The life which public men lead nowadays, is often an incentive to excessive expenditure. They may be men of moderate means; they may even be poor; but not many of them moving in general society have the moral courage to seem to be so. To maintain their social position, they think it necessary to live as others do. They are thus drawn into the vortex of debt, and into all the troubles, annoyances, shabby shifts, and dishonesties, which debt involves.
Men of science are for the most part exempt from the necessity of shining in society; and hence they furnish but a small number of instances of illustrious debtors. Many of them have been poor, but they have usually lived within their means. Kepler's life was indeed a struggle with poverty and debt; arising principally from the circumstance of his salary, as principal mathematician to the Emperor of Germany, having been always in arrear. This drove him to casting nativities in order to earn a living. "I pass my time," he once wrote, "in begging at the doors of crown treasurers." At his death he left only twenty-two crowns, the dress he wore, two shirts, a few books, and many manuscripts. Leibnitz left behind him a large amount of debt; but this may have been caused by the fact that he was a politician as well as a philosopher, and had frequent occasion to visit foreign courts, and to mix on equal terms with the society of the great.
Spinoza was poor in means; yet inasmuch as what he earned by polishing glasses for the opticians was enough to supply his wants, he incurred no debts. He refused a professorship, and refused a pension, preferring to live and die independent. Dalton had a philosophical disregard for money. When his fellow-townsmen at Manchester once proposed to provide him with an independence, that he might devote the rest of his life to scientific investigation, he declined the offer, saying that "teaching was a kind of recreation to him, and that if richer he would probably not spend more time in his investigations than he was accustomed to do." Faraday's was another instance of moderate means and noble independence. Lagrange was accustomed to attribute his fame and happiness to the poverty of his father, the astronomer royal of Turin. "Had I been rich," he said, "probably I should not have become a mathematician."
The greatest debtor connected with science was John Hunter, who expended all his available means—and they were wholly earned by himself—in accumulating the splendid collection now known as the Hunterian Museum. All that he could collect in fees went to purchase new objects for preparation and dissection, or upon carpenters' and bricklayers' work for the erection of his gallery. Though his family were left in straitened circumstances at his death, the sale of the collection to the nation for £15,000 enabled all his debts to be paid, and at the same time left an enduring monument to his fame.
Great artists have nearly all struggled into celebrity through poverty, and some have never entirely emerged from it. This, however, has been mainly because of their improvidence. Jan Steen was always in distress, arising principally from the habit he had acquired of drinking his own beer; for he was first a brewer, and afterwards a tavern-keeper. He drank and painted alternately, sometimes transferring the drinking scenes of which he had been a witness to the canvas, even while himself in a state of intoxication. He died in debt, after which his pictures rose in value, until now they are worth their weight in gold.
Notwithstanding the large income of Vandyck, his style of living was so splendid and costly as to involve him in heavy debt. To repair his fortunes, he studied alchemy for a time, in the hope of discovering the philosopher's stone. But towards the end of his life he was enabled to retrieve his position, and to leave a comfortable competency to his widow. Rembrandt, on the other hand, involved himself in debt through his love of art. He was an insatiable collector of drawings, armour, and articles of vertu, and thus became involved in such difficulties that he was declared a bankrupt. His property remained under legal control for thirteen years, until his death.
The great Italian artists were for the most part temperate and moderate men, and lived within their means. Haydon, in his Autobiography, says, "Rafaelle, Michael Angelo, Zeuxis, Apelles, Rubens, Reynolds, Titian, were rich and happy. Why? Because with their genius they combined practical prudence." Haydon himself was an instance of the contrary practice. His life was a prolonged struggle with difficulty and debt. He was no sooner free from one obligation, than he was involved in another. His "Mock Election" was painted in the King's Bench prison, while he lay there for debt. There is a strange entry in his Journal: "I borrowed £10 to-day of my butterman, Webb, an old pupil of mine, recommended to me by Sir George Beaumont twenty-four years ago, but who wisely, after drawing hands, set up a butter shop, and was enabled to send his old master £10 in his necessity." Haydon's Autobiography is full of his contests with lawyers and sheriffs' officers. Creditors dogged and dunned him at every step. "Lazarus's head," he writes, "was painted just after an arrest; Eucles was finished from a man in possession; the beautiful face in Xenophon in the afternoon, after a morning spent in begging mercy of lawyers; and Cassandra's head was finished in agony not to be described, and her hand completed after a broker's man in possession, in an execution put in for taxes."[1]
[Footnote 1: Haydon—Autobiography, vol. ii., p. 400.]
Cowper used to say that he never knew a poet who was not thriftless; and he included himself. Notwithstanding his quiet, retired life, he was constantly outrunning the constable. "By the help of good management," he once wrote, "and a clear notion of economical matters, I contrived in three months to spend the income of a twelvemonth." But though the number of thriftless poets may be great, it must not be forgotten that Shakespeare, who stands at the head of the list, was a prudent man. He economized his means, and left his family in comfort. His contemporaries were, however, for the most part indebted men. Ben Jonson was often embarrassed, and always poor, borrowing twenty shillings at a time from Henslowe; though he rarely denied himself another jolly night at the "Mermaid." Massinger was often so reduced in circumstances as not to be able to pay his score at the same tavern.
Greene, Peele, and Marlowe lived lives of dissipation, and died in poverty. Marlowe was killed in a drunken brawl. When Greene was on his deathbed, dying of the disease which his excesses had caused, he was haunted by the debt of ten pounds which he owed to the shoemaker who had lodged him. He then warned his friend Peele to amend his ways; but Peele, like him, died in distress and debt, one of the last letters he wrote being an imploring letter to Burleigh asking for relief,—"Long sickness," said he, "having so enfeebled me as maketh bashfulness almost impudency." Spenser died forsaken, and in want. Ben Jonson says of him that "he died for lack of bread in King Street, and refused twenty broad pieces sent to him by my lord of Essex," adding, "he was sorrie he had no time to spend them."
