Chapter IX: The Romance of Impecuniosity (2)

As months and years rolled away, the incidents of a busy life and the assiduous practice of his profession crowded out of John Holt's memory the recollection of his strange and facetious adventure at the hostelry on the Oxford road. Holt's habits changed. He became the wise and impartial judge, so admirable and so competent, that even his stern Tory father (spite of the son's Liberal politics) grew proud of the man who in his youthful career at Oxford had been the wildest of the wild, and the most erring of the erring. The years have gone on, and when we turn again to John Holt, he is approaching his sixtieth year. The scene is still in the county of Oxford, but this time in one of the principal towns. The Summer Assizes are being held, and the judges are sitting in all wonted solemnity and state. In the Criminal Court a cause of unusual interest is being heard.

At the bar there stands a poor, miserable and decrepit old woman. As she looks at the grave and dignified judge she shakes with terror. The causes of her fear are solemn and significant, for she is about to be tried for her life, on the charge of being a witch. In those days of which I am writing, there existed a terrible superstition in the popular mind concerning witchcraft, believed as it was to be the crime of all others the most destructive to man and the most impious in the sight of God. The comely, dignified and shrewd-eyed judge excites the keenest interest in the crowded court, for he is one of the "men of mark" of his age, the profound lawyer, the incorruptible dispenser of justice, and the champion of truth and freedom.

Witnesses are called. They give their evidence in a plain unpretentious manner, and it is certain that they possess a firm faith in what they allege against the miserable prisoner. The principal accusation against her is that she holds in her possession a potent and mysterious charm. It enables her to spread disease, or to cure it, and it is further stated that she has lately been detected using it. "Has anybody seen it?" inquires the judge. "Yes, please you, my lord, and it is now here ready to be produced." His lordship directs that it shall be handed to him, and his order is obeyed. Behold! nothing but a dirty ball wrapped round with rag and pack-thread. Removing these, he discovers a scrap of stained and time-worn parchment inscribed with characters in his own handwriting. Chief Justice Holt, after the lapse of forty years, recognises the Greek letters which he had scrawled in the inn kitchen situate on the Oxford road.

Deep silence reigns in the crowded court-house, and every eye is turned on the judge. Lifting his head from his hands, in which it had been buried for a few moments, he says to the jury,--

"Gentlemen, I must now relate an incident of my life which ill-suits my position. To conceal that incident would be to increase the awful folly which I must atone. Did I conceal that folly of which I was guilty, I should endanger innocence and countenance superstition. This so-called charm which these poor ignorant people suppose to have the power of life and death is a senseless piece of parchment, on which with my own hand I wrote and gave the poor woman. This poor woman for no other reason stands before me accused of witchcraft." Chief Justice Holt then narrated the whole story of his adventure in his early years at the woman's hostelry on the Oxford road, and the recital produced such an effect upon the minds of the jury that his old hostess was not only acquitted, but was one of the last persons tried for the crime of witchcraft in this country.

I turn to another country and to incidents enveloped in a brighter and pleasanter atmosphere. Readers of the older French literature are familiar with the notes, verses, and dramas of Alexis Piron. The Burgundian _bon-vivant_ knew many adventures and much impecuniosity; but notwithstanding Fortune's buffets he retained "a revenue of good spirits," and when turned fifty years of age he participated in a bit of romance.

One evening after supper he went to the shop of a grocer, Gallet, a song-writer and boon companion. A female entered the shop and asked for some coffee and matches. Gallet was away, so the poet undertook to serve the lady, saying to her, "Is that all you want?" The grocer entering added, "Mademoiselle ought to have a husband in the bargain." "Excellent," said Piron, "if the damsel will take up with any kind of wood for her arrow." A blush suffused the lady's cheeks, and she departed without making rejoinder.

Next morning she visited the poet. "Monsieur," said she with trepidation, "we are two children of Burgundy. I have long wanted to see a man of so much wit, and having learned yesterday that it was you with whom I had to do in M. Gallet's shop, I have come to-day without ceremony to pay you a visit. How weary you must grow here! I was very much afraid of finding some handsome lady from the theatre, but, heaven be praised!"--with a glance at the extreme poverty of his surroundings--"you live like a Trappist. Have you never thought of making an end of this?" Said Piron: "I leave the care of that to la Camarde; but if you please, what do you mean?" "I wish to say, have you ever thought of marriage?" "Not much. Mademoiselle, pray sit down while I light the fire." "You don't know, Monsieur Piron! it will make you laugh." "So much the worse." "I shall speak plainly. If your heart, has the same sentiment as mine"--the poet was wonder-stricken, and looked at the lady in silence--"in a word, Monsieur Piron, I come to offer you my hand and heart, not forgetting my life-annuity of two thousand livres."

