Imatges de pàgina
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brings out the finer results of neither. It is impossible to advance through the world in a stately and seemly fashion if you are forever stumbling over little wooden precepts; there cannot be a noble amplitude of moral gesture if every time the hand is extended the action is accompanied by a corresponding impulse to draw it back. The instinctive impulse to save ungracefully, on small occasions, when it is not worth while to make a deliberate effort to overcome it, may exist side by side with an impulse towards equally ungraceful self-indulgence. The latter is not magnificence; the former is not temperance. And the man with many pennies, brought up on the maxims suitable to the man with few, will probably, if he is that way inclined, have the tendency to keep a penny in his pocket when he had better take it out. But let us call things by their proper names. A first-class passenger giving an inadequate tip to a railway porter, or a man in a fur coat refusing a penny to the street loafer who opens the door of his brougham, is not exercising self-denial or practising thrift, he is obeying a sedulously implanted instinct of saving; that is all. Those ugly little economies have no relation to the renunciation-fine, if exercised in the right spirit-of the man who goes on foot because he cannot afford an omnibus, or without his newspaper because his wife and children want the money for their clothes. There is something stern and noble in that form of saving; but there is none when the same action is unnecessary, and is prompted, not by Thrift, but by that half-brother of Thrift whose name is Stinginess.

It may sometimes happen that a man who will spend a thousand pounds on a fine picture-and if he can see with his own eyes that it is a fine picture, and can be uplifted by living in its presence, he is incalculably right so

to spend it-will think twice before he buys an extra copy of the Times to read on his way home, or before he gives a cabman an extra sixpence on a cold day. And yet, if that rich man wasted pennies and overpaid cabmen to the extent of even a shilling a day, which would seem to most millionaires very extravagant, the net result would only amount to 181. 58. in one year, the price of one of his wife's cheaper gowns. But to effect that saving in a lump sum by going without the gown, which would be much better than going without the picture, in order to have a small daily margin, supposing that only one of these alternative courses can be adopted, does not appear often to occur to the minds of the people concerned. Why? Because we had persuaded ourselves that we had better take care of the pence than the pounds. What we buy with the pounds, what we save with the pennies, is not really the picture, is not the satisfaction of obeying an impulse of economy; it is the attitude of mind that we are buying, that we are intensifying, every time we consolidate it in one direction or another. For this is a terrible danger that may await us; that the doors closed by our own action against fine and noble possibilities become more and more inevitably sealed by the action of time, until at last we forget that they ever were open. There are always, unhappily, under all conditions of life, some doors that we close, some possibilities we stifle forever. And it may happen to us as well in poverty as in riches, only the possibilities stifled will be of a different kind. Terrible snares as to the directing of character lie in the way of both. By poverty I do not here mean that absolute poverty of the slums, in which each penny lacked means a corresponding deprivation of actual food and warmth, or shelter; I mean that other poverty, hard also to bear, whose necessities include super

fluities which have to be renounced by an endless series of efforts of selfdenial.

There should be different names for these two forms of lack of means, or, at any rate, for the different forms of suffering they inflict-which, in the one case, is mainly physical, and the other, mental-for it becomes confusing, blurring, and entirely misleading if we try to compare them on actually the same grounds and using the same words. The deprivations and renunciations which may fall upon us, going up through the different layers of the social order, not infrequently include people of a station and position obliging them to live, in a measure, according to the standards of the wealthy and distinguished.

This is

the thing that is difficult to bear with simplicity and dignity, and in those who lack those qualities, and who, whatever their social position or their absolute means, conceive they have not enough, it sometimes gives rise to the most curlous manifestations. Is not this, by the way, one of the foxes that ought to be kept under one's cloak? Not, perhaps, from the point of view of the financial equilibrium of society, but simply from that of making the social relations of human beings with one another seemly, agreeable and dignified. The person who, in a smart drawing-room, laments aloud over her lack of means-I say "her" advisedly, for this seems to be an error that women are more likely to fall into than men-is hardly less unpleasant than the one who, on the same occasion, loudly proclaims the fact of having money in superfluity. To be sure, we tolerate one manifestation more readily than the other, because the combination of high social claims with inadequate means is, on the whole, more likely to produce a bearable result than the opposite combination of too ample means with inadequate standards. This is the reason, perhaps, why we do not VOL. VIII. 398

