Curiosities of Impecuniosity

by H. G. Somerville

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 indeed carrying out the character of harlequin (who is always supposed to be invisible) “to the letter;” and shows that the pantomimist of the past was an inventive genius, in addition to being an agile acrobat, and more or less up to tricks. A propos of tricks, the life of Philippe, the conjuror, introduces a legitimate illustration of a man poor in pocket, but rich in resource. Though he appeared at the St. James’ and Strand Theatres in 1845, under the name of Philippe, his real cognomen was Talon-Philippe Talon.

Born at Alais, near Nismes, where he carried on the trade of confectioner, he came to London, and subsequently went to Aberdeen, in the hope of succeeding as a manufacturer of Scotch sweets; but found himself unable to compete with the native makers, and in possession at last of nothing but a quantity of unsaleable confectionery. In utter despair of being ever able to get rid of his stock, he bethought him of turning conjuror, having always had a great penchant for sleight-of-hand performances, and being, he believed, equal to giving an exhibition in public. Certain apparatus, was, however, necessary, which, of course, in his insolvent condition, he was unable to purchase. He made a visit to the theatre, and found that—fortunately for him—the entertainment being given was anything but successful; the bill, theatrically speaking, was “a frost,” and the manager consequently open to discuss any scheme for pulling up the business. In a moment Philippe saw his opportunity, and suggested that two or three special performances should be given, at which every person paying for admission should have with his check a packet of confectionery given to him, and a ticket entitling the holder to a chance in a prize of the value of £15. The suggestion was acted upon, the bait took, and the result was a succession of crowded houses, whereby Talon cleared off all his stock of sweets, netting a sufficient sum to enable him to purchase conjuring apparatus, which enabled him to give a series of entertainments with great success; the same that were subsequently represented with such profit in England, France, Austria, and elsewhere. Talon, or Philippe, as he was known to the entertaining public, was the first to perform with bare arms, and was one of the first to introduce the “globes of fish” trick in this country.

Another of the “legitimate” description of examples is found connected with the theatrical experience of Mr. C. W. Montague, who for years was a very well-known circus-manager, having been connected at one time or another with the equestrian establishments of Messrs. Sanger, Bell, F. Ginnetts, Myers, Newsome, and George Ginnett. Some years ago, when he joined the circus owned by the last-named at Greenwich, he found that business was in a most melancholy condition; the show, although a very good one, failed to fetch the people in, and the receipts, not sufficient to pay expenses, were getting worse and worse. This dismal state of things was most disheartening to Montague, who was at his wits’ end to know what to do, when one day, while he was being shaved, the barber noticing some one who had just passed the shop, said: “There goes poor Townsend.” “And who might he be?” asked the manager; being told in reply that the gentleman referred to had originally represented Greenwich in Parliament, but owing to great pecuniary difficulties had been obliged to resign. It also transpired that the late M.P. was a most excellent actor, the barber having seen him enact Richard III. “quite as good as any right down reg’ler perfeshional.” In addition, Mr. Townsend had been deservedly popular in the district, and especially in Deptford; for he had been the means, when in the House of Commons, of getting dockyard labourers’ wages considerably advanced. These two facts, combined with the broken-down appearance of the gentleman spoken of, immediately presented themselves to Mr. Montague in a business light. What a capital idea it would be if he could manage to get the ex-M.P. to appear in the circus! So popular a man would be a tremendous draw! With this object in view, he waited upon Mr. Townsend the next morning, and put the proposition to him, but without success. The unfortunate gentleman admitted that his circumstances were such that the prospect of making money by the venture was most tempting; but his pride would not admit of his accepting the offer. The idea of appearing as a paid performer in a circus in the very place where he had been regarded with such respect was repugnant to his feelings, and he felt that he could not consent to the sacrifice of dignity. Away from Greenwich he would not have minded; but this arrangement of course would have been no good to Mr. Montague. Nothing daunted by the refusal, the theatrical man of business determined not to give up the idea, but on several subsequent occasions pressed him hard, using such powerful arguments in favour of the scheme that at last Mr. Townsend consented to appear as Richard “for twelve nights only,” on sharing terms. As soon as this was arranged, another and by no means unimportant difficulty presented itself. With the exception of Mr. Ginnett and his manager, there was no one in the company capable of supporting the tragedian; but stimulated by the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Montague set to work, cut down the tragedy with unsparing energy, and so arranged a version that enabled Mr. Ginnett and himself to double the parts of Richmond, Catesby, Norfolk, Ratcliffe, Stanley, and the ghosts. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, the production (which would never have been thought of or undertaken but for the impecunious state of affairs) proved a palpable hit, Townsend’s share being so considerable that he insisted on treating the company to a supper, shortly after which he went to America.