The poet controlled his merry temper, and was touched when he thought what a compassionate friend had been vouchsafed to him. He saw the woman's eyes moist with tears, and he embraced her. "I leave to you," said he, "all the preparations for the wedding. Gallet will write the epithalamium." "You will make me, Monsieur Piron, the happiest person in the world I did not hope for so happy a conclusion, for--I do not wish to conceal anything from you--I am _fifty-five_!" "Well," said Piron, with a slight shrug, "we have over a hundred years between us. We would have done well to have met sooner."

This marriage took place amid festivity. The old maid had a good heart and an amiable temper. She proved a faithful sister, friend, and servant to Piron. He had aromatic coffee in the morning, the beverage being all the more palatable, as it was accompanied by the maker's cheerful gossip in the chimney-corner. Madame Piron expressed herself enthusiastically about her husband's writings, and Piron felt no longer alone, was able to refuse going out to dinner in bad weather, and had a crown in his pocket when he sauntered in the sunshine. He was well off enough to occasionally give alms, and at last he could receive friends at his hearth. This episode in the life of Piron is one of the brightest romances of impecuniosity.

Scarcely less happy is an anecdote of Quin the actor, who, if he said many spiteful things, was not incapable of a generous action. James Thomson, another of the brotherhood of genius, found himself immured in a sponging-house. In his dolorous and solitary condition he was one evening surprised by a visit from Quin. They cracked a bottle, and as the night wore away a choice supper was served by one of the attendants of the prison. Thomson, a sensitive nervous man, partook of the dishes with indifferent appetite, for his thoughts wandered to the payment of the bill. Another bottle of claret was drunk, and the visitor rose to depart. "Mr. Thomson," said Quin, "before I go, let me say that there is an account between us." Thomson was alarmed, and stammered out that he was unaware of any obligations. "They are mine," replied Quin. "I have received so much delight from the writings of James Thomson, that I consider myself his debtor at least for a hundred pounds." Saying this, he placed a note for that amount on the table, shook the astonished poet by the hand, and bowed himself out.

I will conclude the selections of romantic impecuniosity with the case of Thomas De Quincey, who, according to some authorities, being afraid of an oral examination at Oxford College, left the university by stealth and wandered away, his stock of money being scant and his whereabouts quite unknown to his friends. He wandered about Denbighshire, Merionethshire, and Carnarvonshire. Lodging at some place, De Quincey took affront at something said by a landlady, and abruptly left his quarters. In his "Confessions of an Opium Eater" he says,--

"This leaving the lodgings turned out a very unfortunate occurrence
for me, because living henceforward at inns, I was drained of my money
very rapidly. In a fortnight I was reduced to short allowance, that is
I could allow myself only one meal a day. From the keen appetite
produced by constant exercise and mountain air acting on a youthful
stomach I soon began to suffer greatly on this slender regimen, for
the single meal which I could venture to order was coffee or tea.
This, however, was at length withdrawn, and afterwards so long as I
remained in Wales I subsisted either on blackberries, hips, haws,
etc., or on the usual hospitalities which I now and then received for
such little services as I had an opportunity of rendering. Sometimes I
wrote letters of business for cottagers who happened to have relations
in Liverpool or London. More often I wrote love-letters to their
sweethearts for young women who had lived as servants in Shrewsbury or
any other towns on the English border. On all such occasions I gave
great satisfaction to my humble friends, and was generally treated
with hospitality; and once in particular near the village of
Llan-y-styndw (or some such name), in a sequestered part of
Merionethshire, I was entertained for upwards of three days by a
family of young people with an affectionate and fraternal kindness
that left an impression upon my heart not yet impaired. The family
consisted at that time of four sisters and three brothers, all grown
up, and all remarkable for elegance and delicacy of manners. So much
beauty and so much native good breeding and refinement I do not
remember to have seen before or since, in any cottage, except once or
twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire. They spoke English, an
accomplishment not often met with in so many members of one family,
especially in villages remote from the high road. There I wrote, in my
first introduction, a letter about prize-money for one of the
brothers, who had served on board an English man-of-war, and more
privately, two love-letters for two of the sisters. They were both
interesting-looking girls, and one of uncommon loveliness. In the
midst of their confusion and blushes whilst dictating, or rather
giving me general instructions, it did not require any great
penetration to discover that what they wished was "that their letters
should be as kind as was consistent with proper maidenly pride." I
continued so to temper my expressions as to reconcile the
gratification of both feelings, and they were as much pleased with the
way in which I expressed their thoughts as, in their simplicity, they
were astonished at my having so readily discovered them. The reception
one meets with from the women of a family generally determines the
tenor of one's whole entertainment. In this case I had discharged my
confidential duties as secretary so much to the general satisfaction,
perhaps also amusing them with my conversation, that I was pressed to
stay with a cordiality which I had little inclination to resist. I
slept with the brothers, the only unoccupied bed standing in the
apartment of the young women; but in all other points they treated me
with a respect not usually paid to purses as light as mine, as if my
scholarship were sufficient evidence that I was of gentle blood."

