It is a most remarkable thing. I sat down with the full intention ofwriting something clever and original; but for the life of me I can'tthink of anything clever and original--at least, not at this moment.

The only thing I can think about now is being hard up. I supposehaving my hands in my pockets has made me think about this. I alwaysdo sit with my hands in my pockets except when I am in the company ofmy sisters, my cousins, or my aunts; and they kick up such a shindy--Ishould say expostulate so eloquently upon the subject--that I have togive in and take them out--my hands I mean. The chorus to theirobjections is that it is not gentlemanly. I am hanged if I can seewhy. I could understand its not being considered gentlemanly to putyour hands in other people's pockets (especially by the other people),but how, 0 ye sticklers for what looks this and what looks that, canputting his hands in his own pockets make a man less gentle? Perhapsyou are right, though. Now I come to think of it, I have heard somepeople grumble most savagely when doing it. But they were mostly oldgentlemen. We young fellows, as a rule, are never quite at easeunless we have our hands in our pockets. We are awkward and shifty.

We are like what a music-hall Lion Comique would be without hisopera-hat, if such a thing can be imagined. But let us put our handsin our trousers pockets, and let there be some small change in theright-hand one and a bunch of keys in the left, and we will face afemale post-office clerk.

It is a little difficult to know what to do with your bands, even inyour pockets, when there is nothing else there. Years ago, when mywhole capital would occasionally come down to "what in town the peoplecall a bob," I would recklessly spend a penny of it, merely for thesake of having the change, all in coppers, to jingle. You don't feelnearly so hard up with eleven pence in your pocket as you do with ashilling. Had I been "La-di-da," that impecunious youth about whom wesuperior folk are so sarcastic, I would have changed my penny for twoha'pennies.

I can speak with authority on the subject of being hard up. I havebeen a provincial actor. If further evidence be required, which I donot think likely, I can add that I have been a "gentleman connectedwith the press." I have lived on 15 shilling a week. I have lived aweek on 10, owing the other 5; and I have lived for a fortnight on agreat-coat.

It is wonderful what an insight into domestic economy being reallyhard up gives one. If you want to find out the value of money, liveon 15 shillings a week and see how much you can put by for clothes andrecreation. You will find out that it is worth while to wait for thefarthing change, that it is worth while to walk a mile to save apenny, that a glass of beer is a luxury to be indulged in only at rareintervals, and that a collar can be worn for four days.

Try it just before you get married. It will be excellent practice.

Let your son and heir try it before sending him to college. He won'tgrumble at a hundred a year pocket-money then. There are some peopleto whom it would do a world of good. There is that delicate blossomwho can't drink any claret under ninety-four, and who would as soonthink of dining off cat's meat as off plain roast mutton. You do comeacross these poor wretches now and then, though, to the credit ofhumanity, they are principally confined to that fearful and wonderfulsociety known only to lady novelists. I never hear of one of thesecreatures discussing a _menu_ card but I feel a mad desire to drag himoff to the bar of some common east-end public-house and cram asixpenny dinner down his throat--beefsteak pudding, fourpence;potatoes, a penny; half a pint of porter, a penny. The recollectionof it (and the mingled fragrance of beer, tobacco, and roast porkgenerally leaves a vivid impression) might induce him to turn up hisnose a little less frequently in the future at everything that is putbefore him. Then there is that generous party, the cadger's delight,who is so free with his small change, but who never thinks of payinghis debts. It might teach even him a little common sense. "I alwaysgive the waiter a shilling. One can't give the fellow less, youknow," explained a young government clerk with whom I was lunching theother day in Regent Street. I agreed with him as to the utterimpossibility of making it elevenpence ha'penny; but at the same timeI resolved to one day decoy him to an eating-house I remembered nearCovent Garden, where the waiter, for the better discharge of hisduties, goes about in his shirt-sleeves--and very dirty sleeves theyare, too, when it gets near the end of the month. I know that waiter.

If my friend gives him anything beyond a penny, the man will insist onshaking hands with him then and there as a mark of his esteem; of thatI feel sure.

There have been a good many funny things said and written abouthardupishness, but the reality is not funny, for all that. It is notfunny to have to haggle over pennies. It isn't funny to be thoughtmean and stingy. It isn't funny to be shabby and to be ashamed ofyour address. No, there is nothing at all funny in poverty--to thepoor. It is hell upon earth to a sensitive man; and many a bravegentleman who would have faced the labors of Hercules has had hisheart broken by its petty miseries.

It is not the actual discomforts themselves that are hard to bear.

Who would mind roughing it a bit if that were all it meant? Whatcared Robinson Crusoe for a patch on his trousers? Did he weartrousers? I forget; or did he go about as he does in the pantomimes?

What did it matter to him if his toes did stick out of his boots? andwhat if his umbrella was a cotton one, so long as it kept the rainoff? His shabbiness did not trouble him; there was none of hisfriends round about to sneer him.

