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In like manner the needy circumstances of Charlotte Cushman had much to do with her obtaining an engagement at the Princess's Theatre, and making the great reputation she achieved in England. When first introduced to Mr. Maddox, the then lessee and manager of the house in Oxford Street, she did not impress him favourably. She had no pretensions to beauty, and Mr. Maddox considered she had not the qualities essential to a stage heroine. From London she went to Paris, in the hope of getting engaged by an English company performing there, but failing, and having obtained a letter of introduction from some one supposed to have great influence with the lessee, she again sought Mr. Maddox, with no better result. Stung to the quick by this second repulse, and made desperate by her critical situation, she turned when she had almost reached the door, exclaiming, "I know I have enemies in this country, but" , "so help me Heaven, I'll defeat them!" Mr. Maddox was at once satisfied with the tragic power of his visitor, and offered her an engagement forthwith.

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

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

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

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

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

"TATE WILKINSON."

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

"Sir,--I should as soon think of applying to a Methodist parson to preach for my benefit as to a Quaker to recommend me to Mr. Wilkinson. I don't want to come.

"E. KNIGHT."

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

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

"TATE WILKINSON."

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

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

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

Alluding to those who were supposed to support such as himself, he scathingly says, "Some parsons would halloo enough to raise the whole house and home of the domestics to raise a poor crown; at last all that flutter ends in sending Jack or Tom out to change a guinea, and then 'tis reckoned over half-a-dozen times before the fatal crown can be picked out, which must be taken as it is given, with all the parade of almsgiving , and so to be received with all the active and passive ceremonial of mendication and alms-receiving, as if the books, printing, and paper were worth nothing at all, and as if it were the greatest charity for them to touch them, or let them be in the house. 'For I shall never read them,' says one of the five-shilling chaps. 'I have no time to look into them,' says a third. ''Tis so much money lost,' says a grave dean. 'My eyes being so bad,' said a bishop, 'that I can scarce read at all.' 'What do you want with me?' said another. 'Sir, I presented you the other day with my 'Athenae Britannicae,' being the last part published.' 'I don't want books, take them again; I don't understand what they mean.' 'The title is very plain,' said I, 'and they are writ mostly in English.' 'I'll give you a crown for both the volumes.' 'They stand me, sir, in more than that, and 'tis for a bare subsistence I present or sell them; how shall I live?' 'I care not a farthing for that--live or die, 'tis all one to me.' 'Damn my master,' said Jack, ''twas but last night he was commending your books and your learning to the skies, and now he would not care if you were starving before his eyes; nay, he often makes game at your clothes, though he thinks you the greatest scholar in England.'"

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

The vicissitudes of Spenser, in contrast to those of the author just referred to, were undoubtedly due to a want of appreciation on the part of those in power; for none of his biographers even hint at want of rectitude in his past life. Created Poet Laureate by Queen Elizabeth, he, for some time, only wore the barren laurel, and possessed the place without the pension; for Lord Treasurer Burleigh, for some motive or other, intercepted the Queen's intended bounty to him. It is said that Her Majesty, upon Spenser presenting some poems to her, ordered him ?100, but that her Lord Treasurer, objecting to it, said with considerable scorn, "What! all this for a song?" Whereupon the Queen replied, "Then give him what is reason." Some time after, the poet, not having received the promised gift, penned the following poetic petition--

"I was promised on a time, To have reason for my rime; From that time unto this season I received nor rime nor reason"--

which, when sent to his sovereign, had the desired effect of producing the monetary reward, and also obtained for Lord Burleigh the reprimand he so well deserved. That Spenser felt keenly the neglect to which he was subsequently subjected is pretty clearly shown in the following lines--

"Full little knowest thou, that hast not try'd What hell it is in suing long to bide: To lose good days that might be better spent, To wast long nights in pensive discontent: To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow, To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow: To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her peers, To have thy asking, yet wait many years: To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares, To eat thy heart with comfortless despairs: To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, To spend, to give, to want, to be undone"--

The young nobleman was much surprised with the description of "Despair" in that canto, and betrayed an unusual kind of transport on the discovery of so new and uncommon a genius. After he had read some verses he called his steward, and bade him give the person who brought those verses ?50; but upon reading the next stanza, he ordered the sum to be doubled. The steward was as much surprised as his master, and thought it his duty to make some delay in executing so sudden and lavish a bounty; but upon reading one stanza more, Sir Philip raised his gratuity to ?200, and commanded the steward to give it immediately, lest, as he read farther, he might be tempted to give away his whole estate. Unfortunately this generous patron was killed at the early age of thirty-two, and it was after his decease that Spenser for a time was under a cloud. Subsequently he was befriended by the Earl of Leicester, and upon the appointment of Lord Grey of Wilton to be Lord Deputy of Ireland, the poet became his secretary, and was rewarded by a grant from the Queen of three thousand acres. This he was not destined to enjoy very long, for in the rebellion of Tyrone he was plundered, and deprived of his estate, and when he arrived in England he was heart-broken by his misfortunes. He died in the greatest distress on the 16th January, 1599, and though interred in Westminster Abbey at the expense of the Earl of Essex, his death according to Ben Jonson was actually occasioned by "lack of bread."

