All the houses of the village stand along one side of a broad
road which leads, like all other roads, to London and to Rome.
It is not a high-road, and has but little traffic. It is only a road
which connects one small town with another small town — Romford,
in fact, with Chipping Ongar. When the road was constructed
there was so much ground to spare that they did not
trouble about breadth, and allowed to remain a belt of grass
twenty, thirty, or forty feet wide on the side of it. The houses
of the village vary in size from the great square viIla set in a
great square garden to the little cottage of four rooms built of
planks painted white, with a high pointed gable and porch overgrown
with jessamine. Naturally, because we always have the
poor with us, there are more small cottages than there are great
villas. If there were any ragged children they would use the
green side of the road for a playground; but there are none, for
this is not a country village at all, but a suburban village. On
the green, in place of the children, you may see when the day
is fine certain elderly gentlemen walking together: it is their
Exchange, their boulevard, their place for conversation.

     
One summer morning, about half-past eight or nine o’clock,
there were three of these habitués already out upon the green.

     
Two of these were standing together in the shade of the tree:
one, Sir Charles Withycomb, ex-Lord Mayor of London, was a
little old gentleman with a short nose and white hair, a ruddy
cheek and a twinkling eye, a cheerful face and a ready smile —
an old gentleman who might not be very wise, but who was
certainly kind of heart. The one who stood beside him was tall
and thin, with a long white beard, and — which you observed
when he took off his hat — a head as bald as an egg. He had a
stoop in his shoulder which gave him a deferential manner, and
he rubbed his hands and bowed his head when he spoke, which
increased the appearance of deference to superior judgment.
His name was Skantlebury. The third, Mr. Colliber, was somewhat
younger, but grey-headed too. He was sharp and thin of
face, with a hooked nose and the eye of a bird of prey. He
lacked the kindly expression of Sir Charles, and looked angry
and hungry. This was because he was both angry and hungry.
He hungered after shares, bonds, coupons, consols, funds, stocks
and quotations, which had been his daily food for many years.
He was angry because he could get them no more. He was as
angry and as hungry as a hawk before breakfast. He was walking
up and down the green looking occasionally at the Money
Market article in the paper which he carried in his hand. On
passing the other two he would stop and exchange a word or two.

     
Presently there came from one of the lanes which led into
the road a very neat and dapper little man, with shiny boots,
buttoned frock, and a white waistcoat. In his button-hole was
a sprig of jessamine. Beside him walked a little girl of twelve
or so. On passing the gentlemen he raised his hat politely.
Sir Charles acknowledged the salute with a friendly gesture.

     
‘A worthy man,’ he said, ‘and lives, the butcher tells me, on
a pound and a half of meat or thereabouts every week, and that
not the prime cut. But, to be sure, he is a Frenchman. I
wonder, Skantlebury, whether the French City Companies ever
have a real banquet. I remember, in my company — ah!’

     
There are some reminiscences better left unexpressed, because
it is not in the power of words to do them justice. It is a cruel
injustice that not a single poet has ever sung of a City Company’s
banquet. Wherefore worthy aldermen can only wag their
heads and fall back upon an interjection.

     
Next there came running out of a cottage beside the green —
one of the little white wooden cottages, with six rooms or so —
a boy of thirteen or fourteen. As he passed the gentlemen
he touched his hat respectfully, as a junior should. Sir Charles
nodded kindly.

     
‘A tall boy,’ he said. ‘Grows like his father: too much
like his father. Who failed,’ he added after a moment, because
there was no hurry and they all knew the story, ‘for a contemptible
sum. Quite a contemptible sum.’ He sighed and shook
his head but his face was so cheerful and his eyes so bright and
his lips so red, that the butcher, looking out of his shop, thought
Sir Charles was chuckling over some joke, and smiled in sympathy.

     
‘In the silk trade, was he not?’ asked Mr. Colliber, looking
after him. ‘There was money, once, in silk.’

     
‘In the silk trade,’ repeated Sir Charles ‘Though in a
small way; and formerly in Brimage and Waring’s. His partner
got him into the mess. Name was Stephens, and he bolted:
yes, he got hold of all the money that he could and bolted.
Then Engledew failed, and — I suppose because it was such a
disgraceful thing to fail for such a trifle — he — he — in fact he
was ashamed of it, and he hanged himself. But the boy knows
nothing of that.’