Being poor is a mere trifle. It is being known to be poor that is thesting. It is not cold that makes a man without a great-coat hurryalong so quickly. It is not all shame at telling lies--which he knowswill not be believed--that makes him turn so red when he informs youthat he considers great-coats unhealthy and never carries an umbrellaon principle. It is easy enough to say that poverty is no crime. No;if it were men wouldn't be ashamed of it. It's a blunder, though, andis punished as such. A poor man is despised the whole world over;despised as much by a Christian as by a lord, as much by a demagogueas by a footman, and not all the copy-book maxims ever set for inkstained youth will make him respected. Appearances are everything, sofar as human opinion goes, and the man who will walk down Piccadillyarm in arm with the most notorious scamp in London, provided he is awell-dressed one, will slink up a back street to say a couple of wordsto a seedy-looking gentleman. And the seedy-looking gentleman knowsthis--no one better--and will go a mile round to avoid meeting anacquaintance. Those that knew him in his prosperity need nevertrouble themselves to look the other way. He is a thousand times moreanxious that they should not see him than they can be; and as to theirassistance, there is nothing he dreads more than the offer of it. Allhe wants is to be forgotten; and in this respect he is generallyfortunate enough to get what he wants.

One becomes used to being hard up, as one becomes used to everythingelse, by the help of that wonderful old homeopathic doctor, Time. Youcan tell at a glance the difference between the old hand and thenovice; between the case-hardened man who has been used to shift andstruggle for years and the poor devil of a beginner striving to hidehis misery, and in a constant agony of fear lest he should be foundout. Nothing shows this difference more clearly than the way in whicheach will pawn his watch. As the poet says somewhere: "True ease inpawning comes from art, not chance." The one goes into his "uncle's"with as much composure as he would into his tailor's--very likely withmore. The assistant is even civil and attends to him at once, to thegreat indignation of the lady in the next box, who, however,sarcastically observes that she don't mind being kept waiting "if itis a regular customer." Why, from the pleasant and businesslikemanner in which the transaction is carried out, it might be a largepurchase in the three per cents. Yet what a piece of work a man makesof his first "pop." A boy popping his first question is confidenceitself compared with him. He hangs about outside the shop until hehas succeeded in attracting the attention of all the loafers in theneighborhood and has aroused strong suspicions in the mind of thepoliceman on the beat. At last, after a careful examination of thecontents of the windows, made for the purpose of impressing thebystanders with the notion that he is going in to purchase a diamondbracelet or some such trifle, he enters, trying to do so with acareless swagger, and giving himself really the air of a member of theswell mob. When inside he speaks in so low a voice as to be perfectlyinaudible, and has to say it all over again. When, in the course ofhis rambling conversation about a "friend" of his, the word "lend" isreached, he is promptly told to go up the court on the right and takethe first door round the corner. He comes out of the shop with a facethat you could easily light a cigarette at, and firmly under theimpression that the whole population of the district is watching him.

When he does get to the right place he has forgotten his name andaddress and is in a general condition of hopeless imbecility. Askedin a severe tone how he came by "this," he stammers and contradictshimself, and it is only a miracle if he does not confess to havingstolen it that very day. He is thereupon informed that they don'twant anything to do with his sort, and that he had better get out ofthis as quickly as possible, which he does, recollecting nothing moreuntil he finds himself three miles off, without the slightestknowledge how he got there.

By the way, how awkward it is, though, having to depend onpublic-houses and churches for the time. The former are generally toofast and the latter too slow. Besides which, your efforts to get aglimpse of the public house clock from the outside are attended withgreat difficulties. If you gently push the swing-door ajar and peerin you draw upon yourself the contemptuous looks of the barmaid, whoat once puts you down in the same category with area sneaks andcadgers. You also create a certain amount of agitation among themarried portion of the customers. You don't see the clock because itis behind the door; and in trying to withdraw quietly you jam yourhead. The only other method is to jump up and down outside thewindow. After this latter proceeding, however, if you do not bringout a banjo and commence to sing, the youthful inhabitants of theneighborhood, who have gathered round in expectation, becomedisappointed.

I should like to know, too, by what mysterious law of nature it isthat before you have left your watch "to be repaired" half an hour,some one is sure to stop you in the street and conspicuously ask youthe time. Nobody even feels the slightest curiosity on the subjectwhen you've got it on.

Dear old ladies and gentlemen who know nothing about being hardup--and may they never, bless their gray old heads--look upon thepawn-shop as the last stage of degradation; but those who know itbetter (and my readers have no doubt, noticed this themselves) areoften surprised, like the little boy who dreamed he went to heaven, atmeeting so many people there that they never expected to see. For mypart, I think it a much more independent course than borrowing fromfriends, and I always try to impress this upon those of myacquaintance who incline toward "wanting a couple of pounds till theday after to-morrow." But they won't all see it. One of them onceremarked that he objected to the principle of the thing. I fancy ifhe had said it was the interest that he objected to he would have beennearer the truth: twenty-five per cent. certainly does come heavy.

There are degrees in being hard up. We are all hard up, more orless--most of us more. Some are hard up for a thousand pounds; somefor a shilling. Just at this moment I am hard up myself for a fiver.

I only want it for a day or two. I should be certain of paying itback within a week at the outside, and if any lady or gentleman amongmy readers would kindly lend it me, I should be very much obligedindeed. They could send it to me under cover to Messrs. Field & Tuer,only, in such case, please let the envelope be carefully sealed. Iwould give you my I.O.U. as security.