Of later poets and literary men, Milton died in obscurity, though not in debt. Lovelace died in a cellar. Butler, the author of "Hudibras," died of starvation in Rose Alley, the same place in which Dryden was beaten by hired ruffians. Otway was hunted by bailiffs to his last hiding-place on Tower Hill. His last act was to beg a shilling of a gentleman, who gave him a guinea; and buying a loaf to appease his hunger, he choked at the first mouthful. Wycherley lay seven years in gaol for debt, but lived to die in his bed at nearly eighty. Fielding's extravagance and dissipation in early life involved him in difficulties which he never entirely shook off, and his death was embittered by the poverty in which he left his widow and child in a foreign land.
Savage had a pension of fifty pounds a year, which he usually spent in a few days. It was then fashionable to wear scarlet cloaks trimmed with gold lace; and Johnson one day met him, just after he had got his pension, with one of these cloaks upon his back, while, at the same time, his naked toes were sticking through his shoes. After living a life of recklessness and dissipation, he died in prison, where he had lain six months for debt. In concluding his "Life of Savage," Johnson says: "This relation will not be wholly without its use, if those who, in confidence of superior capacities or attainments, disregard the common maxims of life, shall be reminded that nothing will supply the want of prudence, and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible."
Sterne died poor, if he did not die insolvent. At his death, a subscription was got up for the support of his wife and daughter. Churchill was imprisoned for debt, occasioned by his dissoluteness and extravagance,—Cowper characterizing him as "spendthrift alike of money and of wit." Chatterton, reduced to a state of starvation and despair, poisoned himself in his eighteenth year. Sir Richard Steele was rarely out of debt. In many respects he resembled Sheridan in temperament and character. He was full of speculation, and was always on the point of some grand stroke of luck, which was to make his fortune. He was perpetually haunted by duns and bailiffs; yet he did not stint himself of luxuries so long as he obtained credit. When appointed to the office of Commissioner of Stamps, with a moderate income, he set up a carriage with two and sometimes four horses; and he maintained two houses, one in London, the other at Hampton. His means being altogether inadequate to this style of living, he soon became drowned in greater debt than before. He was repeatedly impounded by lawyers, and locked up in sponging-houses. Executions were put into his houses; his furniture was sold off; his wife wanted the commonest necessaries of life; and still the pleasure-loving Steele maintained his equanimity and good temper. Something great was always on the point of turning up in his favour. One of his grandest schemes was that for bringing fish alive to the London market; "and then," said he to his wife, "you will be better provided for than any lady in England." But the good turn never came to Sir Richard; and he died out at elbows on his wife's little property in Wales.
Goldsmith was another of the happy-go-lucky debtors. He swam in debt. He was no sooner out of it, than he was plunged into it again, deeper than before. The first money he earned as a tutor—it was all the money he had—was spent in buying a horse. His relations raised £50, and sent him to the Temple to study law, but he got no farther than Dublin, where he spent or gambled away all the money. Then he went to Edinburgh to study medicine, and was forced to fly from it, having become surety for a friend. He started on the tour of Europe without any money in his pocket—with nothing but his flute; and he begged and played, until he came back to England, as poor as he went. He himself used afterwards to say that there was hardly a kingdom in Europe in which he was not a debtor.[1]
[Footnote 1: FORSTER—Life of Goldsmith, ed. 1863, p. 41.]
Even when Goldsmith began to earn money freely, he was still in debt. He gave away with one hand what he earned with the other. He was dunned for his milk-score, arrested for rent, threatened by lawyers, but never learnt the wisdom of economy. In the same month in which the second edition of his "Vicar of Wakefield" was published, his bill of fifteen guineas, drawn on Newbery, was returned dishonoured. When he was figuring at Boswell's dinner in Old Bond Street in the "ratteen suit lined with satin, and bloom-coloured silk breeches," the clothes belonged to his tailor, and remained unpaid till his death.
Prosperity increased his difficulties rather than diminished them; the more money he had, the more thoughtless and lavish was his expenditure. He could refuse no indulgence, either to himself or others. He would borrow a guinea and give it to a beggar. He would give the clothes off his back, and the blankets off his bed. He could refuse nobody. To meet his thoughtless expenditure, he raised money by promising to write books which he never began. He was perpetually discounting to-morrow, and mortgaging an estate already overburthened. Thus he died, as he had begun, poor, embarrassed, and in debt. At his death he owed over two thousand pounds: "Was ever poet," says Johnson, "so trusted before?"
The case of Goldsmith and others has been cited as instances of the harsh treatment of genius by the world, and in proof of the social disabilities of literary men and artists. It has been held that society should be more indulgent to its men of genius, and that Government should do something more for them than it now does. But nothing that society or Government could do for men of genius would be likely to prove of any service to them, unless they will do what other and less gifted men do,—exhibit self-respect and practise ordinary economy. We may pity poor Goldsmith, but we cannot fail to see that he was throughout his own enemy. His gains were large, amounting to about £8,000 in fourteen years; representing a much larger sum of money at the present day. For his "History of the Earth and Animated Nature" he received £850,—and the book was, at best, but a clever compilation. Johnson said of him that "if he can tell a horse from a cow, that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology." The representation of his "Good-natured Man" produced him £500. And so on with his other works. He was as successful as Johnson was; but then he had not Johnson's sobriety, self-restraint, and self-respect.
Yet Goldsmith, in his thoughtful moments, knew the right path, though he had not the courage to pursue it. In a letter to his brother Henry respecting the career of his son, Goldsmith wrote: "Teach, my dear sir, to your son, thrift and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books to be disinterested and generous before I was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I was exposing myself to the insidious approaches of cunning; and often by being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed myself in the very situation of the wretch who thanked me for my bounty."
Byron had scarcely reached manhood when he became involved in debt. Writing to Mr. Becher, in his twentieth year, he said, "Entre nous, I am cursedly dipped; my debts, everything inclusive, will be nine or ten thousand before I am twenty-one." On his coming of age, the festivities at Newstead were celebrated by means supplied by money-lenders at enormously usurious rates of interest. His difficulties did not diminish, but only increased with time. It is said that his mother's death was occasioned by a fit of rage, brought on by reading the upholsterer's bills.[1] When the first canto of "Childe Harold" was published, Byron presented the copyright to Mr. Dallas, declaring that he would never receive money for his writings,—a resolution which he afterwards wisely abandoned. But his earnings by literature at that time could not have lightened the heavy load of debt under which he staggered. Newstead was sold, and still the load accumulated. Then he married, probably in the expectation that his wife's fortune would release him; but her money was locked up, and the step, instead of relieving him, brought only an accession of misery. Every one knows the sad result of the union; which was aggravated by the increasing assaults of duns and sheriffs' officers.