His genius was not confined to poetry, for he was skilled in painting, music, and heraldry; but by his pen alone, had he chosen to live decently, he could have commanded a very good living. His translations from the French were admittedly excellent; but the drawback to employing him at this work was that when he had copied a page or two he would pawn the original and re-pawn it as often he could induce his acquaintances to "get it out" for him. On one occasion Dr. Johnson managed to get up a sixpenny subscription for him in order to redeem his clothes, but the effort to help him was useless, for within two days he pawned them again, and the last state was at any rate no better than the first. He seems to have been so demoralised by drink that he was dead to every sense of honour and humanity; for, whenever he obtained half-a-guinea, whether by writing poetry or a begging letter, he would sit squandering it in a tavern while his wife and child starved at home. He got from bad to worse, and in 1742, when locked up in a spunging-house, sent the following appeal to Cave:

"I am every moment threatened to be turned out here, because I have not money to pay for my bed two nights past, which is usually paid beforehand; and I am loth to go into the Compter, till I can see if my affairs can possibly be made up. I hope, therefore, you will have the humanity to send me half-a-guinea for support till I finish your papers in my hands. I humbly entreat your answer, not having tasted anything since Tuesday evening I came here; and my coat will be taken off my back for the charge of the bed, so that I must go into prison naked, which is too shocking for me to think of."

There are several accounts given of his death, which occurred when he was but forty-one years of age; and, though they vary as to the precise nature of his end, there is no doubt that it was accelerated by the habit he indulged in--of drinking hot beer to excess, which at last obscured and confused his intellectual faculties.

The following lines written some time before his melancholy end show that he was no stranger to the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," and that his self-destruction was not the result of momentary madness, but rather induced by the humiliating torture of ills long borne.

"Far, far away then chase the harlot Muse, Nor let her thus thy noon of life abuse; Mix with the common crowd, unheard, unseen, And if again thou tempt'st the vulgar praise, May'st thou be crown'd with birch instead of bays!"

The untimely end of Chatterton is a companion picture to that of Cary, but the circumstances of his early death, his being without food for two days, and his poisoning himself with arsenic and water, when lodging at Mrs. Angel's, a sack-maker in Brook Street, Holborn, are so well known that it is only necessary to mention his melancholy fate, which if it stood alone in the history of literature would be sufficient to show there is a very pathetic side to impecuniosity. Although this rash act is attributed to the state of starvation to which the poet was reduced, there is little doubt that Horace Walpole by his unsympathising, though strictly correct, reproof had much to do with the disordered condition of the poor fellow's mind. When living at Bristol, Chatterton became possessed of some parchments which had been extracted from the coffin of a Mr. Canynge, and upon these he produced some poetry, which he described as a production of Thomas Canynge, and of his friend, one Thomas Rowley, a priest; sent them to Walpole and asked for assistance to enable him to quit his uncongenial occupation, and pursue one more poetic. The poems were submitted to competent antiquaries, and pronounced forgeries, whereupon Horace Walpole refused the boy's application for help, at the same time reproving the attempted fraud in the most cold and cutting terms. For this treatment the great wit and prince of letter-writers has been severely censured; one writer remarking, "Just or unjust, the world has never forgiven Horace Walpole for Chatterton's misery. His indifference has been contrasted with the generosity of Edmund Burke to Crabbe, a generosity to which we owe 'The Village,' 'The Borough,' and to which Crabbe owed his peaceful old age, and almost his existance. The cases were different, but Crabbe had his faults, and Chatterton was worth saving. It is well for genius that there are souls in the world more sympathising, less worldly, and more indulgent, than those of such men as Horace Walpole."