Farther on he says,--

"The only friend I had in this strange poverty of mine on first coming
to London was a young woman. She was one of that unhappy class who
belong to the outcasts and pariahs of our female population. For many
weeks I had walked at night with this poor friendless girl up and down
Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps, or under the shelter
of porticoes. One night when we were pacing slowly along Oxford
Street, and after a day when I had felt unusually ill and faint, I
requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square. Thither we went,
and we sat down on the steps of a house which to this hour I never
pass without a pang of grief and an inner act of homage to the spirit
of the unhappy girl in memory of the noble act she performed. Suddenly
as we sat I grew much worse: I had been leaning my head against her
bosom. I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. Uttering
a cry of terror, but without a moment's delay, she ran off into Oxford
Street, and in less time than could be imagined returned to me with a
glass of port wine and spices that acted upon my empty stomach, which
at that time would have rejected all solid food, with an instantaneous
power of restoration, and for this glass the generous girl without a
murmur paid out of her own humble purse, at a time, be it remembered,
when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of
life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever
be able to reimburse her."

I will conclude this chapter with two most truly remarkable stories. The first is one which Sir Walter Scott used to relate with his own inimitable powers of story-telling, and which, as the victim was his own cousin, the narrative on the lips of the novelist ever excited profound interest in the minds of listeners. It would seem that as a midshipman his cousin Watty was extremely popular on ship-board and on shore. He was a bit of a rip, but generous to a fault, handsome, merry and reckless. After one memorable long voyage he put in with others at Portsmouth, and enjoyed those roysterings, love passages, tavern pleasures, and adventures so dear to the heart of "Jack ashore." With a couple of companions Watty Scott was in the unenviable position of being left high and dry on the strand of impecuniosity. Moreover the three jolly sailors had run up an immense bill at a tavern on the Point, the settlement of which haunted them by day and by night. In their recklessness, almost amounting to despair, they still went on living high, and steeping recollection of their liabilities in the fumes of baccy and the odours of the flowing bowl.

At last came the fatal and imperative orders from official quarters that they must "ship off." Summoning up their best graces and most insinuating powers of expression in the way of eloquence, they sought an interview with their hostess, and acquainted her with their foolish but unfortunate position; to which account she listened with attention and deep interest. She was informed not only of their perfect inability to meet the bill, but that in a short period they were bound to be on board ship. Their caterer turned a deaf ear to the revelation of their poverty, and in the most virago-like manner fiercely informed them "that they could not budge an inch." The sailors pleaded in earnest tones for her mercy, but in the course of an hour they found themselves guarded by bailiffs, and in one of the parlours of the hostelry the three youths, for they were nothing more, sat in moody contemplation of their impending disgrace.

Towards evening their creditor sought them with a less fierce aspect and uttered words less bitter and explosive than those of which she had delivered herself in the morning. She told her debtors she would give them a chance, and proposed a plan by which her claim could be cancelled. The sailors were told by her that she was a lone woman and had long wanted a marriage certificate "to give her a respectable position in her calling," that one of them must marry her--which one she didn't care a curse--but by all that was holy if she didn't marry one of them, all three should be packed off to gaol, and the ship must go without them. Remonstrance, promises to pay in a few months, the unreasonableness of the request, in fact everything said by the discomfited sailors was in vain. It was impossible to pacify her, and the victims of impecuniosity saw that the woman's proposal was the only means of escaping from disgrace and humiliation. After taking counsel among themselves, the three sailors drew lots for the hymeneal martyrdom, and the ill-luck fell on Watty Scott. Next morning the midshipman and the landlady were spliced, and returned to the tavern, where a rich and liberal dinner awaited the newly married couple and the two fortunate companions of the bridegroom; and in the afternoon the three sailors were tumbled into a wherry, and were soon aboard ship. The marriage was kept a secret, and the first to reveal it was Watty Scott, who one day at a town in Jamaica, reading a newspaper, saw an account of a trial for murder and robbery in connection with a Portsmouth tavern, and having read all particulars, exclaimed, "Thank God, my wife's hanged!"