     
‘Lucky,’ said Mr. Colliber, ‘that some of us weren’t troubled
by the same scruples. Else we might be all banging in a row.’

     
‘There are differences, my dear friend,’ said Sir Charles
gently. ‘My own failure was for a hundred and fifty thousand.
Yours, Colliber, as all the world knows, for a colossal half-million.
It is an event in history. It will not be forgotten. To
fail for such an amount is glorious — glorious!’

     
His face, on which the sunshine seemed to linger, glowed with
admiration at the thought of so much greatness. But Mr. Colliber
only scowled, as if this greatness had been thrust upon him.
‘The failures of the residents in this village,’ said Mr. Skantlebury,
rubbing his hands, ‘amount in the aggregate, it has
been computed, to more than a million and a quarter.’

     
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Colliber, with a snarl-like glimpse of white teeth; ‘don’t you wish you had failed yourself, Skantlebury?’

     
This was a cruel thing to say, because Mr. Skantlebury had,
on the contrary, made money, though in quite a small way. To
be almost the only man in the place who has not failed, and to
have actually made a small fortune while all the rest have lost
large fortunes, is a painful position for a man.

     
Mr. Skantlebury blushed and coughed behind his hand. The
action was significant of the small way. It almost, taken with
the roundness of his shoulders and the bowing of his head,
suggested the retail way.

     
Sir Charles took no notice of this remark, and went on about
the boy, although no one was listening.

     
‘The boy’s mother,’ he said, was a Fool. ‘Nobody but a Fool would have acted as she acted. She had some money of her own — settled upon her and all — and she positively gave it up to the creditors! A pitiable business to see so much money clean thrown away. They took most of it, and left her a poor fifteen hundred or so. They Iive upon it.’

     
‘De-plorable.’ said Mr. Skantlebury.

     
Then there passed another boy running after the first, a lad
with a strap and a bundle of books.

     
‘Young Gallaway,’ said Sir Charles, ‘His father died too young. If he had lived he would have failed for a far larger
amount. The Gallaways have been in the oil line for many
years. That boy’s uncle is a warm man. Oh! yes, a warm man;
I remember he lost money by me.’

     
Sir Charles spoke as if the more this warm man had lost by
him, the warmer he had become.

     
At the end of the green the two boys were joined by a third,
and they all set off walking together as fast as they could.

     
‘Young Massey,’ said Mr. Skantlebury.

     
‘Another case: his father, too ——’ said Mr. Colliber.

     
‘Yes, oh! yes,’ replied Sir Charles. ‘A creditable failure. Seventy thousand only; but the circumstances were romantic The failure happened two years before I was Lord Mayor.’

     
He then proceded to describe circumstantially the way in
which Mr. Massey dissipated a good business and became a
bankrupt. Unfortunately, the particulars, of the greatest interest
are too long to be narrated here. It is sufficient to explain
that Mr. Massey was one of those brilliant speculators who seek
a fortune by shipping coals to Newcastle, sugar to Mauritius,
rum to Jamaica, tea to China, or claret to Bordeaux: a man
full of ideas. He tried to realise them, and the result was —
that he came to the village.

     
‘And they are pretty poor, too, I suppose?’ asked Mr. Colliber.

     
‘De-plorably,’ replied Mr. Skantlebury, rubbing his hands again.

     
‘If you want wealth,’ said Sir Charles, ‘you can go to Buckhurst Hill, or to Sydenham, or to Chislehurst; here you will
not find it. But we have our pride.’

     
One would not grudge Sir Charles Withycomb his pride, because
it afforded him so much solace; but in assuming that he
and his friends were singular in its possession he was wrong,
because pride is one of the things to which everybody is entitled:
it is a right of man; it belongs to equality and fraternity; and
so benevolently equal are the distribution of the choicest gifts in
store that a City waiter may be as proud as the City Remembrancer,
and the ship’s carpenter as proud as the purser.

     
‘Some of us,’ Sir Charles went on, *lsquo;have received distinctions from her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen; some of us have been on terms of familiarity with the great — yes, Mr. Colliber, have lived in Kensington Palace Gardens; some of us have been in a large way; we have failed; as my friend rightly says, for an aggregate of millions. I have myself entertained his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. It was when I was Lord Mayor ——’

     
Here Mr. Colliber moved slowly away.