[Footnote 1: MOORE—Life of Byron, ed. 1860. p. 127.]
Byron was almost driven to sell the copyright of his books, but he was prevented from doing so by his publisher, who pressed upon him a sum of money to meet his temporary wants. During the first year of his marriage, his house was nine times in the possession of bailiffs, his door was almost daily beset by duns, and he was only saved from gaol by the privileges of his rank. All this, to a sensitive nature such as his, must have been gall and bitterness; while his wife's separation from him, which shortly followed, could not fail to push him almost to the point of frenzy. Although he had declined to receive money for his first poems, Byron altered his views, and even learnt to drive a pretty hard bargain with his publisher.[1] But Moore does not, in his biography of the poet, inform us whether he ever got rid, except by death, of his grievous turmoil of debt.
[Footnote 1: "You offer 1,500 guineas for the new Canto [the fourth of 'Childe Harold']: I won't take it. I ask two thousand five hundred guineas for it, which you will either give or not as you think proper…. If Mr. Eustace was to have two thousand for a poem on Education; if Mr. Moore is to have three thousand for Lalla; if Mr. Campbell is to have three thousand for his prose or poetry.—I don't mean to disparage these gentlemen or their labours.—but I ask the aforesaid price for mine."—Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Sept. 4th, 1817.]
There is the greatest difference in the manner in which men bear the burden of debt. Some feel it to be no burden at all; others bear it very lightly; whilst others look upon creditors in the light of persecutors, and themselves in the light of martyrs. But where the moral sense is a little more keen,—where men use the goods of others, without rendering the due equivalent of money—where they wear unpaid clothes, eat unpaid meat, drink unpaid wines, and entertain guests at the expense of the butcher, grocer, wine-merchant, and greengrocer,—they must necessarily feel that their conduct is of the essence, not only of shabbiness, but of dishonesty, and the burden must then bear very heavily indeed.
Of light-hearted debtors, the proportion is considerable. Thus Theophilus Cibber, when drowned in debt, begged the loan of a guinea, and spent it on a dish of ortolans. Thus Foote when his mother wrote to him—"Dear Sam, I am in prison for debt—come and help your loving mother,"—replied, "Dear Mother, so am I, which prevents his duty being paid to his loving mother by her affectionate son." Steele and Sheridan both bore the load lightly. When entertaining company, they put the bailiffs who were in possession in livery, and made them wait at table, passing them off as servants. Nothing disturbed Steele's equanimity; and when driven from London by debt, he carried his generosity into the country, giving prizes to the lads and lasses assembled at rural games and country dances. Sheridan also made very light of his debts, and had many a good joke over them. Some one asked him how it was that the O' was not prefixed to his name, when he replied that he was sure no family had a better right to it, "for in truth, we owe everybody." And when a creditor once apologized for the soiled and tattered state of a bill, which had been much worn by being so often presented, Sheridan advised him "as a friend, to take it home and write it upon parchment."
Very different was it in the case of poor Burns, who was almost driven distracted because he owed a debt of £7 4_s_. for a volunteer's uniform, which he could not pay. He sent to his friend Thomson, the publisher of his songs, imploring the loan of £5, promising full value in "song-genius."[1] His last poem was a "love song," in part payment of the loan, which he composed only a few days before his death.
[Footnote 1: "After all my boasted independence," he said, "curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel scoundrel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me in jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness; but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously: for upon returning health I promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen."—Burns to Thomson. 12th July, 1796. Burns died on the 21st of the same month.]
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 assistance 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 noble 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 assistance rescued the sister of Chatterton from absolute want. And thus he worked on nobly 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 publishing 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 God 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 grass 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 noble 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-shirt 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, shillings, 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 Staël, "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."
Epitaph, A.D. 1579.
"If thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey
And death unloads thee."—Shakespeare.
"II est bon d'être charitable,
Mais envers qui? C'est là le point."—La Fontaine.
"There are many idlers to whom a penny begged is sweeter than a shilling earned."—Douglas Jerrold.
"He stole a pig, and in God's name gave the trotters to the poor."—From the Spanish.
Man must be thrifty in order to be generous. Thrift does not end with itself, but extends its benefits to others. It founds hospitals, endows charities, establishes colleges, and extends educational influences. Benevolence springs from the best qualities of the mind and heart. Its divine spirit elevates the benefactors of the world—the Howards, Clarksons, and Naviers—to the highest pedestals of moral genius and of national worship.
The same feeling pervades our common humanity. The poorest man, the daily worker, the obscurest individual, shares the gift and the blessing of doing good—a blessing that imparts no less delight to him who gives than to him who receives.
"Man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments, in a weary life,
When they can know and feel that they have been
Themselves the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart."
The duty of helping the helpless is one that speaks trumpet-tongued; but especially to those who profess love to God and goodwill to men. It is a duty that belongs to men as individuals, and as members of the social body. As individuals, because we are enjoined to help the widow and the fatherless in their affliction; and as members of the social body, because society claims of every man that he shall be a helper in the cause of progress and of social well-being.
It is not necessary that men should be rich, to be helpful to others. John Pounds was not a rich man; yet by his influence Ragged Schools were established. He was temperate, and saved enough from his earnings to buy food for his pupils. He attracted them by his kindness, sometimes by a "hot potato;" he taught them, and sent them out into the world, fortified by his good example, to work in it, and do their duty towards it. Nor was Robert Raikes, the founder of Sunday and other schools, a rich man; neither was Thomas Wright, the prison philanthropist. Nor were St. Vincent de Paul and Father Mathew—the promoters of education and temperance. Nor were the great men of science—Newton, Watt, and Faraday; nor the great missionaries—Xavier, Martyn, Carey, and Livingstone.