The other anecdote is more appalling in detail than anything I can remember, and is recorded of a German nobleman who was a contemporary of the first Napoleon.

The story opens in the solitary chamber of a dilapidated chateau situated on the skirts of the Black Forest in Germany. In a corner of the chamber sits a young man of aristocratic mien and military garb, his face buried in his hands, and his whole demeanour indicating the most intense hopelessness and sorrow. The courtyard and gardens of the chateau, as they may be seen from the windows of the room in which the young man has sunk upon a seat, are everywhere pervaded by an air of desolation. Tokens of past opulence and taste may be observed in dismantled and untended flower-beds, fallen vases and statues, and in the unhinged and rusting iron gates. Forlorn as is the appearance of the interior and exterior of the once beautiful chateau, it is not more forlorn and desolate than the heart of the young soldier, sole tenant of the silent and deserted chamber. The young man's history had been most melancholy. His mother, harshly used by the man who at the altar had sworn to love and cherish her, had died when he was only nineteen years of age. Her death was caused by a broken heart, and the son, finding that he held no place in the esteem or affections of the surviving parent, gladly accepted the offer of a commission in an Austrian company of hussars.

After five years of hard and active service, respite and tranquil leisure fell to the lot of the young soldier, and with the instincts of a loyal and affectionate heart, he set out in the direction of his father's residence on horseback, attended by his ordinary military servant.

On the second day's journey while going in the direction of the parental home he found himself benighted in the midst of the Black Forest. It was a perilous and wearisome journey, which, however, found relief by the appearance of lights in what seemed to be some kind of human habitation.

It proved to be a rough and isolated inn, where the officer and his orderly were soon housed, after accommodation had been found for their horses. Everything about the cabaret was rough, uncomfortable, and unprepossessing. The only man in attendance was of ruffianly and sinister aspect. The orderly after supper was requested by his master to sleep (ready for call) near the horses under the manger in the stable, and afterwards the officer (carefully concealing a pair of pistols under his cloak) requested to be shown to his sleeping apartment, which proved to be little better than a loft. He placed the oil lamp on a chair, laid his sword by it, and threw himself down on the rude pallet-bed without taking off his clothes. Not feeling sleepy he turned his pillow, and found that it was stained with blood recently shed, and which strengthening the apprehensions formed on his entrance into the house, at once impelled him to cock his pistols and draw his sword.

For an hour or two the house seemed to be wrapped in profound silence, and just as the wearied guest found that drowsiness was stealing over him he cast his eyes across the room and noticed that a portion of the flooring heaved and rose. The officer crept from the bed and stood sword in hand watching a trap-door which had been quietly raised by a hand. With all the strength he could command and with all the quickness he could exercise he smote the hand, when the trap closed, and beneath it he heard a smothered cry. Hurrying down stairs, he reached the front door, unbarred it, made his way to the stable, and roused the servant. In a short time master and man were galloping away on the road, and the rest of their journey was secure and without adventure. On the third day he reached the chateau of his father. It was the soldier's birthplace, and his heart filled with grief when he saw that his once-loved home was deserted and seemingly tenantless. Decay seemed to have invaded everything. No summons awaited their thundering knocks at the hall-door, but at one of the windows could be seen the pallid, ghastly visage of a man watching. Master and man made a forcible entry into the house, and sought the room at the window of which had peered the strange and repulsive face. On entering the room the young soldier recognised his father, haggard and scowling, who when he saw his son's extended hand held up a mutilated stump and said, "That's your answer." The father, ruined by reckless living, had, owing to his impecuniosity, joined a lawless gang frequenting the cabaret, and had sought to rob and murder his own son.

THE END

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

End of Project Gutenberg's Curiosities of Impecuniosity, by H. G. Somerville