     
‘When I was Lord Mayor, Mr. Skantlebury. At the
Mansion House. When he came away’ — at this point of the well-known story Sir Charles’s emotion always overcame him, to the absolute destruction of his aspirates, which had been acquired partially and at a comparatively late period — ‘when he came away his Royal ’Ighness said to me, “My Lord Mayor,” he said “I ’ope that every Lord Mayor that comes after you will entertain me as ’andsome as you ’ave entertained me ’andsome this night. He did, indeed Mr. Skantlebury.’

     
‘It must be a glorious recollection, Sir Charles,’ said the only hearer left, ‘glorious.’ He rubbed his hands again and bowed his head as if he had heard the anecdote for the first time. Presently Mr. Colliber returned, and the group was
joined by Mr. Massey, a large old gentleman with a rich voice
and a dignified bearing, who appeared capable of failing for
millions. Then they talked about investments, and consulted
the share lists, and were as eager over it as if they were all
going of without a moment’s delay to invest the money for
which they had failed.

     
There is not much money in this village, but there is
continual talk of money, and the perilous ways of merchant
adventurers are familiar to the residents. There is no hurried
rush to the City in the morning, nor is there the slow return in
the evening; their feet tread no more the golden pavement;
yet they have been there and still would go; and in their eyes
it is the nearest approximation to heaven below. There was
once, I have read in the ‘Penny Magazine,’ a sailor who was too fond of rum. Everybody in the fleet, including the Admiral, Lord Nelson, took the greatest interest in this rare and
exceptional case. It was finally decided that the only way
to cure the patient was to give him nothing else to drink. The
first day he was in happy heaven; sang all the songs he knew,
with many that he did not know; danced all the hornpipes he
knew, with many steps which he only guessed; and smoked as
much tobacco as can be smoked in a single day. The next
morning he was no longer in heaven, but in purgatory. The
next — but here we must leave him, the Admiral, Lord Nelson,
and the fleet still looking on with increased interest, Now, as
these gentlemen had been pursuing the shadow of wealth all
the time they were in the City when they had money to play
with, it was a kind of purgatory to them that they must pursue
it still when they had none. People who are so unhappy or so
wicked as to have actually become rich need not be considered
in this story.

     
In fact the village reversed the proverb, because it showed
how pride cometh after a fall, instead of before it. For the
people who inhabited its cottages and trim villas had all, in fact,
failed, wound up, made composition, or agreed with their
creditors.

     
At first thought it seems strange that any village should be
blessed with so great a distinction. Yet it is not really strange
at all. For, if you think of it, every town must have some
peculiarities. It may be placed on the Thames or on the
Potomac; but it must be placed somewhere, else it would be
worse off than a mathematical point, which at least hath
position. Then it must have residents — else what sort of a town would it be? And the residents must have distinguishing
marks — unless they are Chinamen, who are all alike over the
whole Empire. We have, for instance, all heard of the one-eyed
man in the city of the blind. Abdera, again, was a city
where all, from young to old, were confessedly born fools — no doubt proud of their folly. Gotham (impudently annexed by
the Americans) is a city, on the other hand, where they are
all proud of their wisdom. Surely, therefore, there is nothing
remarkable in a village — not a city, but a small village — occupied entirely by people who have broken down in the world. It would be strange, considering how many such there be, if
there were no such village.

     
There was once an island in the neighbourhood of Byzantium
whither they used to send deposed Emperors, simply dressed in
monastic garb, to live the rest of their lives on beans, lentils,
and cold water. I have often pictured to myself the mingled
sympathy and joy with which these unfortunates would welcome
a new arrival. They would hold pleasing converse with him on
the glories of the throne — when they sat upon it; they would
explain to him the true nobility of their own conduct, which
mankind had basely misinterpreted; and they would ask of him,
or exchange with him, credence as to the extraordinary
purity of their own motives and the greatness of their reigns.
Half a dozen of these old Emperors sitting in a row, like old
sailors on the Common Hard by Portsmouth Harbour, would be
a truly delightful picture. One can imagine the stories they
would tell about the greatness of their fall; the consolation they
would derive from the contemplation and recollection of this
fall; and the flutter among the cowls when another boat was
signalled having on board another deposed Emperor. Such as
this island, so was this village.