A fine instance of gentleness and generosity is recorded in Walton's memoir of Dr. Donne. When the latter, long straitened in his means, had entered upon the Deanery of St. Paul's, and was thereby provided with an income more than sufficient for all his wants, he felt that those means had been entrusted to him, for good uses, and to employ for human help and to the glory of the Giver thereof. At the foot of a private account, "to which God and His angels only were witnesses with him," Dr. Donne computed first his revenue, then what was given to the poor and other pious uses, and lastly, what rested for him and his; and having done that, he then blessed each year's poor remainder with a thankful prayer.
Dr. Donne did most of his good in secret, letting not his right hand know what his left hand did. He redeemed many poor from prison; helped many a poor scholar; and employed a trusty servant or a discreet friend to distribute his bounty where it was most needed. A friend whom he had known in days of affluence, having by a too liberal heart and carelessness become decayed in his estate and reduced to poverty, Donne sent him a hundred pounds. But the decayed gentleman returned it with thanks, saying that he wanted it not;—for, says Walton, in narrating the event, "as there be some spirits so generous as to labour to conceal and endure a sad poverty, rather than expose themselves to those blushes that attend the confession of it, so there be others to whom nature and grace have afforded such sweet and compassionate souls as to pity and prevent the distresses of mankind; which I have mentioned because of Dr. Donne's reply, whose answer was, 'I know you want not what will sustain nature, for a little will do that; but my desire is that you, who in the days of your plenty have cheered and raised the hearts of so many of your dejected friends, would now receive this from me, and use it as a cordial for the cheering of your own;'"—and upon these terms it was received.
The truth is, that we very much exaggerate the power of riches. Immense subscriptions are got up for the purpose of reforming men from their sinful courses, and turning them from evil to good. And yet subscriptions will not do it. It is character that can do the work; money never can. Great changes in society can never be effected through riches. To turn men from intemperance, improvidence, and irreligion, and to induce them to seek their happiness in the pursuit of proper and noble objects, requires earnest purpose, honest self-devotion, and hard work. Money may help in many respects; but money by itself can do nothing. The apostle Paul planted the knowledge of the Christian religion over half the Roman empire; yet he supported himself by tent-making, and not by collecting subscriptions. Men of anxious, earnest, honest hearts, are far more wanted than rich men—willing to give money in charity.
Nothing is so much over-estimated as the power of money. All the people who are looking out for front seats in "society," think it the one thing needful. They may be purse-liberal, but they are also purse-proud. The hypocritical professions of some people, with a view to elicit the good opinion of others, in the teeth of their daily life and practice, is nothing short of disgusting. "Oh, Geordie, jingling Geordie," said King James, in the novel, "it was grand to hear Baby Charles laying down the guilt of dissimulation, and Steenie lecturing on the turpitude of incontinence!"
Some people have an idolatrous worship of money. The Israelites had their golden Calf; the Greeks had their golden Jupiter. Old Bounderby valued the man who was worth a "hundred thousand pounds." Others do the same. The lowest human nature loves money, possessions, value. "What is he worth?" "What is his income?" are the usual questions. If you say, "There is a thoroughly good, benevolent, virtuous man!" nobody will notice him. But if you say, "There is a man worth a million of money," he will be stared at till out of sight. A crowd of people used to collect at Hyde Park Corner to see a rich man pass. "Here comes old Crockie!" and the crowd would separate to allow him to pass, amidst whispers of admiration. It was old Crockford, who made a large fortune by keeping a gambling-house.
"The very sound of millions," says Mrs. Gore,[1] "tickles the ear of an Englishman! He loves it so much, indeed, that it all but reconciles him to the National Debt; and when applied to private proprietorship, it secures deference for lowness of mind, birth, habits, and pursuits…. Ambition and money-love, if they tend to ennoble a country, reduce to insignificance the human particles of which the nation is composed. In their pursuit of riches, the English are gradually losing sight of higher characteristics; … our pursuit of railway bubbles and every other frantic speculation of the hour, affords sufficient evidence of the craving after capital superseding every better aspiration, whether for this world or the next."
[Footnote 1: Introduction to "Men of Capital."]
The love of gold threatens to drive everything before it. The pursuit of money has become the settled custom of the country. Many are so absorbed by it, that every other kind of well-being is either lost sight of, or altogether undervalued. And then the lovers of money think to recover their moral tone by bestowing charity! Mountains of gold weigh heavily upon the heart and soul. The man who can withstand the weight of riches, and still be diligent, industrious, and strong in mind and heart, must be made of strong stuff. For, people who are rich, are almost invariably disposed to be idle, luxurious, and self-indulgent.
"If money," said the Rev. Mr. Griffiths, Rector of Merthyr, "did not make men forget men, one-half of the evil that is in the world would never occur. If masters drew nearer to the men, and men were permitted to draw nearer their masters, we should not be passing through this fiery ordeal. Let them do something to win the men out of the public-houses; let them spare more of their enormous gains to build places of amusement and recreation for the people; let them provide better houses to live in, better conveniences for decency, better streets; and if all these things are done we shall have neither lock-outs nor strikes. We hear with pomp and triumph of the millions and millions that have been dug out of this old Welsh land of ours, but we hear nothing—and we see, indeed, less—of the public buildings, the people's parks, the public libraries and public institutions, and other civilizing agencies. Fifteen months ago, when we were in the highest tide of prosperity, I said all this, and no notice was taken of it. Why should any notice be taken of a preaching parson or a Christian minister of any kind, when sovereigns fly about like snowflakes in winter, or may be gathered like blackberries in summer?"[1]
[Footnote 1: Sermon preached at Merthyr during the South Wales strike.]
Men go on toiling and moiling, eager to be richer; desperately struggling, as if against poverty, at the same time that they are surrounded with abundance. They scrape and scrape, add shilling to shilling, and sometimes do shabby things in order to make a little more profit; though they may have accumulated far more than they can actually enjoy. And still they go on, worrying themselves incessantly in the endeavour to grasp at an additional increase of superfluity. Perhaps such men have not enjoyed the advantages of education in early life. They have no literary pleasures to fall back upon; they have no taste for books; sometimes they can scarcely write their own names. They have nothing to think of but money,—and of what will make money. They have no faith, but in riches! They keep their children under restriction and bring them up with a servile education.
