: George Chalmers--_Life of De Foe,_ p. 92.]

Southey was, in his own line, almost as laborious a writer as De Foe; though his was the closet life of the student, and not the aggressive life of the polemic. Though he knew debt, it never became his master; and from an early period in his career, he determined not to contract a debt that he was not able to discharge. He was not only enabled to do this, but to help his friends liberally--maintaining for a time the families of his brothers-in-law, Coleridge and Lovell--by simply not allowing himself any indulgences beyond his actual means, though these were often very straitened. The burthen he carried would have borne down a man less brave and resolute; but he worked, and studied, and wrote, and earned money enough for all his own wants, as well as the wants of those who had become dependent upon him. He held on his n.o.ble way without a murmur or complaint. He not only liberally helped his relatives, but his old schoolfellows, in distress. He took Coleridge's wife and family to live with him, at a time when Coleridge had abandoned himself to opium-drinking. To meet the numerous claims upon him, Southey merely imposed upon himself so much extra labour. He was always ready with good advice to young men who sought his help. Thus he encouraged Kirke White, Herbert Knowles, and Dusantoy, all of whom died young and full of promise. He not only helped them with advice and encouragement, but with money; and his timely a.s.sistance rescued the sister of Chatterton from absolute want. And thus he worked on n.o.bly and unselfishly to the last--finding happiness and joy in the pursuit of letters--”not so learned as poor, not so poor as proud, not so proud as happy.” These were his own words.

The most touching story in Sir Walter Scott's life, is the manner in which he conducted himself after the failure of the publis.h.i.+ng house of Constable and Co., with which he had become deeply involved. He had built Abbotsford, become a laird, was sheriff of his county, and thought himself a rich man; when suddenly the Constable firm broke down, and he found himself indebted to the world more than a hundred thousand pounds.

”It is very hard,” he said, when the untoward news reached him, ”thus to lose all the labour of a lifetime, and to be made a poor man at last.

But if G.o.d grant me health and strength for a few years longer, I have no doubt that I shall redeem it all.” Everybody thought him a ruined man, and he almost felt himself to be so. But his courage never gave way. When his creditors proposed to him a composition, his sense of honour forbade his listening to them. ”No, gentlemen,” he replied; ”Time and I against any two.” Though the debts had been contracted by others, he had made himself legally responsible for them; and, strong in his principle of integrity, he determined, if he could, to pay them off to the last farthing. And he set himself to do it: but it cost him his life.

He parted with his town house and furniture, delivered over his personal effects to be held in trust for his creditors, and bound himself to discharge a certain amount of his liabilities annually. This he did by undertaking new literary works, some of them of great magnitude, the execution of which, though they enabled him to discharge a large portion of his debt, added but little to his reputation. One of his first tasks was his ”Life of Napoleon Buonaparte,” in nine volumes, which he wrote, in the midst of pain, sorrow, and ruin, in about thirteen months,--receiving for it about fourteen thousand pounds. Even though struck by paralysis, he went on writing until in about four years he had discharged about two-thirds of the debt for which he was responsible,--an achievement probably unparalleled in the history of letters.

The sacrifices and efforts which he made during the last few years of his life, even while paralyzed and scarcely able to hold his pen, exhibit Scott in a truly heroic light. He bore up with unconquerable spirit to the last. When his doctor expostulated with him against his excessive brain-work, he replied, ”If I were to be idle, I should go mad: in comparison to this, death is no risk to shrink from.” Shortly before his last fatal attack, when sitting dozing in his chair on the gra.s.s in front of the house at Abbotsford, he suddenly roused himself, threw off the plaids which covered him, and exclaimed, ”This is sad idleness. Take me to my own room, and fetch the keys of my desk.” They wheeled him into his study, and put pens and paper before him. But he could not grasp the pen; he could not write; and the tears rolled down his cheeks. His spirit was not conquered, but his bodily powers were exhausted and shattered; and when at length he died, he fell asleep--like a child.

Scott felt, what every sensitive nature must feel, that poverty is a much lighter burden to bear than debt. There is nothing ignominious about poverty. It may even serve as a healthy stimulus to great spirits.

”Under gold mountains and thrones,” said Jean Paul, ”lie buried many spiritual giants.” Richter even held that poverty was to be welcomed, so that it came not too late in life. And doubtless Scott's burden was all the heavier to bear, because it came upon him in his declining years.