The career of Thomas Otway, the dramatist, though short, for he was but thirty-four years of age when he died, was one continued course of monetary difficulty, the result of irregular living. The son of a Sussex rector and educated at Winchester and Christ Church, Oxford, he betrayed no anxiety to follow his father's footsteps, but at the age of twenty-three manifested a most practical preference for Thespis rather than theology, though he does not seem to have possessed any great genius for acting. He subsequently became a cornet in a regiment, which was sent to Flanders, but distinguished himself most as a dramatic writer, for which profession he was eminently suited, many of his plays meeting with exceptional success, particularly 'Venice Preserved,' which has held possession of the stage for about two hundred years. His circumstances, never good, gradually went from bad to worse, owing to his dissolute proclivities, and he died at last on the 14th April, 1685, in a wretched state of penury, at a public-house called 'The Bull,' on Tower Hill, whither he had gone to avoid the too pressing attention of his creditors. It is generally believed that the actual cause of his death was choking, which occurred through his having been without food for some time, and then too eagerly devouring a piece of bread which, through the generosity of a friend, he had been able to purchase. That Otway should have excelled in tragedy is not surprising, the power that he displayed in depicting domestic suffering being easily accounted for by the fact that he must have been constantly experiencing distress in private life, for when his tragic end was brought about he was hiding from sheriff's officers, his misery terminating only with death.

It is terribly sad to see such men as these, blessed with natural gifts far beyond the common, yet in spite of these endowments sinking to a lower level than their inferiors in intellect; and unfortunately the literary list of these erring ones is a long one, for since the days of Robert Greene, said to be the first Englishman who wrote for a living, and who died in the house of a poor shoemaker, who took pity upon him when he was destitute, there have always been men unable to withstand the seductions of vicious courses, and who have consequently paid the penalty of intemperance, and immorality, by death-beds of misery, and remorse, to say nothing of the life-long inconveniences of impecuniosity. Lamentable as is the contemplation of these lost lives, there is yet a sadder picture still, for pitiable as it is to think of men, indifferent alike to their well-being in this world and in that which is to come, the sadness is intensified when the object of pity is a woman, one who has been referred to as "a sort of female Otway, without his genius."

The individual in question was Colley Cibber's younger daughter, Charlotte, whose education from her earliest years was eminently masculine, which resulted in the girl becoming proficient in manly sports and pastimes, such as shooting, hunting, riding, &c. When very young she married Mr. Richard Clarke, a celebrated violinist, with whom she soon disagreed, and from whom she speedily separated, and she then devoted herself to the stage, and commenced a career, which for strange and harrowing vicissitudes is unequalled in the annals of British biography--one day courted, admired and affluent; the next an outcast, uncared for, and despised. Singularly enough, the first character she assumed on the stage after the quarrel with her husband was Mademoiselle in 'The Provoked Wife,' in which character, and several subsequent assumptions at the Haymarket Theatre, she was highly successful, and obtained an uncommonly good salary. Her temper however, like herself, was eccentric, and it was not long before she quarrelled with Fleetwood, the manager, and left the theatre at a moment's notice. From being a regular performer, she then took to travelling about the country with strollers, and shared with them the starvation fate that is so often associated with their nomadic existence. Tiring of this, she set up as a grocer, in Long Acre, but failed in that business, as well as at puppet-show keeping, at which she tried her hand in a street near the Haymarket. On the death of her husband, she was thrown into prison for debt, but released by the subscriptions of ladies of questionable repute, whose charity is proverbially more conspicuous than their virtue. After remarrying, and again becoming a widow, Charlotte Clarke assumed male attire, and obtained occasional engagements at the theatres, and, though she suffered most distressing deprivations was able to present so good an appearance, that an heiress became madly attached to her, and was inconsolable when the wretched woman revealed her sex. The next adventure she claims to have participated in is her becoming valet to an Irish nobleman, which situation she did not retain for any length of time; and then she attempted to earn her living as a sausage-maker, but was unsuccessful. Twice she became a tavern proprietor, and for a time was in the most flourishing circumstances, but her prosperity was excessively ephemeral, and amongst the other occupations that she is credited with having undertaken are those of waiter at the King's Head, Marylebone; worker of a set of puppets, and authoress of her extraordinary biography, which she published in 1755. It was with the proceeds of this book that she was enabled to open one of the public-houses mentioned; but the amount realised by its sale was not of much benefit to the poor misguided creature, for within five years , she was discovered in a more wretched, forlorn condition than ever, according to the account of two gentlemen who visited her. The widow, who, petted and pampered by her parents, had, as a child been brought up in luxury, was then domiciled in a wretched, thatched hovel in the purlieus of Clerkenwell Bridewell, at that time a wild suburb, where the scavengers used to throw the cleansings of the streets. The house and its scanty furniture sufficiently indicated the extreme poverty of the inmates.