At length, an accumulation of money comes into the children's hands. They have before been restricted in their expenditure; now they become lavish. They have been educated in no better tastes. They spend extravagantly. They will not be drudges in business as their father was. They will be "gentlemen," and spend their money "like gentlemen." And very soon the money takes wings and flies away. Many are the instances in which families have been raised to wealth in the first generation, launched into ruinous expense in the second, and disappeared in the third,—being again reduced to poverty. Hence the Lancashire proverb, "Twice clogs, once boots." The first man wore clogs, and accumulated a "a power o' money;" his rich son spent it; and the third generation took up the clogs again. A candidate for parliamentary honours, when speaking from the hustings, was asked if he had plenty brass. "Plenty brass?" said he; "ay, I've lots o' brass!—I stink o' brass!"
The same social transformations are known in Scotland. The proverb there is, "The grandsire digs, the father bigs, the son thigs,"[1]—that is, the grandfather worked hard and made a fortune, the father built a fine house, and the son, "an unthrifty son of Linne," when land and goods were gone and spent, took to thieving. Merchants are sometimes princes to-day and beggars to-morrow; and so long as the genius for speculation is exercised by a mercantile family, the talent which gave them landed property may eventually deprive them of it.
[Footnote 1: Dublin University Magazine.]
To be happy in old age—at a time when men should leave for ever the toil, anxiety, and worry of money-making—they must, during youth and middle life, have kept their minds healthily active. They must familiarize themselves with knowledge, and take an interest in all that has been done, and is doing, to make the world wiser and better from age to age. There is enough leisure in most men's lives to enable them to interest themselves in biography and history. They may also acquire considerable knowledge of science, or of some ennobling pursuit different from that by which money is made. Mere amusement will not do. No man can grow happy upon amusement. The mere man of pleasure is a miserable creature,—especially in old age. The mere drudge in business is little better. Whereas the study of literature, philosophy, and science is full of tranquil pleasure, down to the end of life. If the rich old man has no enjoyment apart from money-making, his old age becomes miserable. He goes on grinding and grinding in the same rut, perhaps growing richer and richer. What matters it? He cannot eat his gold. He cannot spend it. His money, instead of being beneficial to him, becomes a curse. He is the slave of avarice, the meanest of sins. He is spoken of as a despicable creature. He becomes base, even in his own estimation.
What a miserable end was that of the rich man who, when dying, found no comfort save in plunging his hands into a pile of new sovereigns, which had been brought to him from the bank. As the world faded from him, he still clutched them; handled and fondled them one by one,—and then he passed away,—his last effort being to finger his gold! Elwes the miser died shrieking, "I will keep my money!—nobody shall deprive me of my property!" A ghastly and humiliating spectacle!
Rich men are more punished for their excess of economy, than poor men are for their want of it. They become miserly, think themselves daily growing poorer, and die the deaths of beggars. We have known several instances. One of the richest merchants in London, after living for some time in penury, went down into the country, to the parish where he was born, and applied to the overseers for poor's relief. Though possessing millions, he was horror-struck by the fear of becoming poor. Relief was granted him, and he positively died the death of a pauper. One of the richest merchants in the North died in the receipt of poor's relief. Of course, all that the parish authorities had doled out to these poor-rich men was duly repaid by their executors.
And what did these rich persons leave behind them? Only the reputation that they had died rich men. But riches do not constitute any claim to distinction. It is only the vulgar who admire riches as riches. Money is a drug in the market. Some of the most wealthy men living are mere nobodies. Many of them are comparatively ignorant. They are of no moral or social account. A short time since, a list was published of two hundred and twenty-four English millionaires. Some were known as screws; some were "smart men" in regard to speculations; some were large navvies, coal-miners, and manufacturers; some were almost unknown beyond their own local circle; some were very poor creatures; very few were men of distinction. All that one could say of them was, that they died rich men.
"All the rich and all the covetous men in the world," said Jeremy Taylor, "will perceive, and all the world will perceive for them, that it is but an ill recompense for all their cares, that by this time all that shall be left will be this, that the neighbours shall say, He died a rich man: and yet his wealth will not profit him in the grave, but hugely swell the sad accounts of his doomsday."
"One of the chief causes," says Mrs. Gore, "which render the pursuit of wealth a bitterer as well as more pardonable struggle in England than on the Continent, is the unequal and capricious distribution of family property…. Country gentlemen and professional men,—nay, men without the pretension of being gentlemen,—are scarcely less smitten with the mania of creating 'an eldest son' to the exclusion and degradation of their younger children; and by the individuals thus defrauded by their nearest and dearest, is the idolatry of Mammon pursued without the least regard to self-respect, or the rights of their fellow-creatures. Injured, they injure in their turn. Their days are devoted to a campaign for the recovery of their birthright. Interested marriages, shabby bargains, and political jobbery, may be traced to the vile system of things which converts the elder son into a Dives, and makes a Lazarus of his brother."
But democrats have quite as great a love for riches as aristocrats; and many austere republicans are eager to be millionaires. Forms of government do not influence the desire for wealth. The elder Cato was a usurer. One of his means of making money was by buying young half-fed slaves at a low price; then, by fattening them up, and training them to work, he sold them at an enhanced price. Brutus, when in the Isle of Cyprus, lent his money at forty-eight per cent. interest,[1] and no one thought the worse of him for his Usury. Washington, the hero of American freedom, bequeathed his slaves to his wife. It did not occur to him to give them their liberty. Municipal jobbery is not unknown in New York; and its influential citizens are said to be steeped to the lips in political corruption. Mr. Mills says, that the people of the North-Eastern States have apparently got rid of all social injustices and inequalities; that the proportion of population to capital and land is such as to ensure abundance for every able-bodied man; that they enjoy the six points of the Charter, and need never complain of poverty. Yet "all that these advantages have done for them is, that the life of the whole of our sex is devoted to dollar-hunting; and of the other, to breeding dollar-hunters. This," Mr. Mill adds, "is not a kind of social perfection which philanthropists to come will feel any very eager desire to assist in realizing."[2]
[Footnote 1: Cicero's Letters]
[Footnote 2: Principles of Political Economy, Book iv., ch. vi.]