LIVING AGE.

protest more loudly against the neighbor who, lying necessarily beyond the reach of offers of help, persists in explaining her existence in the terms of pounds, shillings and pence, and so bringing money, in words as well as in deeds, prominently into the foreground as almost the principal factor of life. Such conditions, in natures which are not noble, are apt to engender a concentration upon the petty details of existence, a habit of selection not governed by high standards, but by an adjustment to possibilities. This is a possible danger of both limited and unlimited means. In the former case, ideals may fade and standards become blurred by the interposition of ignoble preoccupations; in the latter, from its not being absolutely essential that a wise reflection and weighing of alternatives should accompany the process of selection, the capacity to select is again likely to suffer. The finer tastes and discriminations are not necessarily brought to their greatest perfection by being able to afford to get the second best as well as the best, by being able, without a thought, to make a trial of something that may be inadequate, in order to discard it afterwards, it may be, for something not more desirable.

There is a danger in an existence too easy-going and prosperous of losing hold on the finer, stronger aspirations, on the virtues of sobriety and temperance in the widest sense; a danger of being gradually overlaid by an abundance of detail and ornament, in every order a sign of decadence. In the noble nature, on the other hand, which succeeds in governing its fate instead of being governed with it, in keeping hold of the ideal in the face of poverty, the finer, stronger virtues are more likely to be engendered than in the case of the prosperous who hold on their satisfied way in an existence subject to the continued encroachment of

self-indulgence both of the body and of the spirit.

I am not pausing to discuss here the desirability that the affluent should enjoy part of their means in a way which appears to most people so obviously "right," according to the received doctrines of altruism, that it is needless to spend time in discussing it. I am not going to repeat a thought that occurs in so many wise and foolish forms to most human minds at either end of the social scale, that part of the means of the rich should be consecrated to helping those who deserve help, or In even those who simply need it. both cases I would say incidentally that it is always possible to find out whether they do either one or the other, though this means a great deal more trouble than enunciating a general reluctance to "pauperize." It may sometimes be allowable to act for the legitimate advantage of the individual on lines which would not be practicable if applied to the community. welfare of the two appear at first sight so inextricably intertwined that it is, no doubt, more easy to say that the one must not be attempted for fear of endangering the other, than carefully and patiently to disentangle, for a given contingency, the threads that bind them together; and take the considerable trouble that it means to arrive at distinguishing.

But the

And as for the really, absolutely poor, those in whom every generous impulse, every offer of help, every contribution towards the needs of another means, as the French say, paying with their person, depriving themselves of what they have to give to some one else, sitting up themselves at night by a neighbor's sick bed and thus practically taking their share of another's trouble,-I would almost go so far as to say that such an attitude of mind engenders certain high virtues which are practically unknown among those

who, under similar circumstances, simply draw out their purse, or write a letter. . . and send somebody else. It is probably unavoidable. These acts of daily heroism and self-sacrifice, accomplished as a matter of course at the cost of personal fatigue, suffering and privation, are things that cannot be learnt in theory, and are likely to be practised but very exceptionally by those who can exercise them by proxy. Is it true, then, after all-can it be?-that there is a high level of moral achievement which it may be difficult for the rich to attain? certain qualities, and those of the finest kind, which are bound to lie dormant, if circumstances do not call them forth? If so, let us seek for the remedy in the right place. Thrift is not the virtue we need here. It is not so simple as that. What is needed is to make a vigorous stand against the action of surroundings and circumstances, lest we should fall a helpless prey to them; to keep alive by constant effort the conviction that it is necessary to resist them. But it is possible that those whose lives are sunny and prosperous may mistake the content and satisfaction they feel for a condition of moral excellence in which watchfulness is not so much needed. Plato tells us that it is difficult to be cheerful when you are old and poor; and we may presume, therefore, that it is not difficult when you are old and rich. But even granting that that is so, which it certainly is not invariably-otherwise we should have a whole class of cheerful old rich whose existence would be of the greatest gain to the communitythat is not the highest form of excellence. That is the sort of well-being that comes from repletion; you have had your fill of the good things of life, and can sit down well content. It is not philosophical and spiritual, calm, arrived at by effort and aspiration. The obvious and disheartening condition of the people who have had enough is

that they do not want more; and, therefore, do not try to attain it. This it is that may stop the strenuous impulse, both of a moral and mental kind; for the intelligence, as well as the character, may mistake the satisfactory development arrived at by helpful circumstance, for natural endowment. But still this condition, this kind of "goodness," which is what, on the whole, the most favorably situated average human being may hope to attain, is of the kind which is the second best. For, after admitting the value of money in procuring the possession, or even in eking out the perception, of the really good things in this world, we must recognize that these are still but joys of the second order. The chosen know something else. There are, happily, some left in the world, who, having but little means, do not care about having more, all their desires and their possibilities being divinely absorbed in the possession of some great and glorious giftor even, failing the gift, the contemplation and pursuit of some lofty ideal.