"Mrs. Clarke sat on a broken chair by a little scrap of fire, and the visitors were accommodated with a rickety deal board. A half-starved dog lay at the authoress's feet; a cat sat on one hob, and a monkey on the other; while a magpie perched on the back of its mistress's chair. A worn-out pair of bellows served for a writing-desk, and a broken cup for an inkstand; these were matched by the pen, which was worn down to the stump, and was the only one on the premises. The lady asked thirty guineas for the copyright. The bookseller offered five, but was at length induced by his friend to give ten, on condition that Mr. Whyte would pay a moiety and take half the risk of the novel."

In the year 1759 she played Marplot, in 'The Busybody,' for her own benefit at the Haymarket, when the following advertisement appeared.

"As I am entirely dependent on chance for a subsistence, and am desirous of getting into business, I hope the town will favour me on the occasion, which, added to the rest of their indulgence, will ever be gratefully acknowledged by their truly obliged, and obedient servant, CHARLOTTE CLARKE."

This was shortly before her death, which took place on the 6th April, 1760.

It would be extremely difficult to find a more sorrowful story in connection with impecuniosity than that of Colley Cibber's daughter; and though the degraded character of the greater part of her life has robbed her misfortunes of much of the sympathy that would otherwise have been freely accorded, it would have been well if some who have animadverted so severely upon her shortcomings had remembered that much in her life that was so unwomanly was undoubtedly due to her masculine and defective training.

The celebrated actress Mrs. Jordan--whose acting, according to Hazlitt--"gave more pleasure than that of any other actress, because she had the greatest spirit of enjoyment in herself"--was so unfortunate in her last days, that she is fully entitled to a place with those whose monetary embarrassments have been particularly sad. For years she had lived in uninterrupted domestic harmony with the Duke of Clarence, afterwards William the Fourth; but when the connection was suddenly severed in 1811, a yearly allowance of ?4400, was settled upon her for the maintenance of herself and daughters; with a provision that, if Mrs. Jordan should resume her profession, the care of the duke's daughters, together with ?1500 per annum allowed for them, should revert to his Royal Highness. Within a few months of this arrangement she did return to the stage, but through having incautiously given blank notes of hand to a friend in difficulties on the understanding that the amounts to be filled in were but small, she awoke one morning to find herself called upon to pay amounts utterly beyond her power. In her terror and dismay she fled to France, but her peace of mind was gone. Separated from her children, and racked by the torturing thought of the liability she was unable to discharge, she gradually pined away, and died in terrible distress of mind at St. Cloud in June 1816.

Contrasted with its brilliant beginning the close of Mrs. Jordan's life is painfully sad, and it might be urged that the sorrowful end was but an instance of retributive justice on account of the fair and frail one's social sin. Experience, however, proves that the breaking of the moral law does not always involve punishment in this life, and even if this were not so, many instances could be cited of misfortunes as heavy, and far heavier, falling to the lot of those who to all intents and purposes have led blameless lives.

The picture of this truly great man being obliged to wear out the last years of his life by unceasing labour when he should have been enjoying a well-earned rest, is excessively sad and touching--but the sadness is to some extent relieved by the heroic nature of the act. The melancholy end of the man is swallowed up in the imperishable name he has left behind, which name, for generations to come, will serve as the synonym of honour. Sad, far more sad, were the closing days of Sheridan, whose last moments were also darkened by impecuniosity, but utterly unrelieved by any acts of self-sacrifice; and made far more melancholy by the fact that the monetary misery was caused by unnecessary extravagance.

"Peace! There was not peace even in death, and the creditor pursued him even into the 'waste wide,' even to the coffin. He was lying in state, when a gentleman in the deepest mourning called, it is said, at the house, and introducing himself as an old and much-attached friend of the deceased, begged to be allowed to look upon his face. The tears which rose in his eyes, the tremulousness of his quiet voice, the pallor of his mournful face, deceived the unsuspecting servant, who accompanied him to the chamber of death, removed the lid of the coffin, turned down the shroud, and revealed features which had once been handsome, but long since rendered almost hideous by drinking. The stranger gazed with profound emotion, while he quietly drew from his pocket a bailiff's wand, and touching the corpse's face with it, suddenly altered his manner to one of considerable glee, and informed the servant that he had arrested the corpse in the King's name for a debt of ?500. It was the morning of the funeral, which was to be attended by half the grandees of England, and in a few minutes the mourners began to arrive. But the corpse was the bailiff's property till his claim was paid, and nought but the money would soften the iron capturer. Canning and Lord Sidmouth agreed to settle the matter, and over the coffin the debt was paid."