Saladin the Great conquered Syria, Arabia, Persia, and Mesopotamia. He was the greatest warrior and conqueror of his time. His power and wealth were enormous. Yet he was fully persuaded of the utter hollowness of riches. He ordered, by his will, that considerable sums should be distributed to Mussulmans, Jews, and Christians, in order that the priests of the three religions might implore for him the mercy of God. He commanded that the shirt or tunic which he wore at the time of his death should be carried on the end of a spear throughout the whole camp and at the head of his army, and that the soldier who bore it should pause at intervals and say aloud, "Behold all that remains of the Emperor Saladin!—of all the states he had conquered; of all the provinces he had subdued; of the boundless treasures he had amassed; of the countless wealth he possessed, he retained, in dying, nothing but this shroud!"
Don Jose de Salamanca, the great railway contractor of Spain, was, in the early part of his life, a student at the University of Granada. He there wore, as he himself says, the oldest and most worn of cassocks. He was a diligent student; and after leaving college he became a member of the Spanish press. From thence he was translated to the Cabinet of Queen Christina, of which he became Finance Minister. This brought out his commercial capacities, and induced him to enter on commercial speculations. He constructed railways in Spain and Italy, and took the principal share in establishing several steam-shipping companies. But while pursuing commerce, he did not forget literature. Once a week he kept an open table, to which the foremost men in literature and the press were invited. They returned his hospitality by inviting him to a dinner on the most economic scale. Busts of Shakespeare, Cervantes, Dante, Schiller, and other literary men, adorned the room.
In returning thanks for his health, Salamanca referred to his university experience, and to his labours in connection with the press. "Then," he went on to say, "the love of gold took possession of my soul, and it was at Madrid that I found the object of my adoration; but not, alas! without the loss of my juvenile illusions. Believe me, gentlemen, the man who can satisfy all his wishes has no more enjoyment. Keep to the course you have entered on, I advise you. Rothschild's celebrity will expire on the day of his death. Immortality can be earned, not bought. Here are before us the effigies of men who have gloriously cultivated liberal arts; their busts I have met with in every part of Europe; but nowhere have I found a statue erected to the honour of a man who has devoted his life to making money."
Riches and happiness have no necessary connection with each other. In some cases it might be said that happiness is in the inverse proportion to riches. The happiest part of most men's lives is while they are battling with poverty, and gradually raising themselves above it. It is then that they deny themselves for the sake of others,—that they save from their earnings to secure a future independence,—that they cultivate their minds while labouring for their daily bread,—that they endeavour to render themselves wiser and better—happier in their homes and more useful to society at large. William Chambers, the Edinburgh publisher, speaking of the labours of his early years, says, "I look back to those times with great pleasure, and I am almost sorry that I have not to go through the same experience again; for I reaped more pleasure when I had not a sixpence in my pocket, studying in a garret in Edinburgh, than I now find when sitting amidst all the elegancies and comforts of a parlour."
There are compensations in every condition of life. The difference in the lot of the rich and the poor is not so great as is generally imagined. The rich man has often to pay a heavy price for his privileges. He is anxious about his possessions. He may be the victim of extortion. He is apt to be cheated. He is the mark for every man's shaft. He is surrounded by a host of clients, till his purse bleeds at every pore. As they say in Yorkshire when people become rich, the money soon "broddles through." Or, if engaged in speculation, the rich man's wealth may fly away at any moment. He may try again, and then wear his heart out in speculating on the "chances of the market." Insomnia is a rich man's disease. The thought of his winnings and losings keeps him sleepless. He is awake by day, and awake by night. "Riches on the brain" is full of restlessness and agony.
The rich man over-eats or over-drinks; and he has gout. Imagine a man with a vice fitted to his toe. Let the vice descend upon the joint, and be firmly screwed down. Screw it again. He is in agony. Then suddenly turn the screw tighter—down, down! That is gout! Gout—of which Sydenham has said, that "unlike any other disease, it kills more rich men than poor, more wise than simple. Great kings, emperors, generals, admirals, and philosophers, have died of gout. Hereby nature shows her impartiality, since those whom she favours in one way, she afflicts in another Or, the rich man may become satiated with food, and lose his appetite; while the poor man relishes and digests anything. A beggar asked alms of a rich man "because he was hungry." "Hungry?" said the millionaire; "how I envy you!" Abernethy's prescription to the rich man was, "Live upon a shilling a day, and earn it!" When the Duke of York consulted him about his health, Abernethy's answer was, "Cut off the supplies, and the enemy will soon leave the citadel." The labourer who feels little and thinks less, has the digestion of an ostrich; while the non-worker is never allowed to forget that he has a stomach, and is obliged to watch every mouthful that he eats. Industry and indigestion are two things seldom found united.
Many people envy the possessions of the rich, but will not pass through the risks, the fatigues, or the dangers of acquiring them. It is related of the Duke of Dantzic that an old comrade, whom he had not seen for many years, called upon him at his hotel in Paris, and seemed amazed at the luxury of his apartments, the richness of his furniture, and the magnificence of his gardens. The Duke, supposing that he saw in his old comrade's face a feeling of jealousy, said to him bluntly, "You may have all that you see before you, on one condition." "What is that?" said his friend. "It is that you will place yourself twenty paces off, and let me fire at you with a musket a hundred times." "I will certainly not accept your offer at that price." "Well," replied the Marshal, "to gain all that you see before you, I have faced more than a thousand gunshots, fired at not move than ten paces off."
The Duke of Marlborough often faced death. He became rich, and left a million and a half to his descendants to squander. The Duke was a penurious man. He is said to have scolded his servant for lighting four candles in his tent, when Prince Eugene called upon him to hold a conference before the battle of Blenheim. Swift said of the Duke, "I dare hold a wager that in all his compaigns he was never known to lose his baggage." But this merely showed his consummate generalship. When ill and feeble at Bath, he is said to have walked home from the rooms to his lodgings, to save sixpence. And yet this may be excused, for he may have walked home for exercise. He is certainly known to have given a thousand pounds to a young and deserving soldier who wished to purchase a commission. When Bolingbroke was reminded of one of the weaknesses of Marlborough, he observed, "He was so great a man, that I forgot that he had that defect."