Shakespeare was originally a poor man: ”It is a question,” says Carlyle, ”whether, had not want, discomfort, and distress warrants been busy at Stratford-on-Avon, Shakespeare had not lived killing calves or combing wool! ”To Milton's and Dryden's narrow means we probably owe the best part of their works.

Johnson was a very poor man, and a very brave one. He never knew what wealth was. His mind was always greater than his fortune; and it is the mind that makes the man rich or poor, happy or miserable. Johnson's gruff and bluff exterior covered a manly and n.o.ble nature. He had early known poverty and debt, and wished himself clear of both. When at college, his feet appeared through his shoes, but he was too poor to buy new ones. His head was full of learning, but his pockets were empty. How he struggled through distress and difficulty during his first years in London the reader can learn from his ”Life.” He bedded and boarded for fourpence-halfpenny a day, and when too poor to pay for a bed, he wandered with Savage whole nights in the streets.[1] He struggled on manfully, never whining at his lot, but trying to make the best of it.

[Footnote 1: ”He said a man might live in a garret at eighteen-pence a week; few people would inquire where he lodged; and if they did, it was easy to say, 'Sir, I am to be found at such a place.' By spending threepence in a coffee house, he might be for some hours every day in very good company; he might dine for sixpence, breakfast on bread and milk for a penny, and do without supper. On _clean-s.h.i.+rt day_ he went abroad and paid visits.” BOSWELL--_Life of Johnson_.]

These early sorrows and struggles of Johnson left their scars upon his nature; but they also enlarged and enriched his experience, as well as widened his range of human sympathy. Even when in his greatest distress he had room in his heart for others whose necessities were greater than his own; and he was never wanting in his help to those who needed it, or were poorer than himself.

From his sad experience, no one could speak with greater authority on the subject of debt than Johnson. ”Do not accustom yourself,” he wrote to Boswell, ”to consider debt only an inconvenience; you will find it a calamity. Let it be your first care not to be in any man's debt.

Whatever you have, spend less. Frugality is not only the basis of quiet, but of beneficence.” To Simpson, the barrister, he wrote, ”Small debts are like small shot; they are rattling on every side, and can scarcely be escaped without a wound: great debts are like cannon, of loud noise, but little danger. You must therefore be enabled to discharge petty debts, that you may have leisure, with security to struggle with the rest.” ”Sir,” said he to the patient and receptive Boswell, ”get as much peace of mind as you can, and keep within your income, and you won't go far wrong.”

Men who live by their wits, their talents, or their genius, have, somehow or other, acquired the character of being improvident. Charles Nodier, writing about a distinguished genius, said of him--”In the life of intelligence and art, he was an angel; in the common practical life of every day, he was a child.” The same might be said of many great writers and artists. The greatest of them have been so devoted--heart and soul--to their special work, that they have not cared to think how the efforts of their genius might be converted into pounds, s.h.i.+llings, and pence. Had they placed the money consideration first, probably the world would not have inherited the products of their genius. Milton would not have laboured for so many years at his ”Paradise Lost,” merely for the sake of the five pounds for which he sold the first edition to the publisher. Nor would Schiller have gone on toiling for twenty years up to the topmost pinnacles of thought, merely for the sake of the bare means of living which he earned by his work.

At the same time, men of genius should not disregard the common rules of arithmetic. If they spend more than they earn, they will run into debt.

Nor will complaining of the harshness of the world keep them out of it.

They have to stand or fall on their merits as men, and if they are not provident they will suffer the same consequences as others. Thackeray, in painting the character of Captain Shandon, in his ”Pendennis,” gave considerable offence to the literary profession; yet he only spoke the truth. ”If a lawyer,” said he, ”or a soldier, or a parson, outruns his income, and does not pay his bills, he must go to gaol; and an author must go too.”

Literary men are not neglected because they are literary men. But they have no right to expect that society will overlook their social offences because they are literary men. It is necessary for the world's sake, as well as for their own sake, that literary men and artists should take care to ”provide against the evil day” like other people. ”Imagination and art,” says Madame de Stael, ”have need to look after their own comfort and happiness in this world.” The world ought to help them generously; all good men ought to help them; but what is better than all, they ought to help themselves.

CHAPTER XIV.

RICHES AND CHARITY.

”Who--who--who's here I, Robert of Doncaster.

That I spent, that I had; That I gave, that I have; That I left, that I lost.”