"Oh, it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, And friendship so false in the great and high-born, To think what a long line of titles may follow, The relics of him who died friendless and lorn! How proud they can press to the funeral array Of him whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow, How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!"

THE INGENUITY OF IMPECUNIOSITY.

In the present chapter, the majority of the reminiscences related are innocent of the unscrupulous characteristics, and are intended to be examples of the theory that "nothing sharpens a man's wits like poverty," which assertion can be supported by the accepted axiom "necessity is the mother of invention;" for it stands to reason that people are more or less stimulated to exercise their faculties of contrivance in proportion to their need. Hence it is that the very needy become exceptionally sharp in more senses than one.

Charles Phillips, the barrister, who, when first he practised at the Old Bailey bar, was remarkably hard up, was wont to relate, with great glee, how he succeeded with one of his early briefs, which he had from an Israelite attorney, in what might be termed "Jewing" the Jew. The case involved an indictment brought by one omnibus company against another for "nursing" , and the trial lasted over three days. For this brief, which was an important one, he had received a disgracefully small fee, which he could not decline on account of his necessitous condition; but he determined, if he could get a chance, to be equal with his parsimonious employer, and on the last day of the trial the opportunity came. The attorney was most anxious that Phillips himself should examine a noted Paddington driver, who was a most important witness, and early on the morning he accosted the barrister, saying: "What an interesting day this will be in Court. You have to examine the Paddington coachman. The Court is crowded with conductors and drivers from all parts."

The Jew was thunderstruck, and white with fear for the issue of his cause, declared he had not such a sum with him, but said he would leave the amount at Phillips' chambers after the trial. The counsel knowing his man, and what his promise was worth, declined the proposition, whereupon the other produced his cheque-book, and forthwith wrote out a cheque for the sum demanded. As soon as the barrister received it, he asked to be excused for a few moments, on the plea that he would have to hand over another brief which he had to a brother counsel. He then privately gave the cheque to one of the attendants, telling him to run as hard as he could, or take a cab, and get the cheque cashed as quickly as possible. On his return, he managed to keep his victim engaged in conversation till he thought the messenger had obtained a sufficient start, feeling sure that the Jew, although so much interested in the trial, would rush off to the bank and stop payment. It was as Phillips anticipated; but the attorney was not quite quick enough, for, as he rushed into the bank, the man with the money came out, and the state of perspiration and cursing in which the baffled Israelite regained the Old Bailey can be understood without detailing.

The name of Phillips is associated with another record of ingenuity; but in the second instance it was Harlequin Phillips--no relation whatever of the legal luminary, though from his aptitude in taking advantage of an adversary he was worthy to be related, or at any rate his anecdote is.

This celebrated pantomimist, who was contemporaneous with Garrick, and was regarded as one of the cleverest men in his profession at that time, was not clever enough to keep himself out of debt and the spunging-house, though he proved himself equal to making his escape from custody by an admirably-conceived plan. After treating the bailiff very freely, he pretended that he had a dozen of particularly choice wine at home, already packed, which he begged permission to send for, to drink while he was detained, offering to pay sixpence a bottle for the privilege.

His custodian acceded to the request, and Phillips wrote a letter giving particulars of what he wanted, which letter was duly despatched to his residence. Some time after, a sturdy porter presented himself with the load, and the turnkey called to his master that a porter with a hamper for Mr. Phillips had come. "All right," replied the bailiff; "then let nothing but the porter and hamper out." The messenger, who was an actor thoroughly accustomed to "heavy business," came in, apparently loaded with a weighty hamper, and went out as lightly as if he were carrying an empty package, though in reality it contained Mr. Phillips inside.

This was Barnum's first stroke of business, the success of it no doubt having much to do with his subsequent enterprises; and as, according to his own showing, the scheme was the result of needy circumstances, and a determination to have money, it is impossible to say how much his present prosperity is due to that early expedient.

To give a less modern instance of the power of impecuniosity to render people ingenious, there is an anecdote of this nature recorded of Captain William Winde, a celebrated architect, the dates of some of whose designs are 1663-1665. Amongst many other of his achievements is included Buckingham House, in St. James's Park, which he designed for the Duke of Buckingham, but the money for which he could not obtain. The edifice was nearly finished when the arrears of payment were so considerable that the architect felt he could not continue unless he obtained a settlement; but how to do it? That was the thing. Asking was perfectly useless, and writing to his grace was equally ineffectual. At last a brilliant idea occurred to him. He requested the duke to mount the leads, to behold the wonderful view that could be obtained therefrom, and when the noble owner complied, he locked the trap-door, and threw the key away.

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