The mention of America, and connected with circus managing, naturally suggests to the mind the name of that arch-humbug, but most successful showman, P. T. Barnum, who was not always the wealthy caterer he now is. On the contrary, his early life was associated with such poverty-stricken surroundings, that the want of money had undoubtedly much to do with that smartness for which his name has become famous. His father died leaving the family very badly off, the mother being put to all sorts of straits to keep the home together; and when Barnum—who was first of all a farmer’s boy—commenced his career, he, according to his own account, “began the world with nothing, and was barefooted at that.” His first berth of any consequence was a clerkship in a general store, at which time he was “dreadfully poor;” but, says he, “I determined to have some money.” Consequently, impelled by impecuniosity, he speedily became ingenious. One day, when left in charge of the business, a pedlar called with a waggon full of common green glass bottles, varying in size from half a pint to half a gallon. The store was what was called a barter store. A number of hat manufacturers traded there, paying in hats, and giving store orders to many of their employés, and other firms did likewise, so that the business boasted an immense number of small customers. The pedlar was anxious to do business, and Barnum knew that his employers had a quantity of goods that were regarded as unsaleable stock. Upon these he put inordinately high prices, and then expressed his willingness to barter some goods for the whole lot of bottles. The pedlar was only too glad, never dreaming of disposing of all his load, and the exchange was effected. Shortly after, Mr. Keeler, one of the firm, returned, and, on beholding the place crowded with the bottles, asked in amazement, “What have you been doing?” “Trading goods for bottles,” replied Barnum; to which his employer made the unpalatable rejoinder, “You are a fool;” adding, “You have bottles enough for twenty years.”

Barnum took the reproof very meekly, only saying that he hoped to get rid of them in less than three months, and then explained what goods he had given in exchange. The master was very pleased when he found that his assistant had got rid of what was regarded as little better than lumber, but still was dubious as to how on earth he would be able to find customers for the glass, more especially as there was a quantity of old tinware, dirty and flyblown, about which Barnum was equally sanguine. In a few days the secret was out. His modus operandi was this: a gigantic lottery—1000 tickets at 50 cents each. The highest prize 25 dollars, payable in goods; any that the customers desired to that amount. Fifty prizes of five dollars each, the goods to that amount being mentioned, and consisting as a rule of one pair cotton hose, one cotton handkerchief, two tin cups, four pint glass bottles, three tin skimmers, one quart glass bottle, six nutmeg graters, and eleven half-pint glass bottles. There were 100 prizes of one dollar each, and 100 prizes of fifty cents each, and 300 prizes of twenty-five cents each, glass and tinware forming the greater part of each prize. Headed in glaring capitals “Twenty-five dollars for fifty cents; over 500 prizes.” The thousand tickets sold like wild-fire, the customers never stopping to consider the nature of the prizes. Journeyman hatters, boss hatters, apprentice boys, hat-trimmers, people of every class and kind bought chances in the lottery, and in less than ten days all the tickets were sold.

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.

“Now,” said Winde, “I am a ruined man, and unless I have your word of honour that the debts shall be paid, I will instantly throw myself over.”

“What is to become of me?” asked the duke.