It is no disgrace to be poor. The praise of honest poverty has often been sung. When a man will not stoop to do wrong, when he will not sell himself for money, when he will not do a dishonest act, then his poverty is most honourable. But the man is not poor who can pay his way, and save something besides. He who pays cash for all that he purchases, is not poor but well off. He is in a happier condition than the idle gentleman who runs into debt, and is clothed, shod, and fed at the expense of his tailor, shoemaker, and butcher. Montesquieu says, that a man is not poor because he has nothing, but he is poor when he will not or cannot work. The man who is able and willing to work, is better off than the man who possesses a thousand crowns without the necessity for working.
Nothing sharpens a man's wits like poverty. Hence many of the greatest men have originally been poor men. Poverty often purifies and braces a man's morals. To spirited people, difficult tasks are usually the most delightful ones. If we may rely upon the testimony of history, men are brave, truthful, and magnanimous, not in proportion to their wealth, but in proportion to their smallness of means. And the best are often the poorest,—always supposing that they have sufficient to meet their temporal wants. A divine has said that God has created poverty, but He has not created misery. And there is certainly a great difference between the two. While honest poverty is honourable, misery is humiliating; inasmuch as the latter is for the most part the result of misconduct, and often of idleness and drunkenness. Poverty is no disgrace to him who can put up with it; but he who finds the beggar's staff once get warm in his hand, never does any good, but a great amount of evil.
The poor are often the happiest of people—far more so than the rich; but though they may be envied, no one will be found willing to take their place. Moore has told the story of the over-fed, over-satisfied eastern despot, who sent a messenger to travel through the world, in order to find out the happiest man. When discovered, the messenger was immediately to seize him, take his shirt off his back, and bring it to the Caliph. The messenger found the happiest man in an Irishman,—happy, dancing, and flourishing his shillelagh. But when the ambassador proceeded to seize him, and undress him, he found that the Irishman had got no shirt to his back!
The portion of Agur is unquestionably the best: "Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me." The unequal distribution of the disposition to be happy, is of far greater importance than the unequal distribution of wealth. The disposition to be content and satisfied, said David Hume, is at least equal to an income of a thousand a year. Montaigne has observed that Fortune confers but little. Human good or ill does not depend upon it. It is but the seed of good, which the soul, infinitely stronger than wealth, changes and applies as it pleases, and is thus the only cause of a happy or unhappy disposition.
England is celebrated for its charities. M. Guizot declares that there is nothing in this land that so fills the mind of the stranger with amazement at our resources, and admiration at our use of them, as the noble free-gift monuments raised on every side for the relief of multiform suffering. The home philanthropist, who looks a little deeper than the foreign visitor, may be disposed to take another view of the effects of money-giving. That charity produces unmixed good, is very much questioned. Charity, like man, is sometimes blind, and frequently misguided. Unless money is wisely distributed, it will frequently do more harm than good. If charity could help or elevate the poor, London would now be the happiest city in the world; for about three millions of money are spent on charity, and about one in every three of the London population are relieved by charitable institutions.
It is very easy to raise money for charity. Subscription lists constantly attest the fact. A rich man is asked by some influential person for money. It is very easy to give it. It saves time to give it. It is considered a religious duty to give it. Yet to give money unthinkingly, to give it without considering how it is to be used,—instead of being for the good of our fellow-creatures,—may often prove the greatest injury we could inflict upon them. True benevolence does not consist in giving money. Nor can charitable donations, given indiscriminately to the poor, have any other effect than to sap the foundations of self-respect, and break down the very outworks of virtue itself. There are many forms of benevolence which create the very evils they are intended to cure, and encourage the poorer classes in the habit of dependence upon the charity of others,—to the neglect of those far healthier means of social well-being which lie within their own reach.
One would think that three million a year were sufficient to relieve all the actual distress that exists in London. Yet the distress, notwithstanding all the money spent upon it, goes on increasing. May not the money spent in charity, create the distress it relieves,—besides creating other distress which it fails to relieve? Uneducated and idle people will not exert themselves for a living, when they have the hope of obtaining the living without exertion. Who will be frugal and provident, when charity offers all that frugality and providence can confer? Does not the gift of the advantages, comforts, and rewards of industry, without the necessity of labouring for them, tend to sap the very foundations of energy and self-reliance? Is not the circumstance that poverty is the only requisite qualification on the part of the applicant for charity, calculated to tempt the people to self-indulgence, to dissipation, and to those courses of life which keep them poor?
Men who will not struggle and exert themselves, are those who are helped first. The worst sort of persons are made comfortable: whilst the hard-working, self-supporting man, who disdains to throw himself upon charity, is compelled to pay rates for the maintenance of the idle. Charity stretches forth its hand to the rottenest parts of society; it rarely seeks out, or helps, the struggling and the honest. As Carlyle has said, "O my astonishing benevolent friends! that never think of meddling with the material while it continues sound; that stress and strain it with new rates and assessments, till even it has given way and declared itself rotten; whereupon you greedily snatch at it, and say, 'Now let us try to do some good upon it!'"
The charity which merely consists in giving, is an idle indulgence—often an idle vice. The mere giving of money will never do the work of philanthropy. As a recent writer has said, "The crimes of the virtuous, the blasphemies of the pious, and the follies of the wise, would scarcely fill a larger volume than the cruelties of the humane. In this world a large part of the occupation of the wise has been to neutralize the efforts of the good."
"Public charities," said the late Lord Lytton, "are too often merely a bonus to public indolence and vice. What a dark lesson of the fallacy of human wisdom does this knowledge strike into the heart! What a waste of the materials of kindly sympathies! What a perversion individual mistakes can cause, even in the virtues of a nation! Charity is a feeling dear to the pride of the human heart—it is an aristocratic emotion! Mahomet testified his deep knowledge of his kind when he allowed the vice hardest to control,—sexual licentiousness; and encouraged the virtue easiest to practise,—charity."[1]
[Footnote 1: LORD LYTTON—England and the English, p. 124.]
There are clergymen in London who say that charity acts against the extension of religion amongst the people. The Rev. Mr. Stone says, "He is an unwelcome visitor to the poor who brings the Bible in one hand, without a loaf, a blanket, or a shilling in the other. And no wonder. By the prevailing system of charitable relief they have been nursed in this carnal spirit; they have been justified in those selfish expectations. Instead of being allowed to learn the great and salutary lesson of providence, that there is a necessary connection between their conduct and their condition, they have, by this artificial system, been taught that indigence is of itself sufficient to constitute a claim to relief. They have been thus encouraged in improvidence, immorality, fraud, and hypocrisy."