The glowing spark of endeavor strenuously kept alive by ceaseless effort until it is fanned into an unquenchable flame; the passionate concentration of purpose in the facing of privation; the unconscious effort at readjustment that may inspire the genius in his need with a fury of purpose to poise his balance with destiny more evenly,-all this, in its fulness, is inconsistent with riches. There is something in the fact of the luxurious, cushioned existence, flooded without any personal effort with light and warmth, which seems in some terrible way to put out forever the flame from within, or, at best, to prevent it from burning with more than a pale flicker. The mere fact of the possession of ample means is likely to induce a greater variety of surroundings, of occupation, of intercourse, and must break in on the determination to achieve the single-minded purpose,

It is

kept before the eyes of him who has nothing else to look upon. The wealthy man may be a patron of the arts, a connoisseur, an amateur; he may be supported by a deluding inward consciousness that had things been otherwise he might still have conquered fame and opulence for himself. better that it should be so. Or rather, I would say, that since it is inevitable that it should be so, let him think that it is better. For it is not given to us, happily, to determine in which layer of the social strata we should like our lives to be cast-whether with those who have more, or have less, or with those who are between, in that middle state which poets and thinkers have assured us is the golden, the happy state of all. Shall we dare, in the face of their utterances, to hint that it is not? And yet . . . why is it golden? why is it happiest? Because, presumably, it is the state which makes for a selfish well-being without responsibility as without incentive? Let us say boldly that the mind that can dare, endure, attempt, would never choose to be "seated in the mean" if it could have something else. The highest achievement is not being contented with that seat, the highest striving is not compatible with it. No! in my heart I believe that mediocrity is not golden. It is leaden-it weighs down aspiration, it hinders accomplishment, it deadens hope; it lacks alike the spur of poverty and the encouragement of wealth, it stagnates, instead of battling or rushing. There lies the danger of the middle course, different, it may be, from that which menaces either riches or poverty, but danger still.

But, since these different strata are governed by different conditions, and, as applied to detail, different standards; since for some who are within the iron grasp of necessity the alternatives are few, and for others for whom proclivity and not necessity may decide, more

numerous; since all alternatives make demands on character and aptitudes, and since those, therefore, who have many alternatives have a more searching test applied to them than those who have fewer, it would be inestimably helpful to us all if we might have a code of life varied in detail according to different circumstances. Such a code would be more pliable, more practicable, more possible than the crude, inelastic rule intended for one section

The Nineteenth Century.

of society only, by which all the others, nevertheless, attempt to grope their way. It would be possible for us to face, once for all, the fact that we are not necessarily wicked if we are rich, nor good if we are poor; and that it is not by trying to adopt the methods of dealing with money that are desirable in the poor that the rich will remove the traditional stain attaching to their condition.

Florence Bell.

THE SWALLOWS.

In ancient days when, under cloudless skies,
Spring's earliest swallows touched the Italian shore,
Sad-hearted mothers gazed with yearning eyes,
And cried, "Our darlings come to us once more."

A pretty fancy which our wiser age

Has long outgrown. And yet-for England stands Watching the strife in which her sons engage

At her behest, in those far Southern lands,

A thousand sons she mourns, untimely slain,
Like early flowers that fall beneath the scythe.
Swallows who seek your English home again,
Over their graves your song was loud and blithe

A few short weeks ago. Perhaps a gleam
Lit heavy eyes that saw you swoop and dart,
While memories of some willow-shaded stream
Or windy down arose within the heart.

Wherefore to us, this spring, your song shall be
Fraught with a deeper meaning than of yore,
As if, across the leagues of sundering sea,
Some whispered message from our dead ye bore.
B. Paul Neuman.

The Spectator.

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