The truest philanthropists are those who endeavour to prevent misery, dependence, and destitution; and especially those who diligently help the poor to help themselves. This is the great advantage of the "Parochial Mission-Women Association."[1] They bring themselves into close communication with the people in the several parishes of London, and endeavour to assist them in many ways. But they avoid giving indiscriminate alms. Their objects are "to help the poor to help themselves, and to raise them by making them feel that they can help themselves." There is abundant room for philanthropy amongst all classes; and it is most gratifying to find ladies of high distinction taking part in this noble work.
[Footnote 1: See East and West, edited by the Countess Spencer.]
There are numerous other societies established of late years, which afford gratifying instances of the higher and more rational, as well as really more Christian, forms of charity. The societies for improving the dwellings of the industrial classes,—for building baths and washhouses,—for establishing workmen's, seamen's, and servants' homes,—for cultivating habits of providence and frugality amongst the working-classes,—and for extending the advantages of knowledge amongst the people,—are important agencies of this kind. These, instead of sapping the foundations of self-reliance, are really and truly helping the people to help themselves, and are deserving of every approbation and encouragement. They tend to elevate the condition of the mass; they are embodiments of philanthropy in its highest form; and are calculated to bear good fruit through all time.
Rich men, with the prospect of death before them, are often very much concerned about their money affairs. If unmarried and without successors, they find a considerable difficulty in knowing what to do with the pile of gold they have gathered together during their lifetime. They must make a will, and leave it to somebody. In olden times, rich people left money to pay for masses for their souls. Perhaps many do so still. Some founded almshouses; others hospitals. Money was left for the purpose of distributing doles to poor persons, or to persons of the same name and trade as the deceased.
"These doles," said the wife of a clergyman in the neighbourhood of London, "are doing an infinite deal of mischief: they are rapidly pauperising the parish." Not long since, the town of Bedford was corrupted and demoralized by the doles and benefactions which rich men had left to the poorer classes. Give a man money without working for it, and he will soon claim it as a right. It practically forbids him to exercise forethought, or to provide against the vicissitudes of trade, or the accidents of life. It not only breaks down the bulwarks of independence, but the outposts of virtue itself.
Large sums of money are left by rich men to found "Charities." They wish to do good, but in many cases they do much moral injury. Their "Charities" are anything but charitable. They destroy the self-respect of the working-classes, and also of the classes above them. "We can get this charity for nothing. We can get medical assistance for nothing. We can get our children educated for nothing. Why should we work? Why should we save?" Such is the idea which charity, so-called, inculcates. The "Charitable Institution" becomes a genteel poor-house; and the lesson is extensively taught that we can do better by begging than by working.
The bequeathment of Stephen Girard, the wealthy American merchant, was of a different character. Girard was a native of Bordeaux. An orphan at an early age, he was put on board a ship as a cabin boy. He made his first voyage to North America when about ten or twelve years old. He had little education, and only a limited acquaintance with reading and writing. He worked hard. He gradually improved in means so that he was able to set up a store. Whilst living in Water Street, New York, he fell in love with Polly Luna, the daughter of a caulker. The father forbade the marriage. But Girard persevered, and at length he won and married Polly Lum. It proved a most unfortunate marriage. His wife had no sympathy with him; and he became cross, snappish, morose. He took to sea again; and at forty he commanded his own sloop, and was engaged in the coasting trade between New York, Philadelphia, and New Orleans.
Then he settled in Philadelphia, and became a merchant. He devoted his whole soul to his business; for he had determined to become rich. He practised the most rigid economy. He performed any work by which money could be made. He shut his heart against the blandishments of life. The desire for wealth seems to have possessed his soul. His life was one of unceasing labour. Remember, that Girard was unhappy at home. His nature might have been softened, had he been blessed with a happy wife. He led ten miserable years with her; and then she became insane. She lay for about twenty years in the Pennsylvania hospital, and died there.
Yet there was something more than hardness and harshness in Girard. There was a deep under-current of humanity in him. When the yellow fever broke out in Philadelphia, in 1793, his better nature showed itself. The people were smitten to death by thousands. Nurses could not be found to attend the patients in the hospital. It was regarded as certain death to nurse the sick.
"Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;
Only, alas I the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless."
It was at this time, when many were stricken with fever, that Girard abandoned his business, and offered his services as superintendent of the public hospital. He had Peter Helm for his associate. Girard's business faculty immediately displayed itself. His powers of organization were immense, and the results of his work were soon observed. Order began to reign where everything had before been in confusion. Dirt was conquered by cleanliness. Where there had been wastefulness, there was now thriftiness. Where there had been neglect, there was unremitting attention. Girard saw that every case was properly attended to. He himself attended to the patients afflicted by the loathsome disease, ministered to the dying, and performed the last kind offices for the dead. At last the plague was stayed; and Girard and Helm returned to their ordinary occupations.
The visitors of the poor in Philadelphia placed the following minute on their books: "Stephen Girard and Peter Helm, members of the committee, commiserating the calamitous state to which the sick may probably be reduced for want of suitable persons to superintend the hospital, voluntarily offered their services for that benevolent employment, and excited a surprise and satisfaction that can be better conceived than expressed."
The results of Stephen Girard's industry and economy may be seen in Philadelphia—in the beautiful dwelling houses, row after row,—but more than all, in the magnificent marble edifice of Girard College. He left the greater part of his fortune for public purposes,—principally to erect and maintain a public library and a large orphanage. It might have been in regard to his own desolate condition, when cast an orphan amongst strangers and foreigners, that he devised his splendid charity for poor, forlorn, and fatherless children. One of the rooms in the college is singularly furnished. "Girard had directed that a suitable room was to be set apart for the preservation of his books and papers; but from excess of pious care, or dread of the next-of kin, all the plain homely man's effects were shovelled into this room. Here are his boxes and his bookcase, his gig and his gaiters, his pictures and his pottery; and in a bookcase, hanging with careless grace, are his braces—old homely knitted braces, telling their tale of simplicity and carefulness."[1]