     
As for the men in this village, the ex-bankrupts and compounders,
they were, as a rule, cheerful and chirpy; they had the Green to meet in on warm and sunny days; the past was filled with pleasing memories; they would compare notes on former splendours; they would persuade themselves that they were not quite forgotten in the City yet; in fact they were not, nor will they be, forgotten for a long time. Sir Charles might still hear very very truthful things said about him; Mr. Colliber’s name will still be received with the warmest blessings of those whom he has ruined, unto the third and fourth generation.

     
As for the ladies, the older ones found, like their husbands,
consolation in memory. But it was bad for their daughters and
for their sons. For lovers come not to this place; the girls — there are not many — are as perfectly sure of a loveless life as Jephthah’s daughter; they go about in despondency. When one thinks about these poor girls thus hidden away and kept
out of sight of marrying man, one feels first, vaguely, that something
ought to be done and must be clone; and secondly, that
there really should be held, some two or three times in the year,
a Babylonian marriage market. We have got the Babylon all
ready, and really I think there would not be much difficulty in
getting an auctioneer and a steady supply of lots. And, after
all, such a marriage would not be much more matter of chance
than plenty that are celebrated every day.

     
Naturally, at first, the boys grew up to regard a big bankruptcy
as a just cause for pride; they considered, for instance,
that Whittington came short of solid greatness by dying in
good credit, and they looked upon the great offices in the City
as steps in the splendour of a career which would presently end
in, a failure for hundreds of thousands. It was long before
Allen and Will realised that this glory existed only in the
eyes of the village. The truth was rudely brought home to
them by contrast and comparison. They learned when they
went to school that bankruptcy means poverty. Other boys —
sons of less illustrious citizens — could have new clothes, while they had to endure patches in unseemly places, lettings down,
additions of cuffs, and all kinds of makeshifts to keep on the
old clothes as long as they held together. Other boys, again,
could have plenty of books; they had to make one set of books
do between them. Some books they had to borrow. There
was scrimping in such small matters as pens, ink, and paper:
they could not subscribe to the school club and were thus cut
off from full companionship; and they had no pocket-money at
all. Poverty is nothing so long as it is not felt; it mattered
little to be poor while the boys lived at home and did not go
to school, because there was at least enough to eat and to drink;
it was when they were able to compare that the truth gradually
became clear to them.

     
‘It is all very well,’ said Will at length, ‘for a fellow to look forward to be like Sir Charles and Mr, Colliber. They failed for so much that they are grand; everybody here is proud of
having been a bankrupt. But my father isn’t grand at all. He
says that if he hadn’t failed I should have gone to Rugby and
Cambridge. Very well then. What is he so proud of it for?
As for me, I don’t intend to fail; I mean to make a fortune.’

     
‘So do I,’ said Allen,

     
‘So do I,’ said Tommy. ‘My uncle is an oil broker in a large way; he’ll give me a berth to begin with. You should see his house at Brixton. I mean to make money too. You
should hear him order about his butler. We had champagne
there last Christmas.’

     
The three boys were the only boys in the place and an object
of interest to the residents, who gave them advice in a paternal
spirit, and sometimes, but seldom, sixpences.

     
‘Stick to your books, boys,’ said Sir Charles, ‘stick to your books, especially your account books. They have made me, boys, what I am.’ He puffed out his cheeks as he spoke, and Allen, though he regarded Sir Charles as the greatest of men, thought of the frog in the fable, while Will began to wonder whether it was the adding up of those books wrong which had made him what he was. ‘They made your fathers, lads. Now which of you three is best in arithmetic?’

     
The other two pointed to Will, who blushed, but did not
deny the accusation.

     
‘Well,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I hope you are all good at figures. And what is your ambition, Will?’

     
‘I shall try, sir, not to fail,’ said the boy in his downright
way.

     
Mr. Colliber laughed sarcastically, Sir Charles looked uncomfortable
Mr. Skantlebury coughed behind his hand.

     
‘Ah! yes — good. And you, Olinthus?’ asked Sir Charles.

     
‘I shall try to be Lord Mayor of London, and when I fail it
shall be for hundreds of thousands,’ replied the ingenuous Tommy.

     
‘A noble boy, indeed! Truly a noble boy. That is the
spirit, lads, in which to enter life. Thus was England made.’
He patted Tommy’s head and would have given him half-a-crown but that he had no half-crowns just then. ‘Lord Mayor
of London,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, that is worth aiming at. Did I ever tell you how I entertained his Royal ’Ighness the Prince of Wales?’

     
Had he ever told them anything else?

     
♣  ♣  ♣  
♣  ♣  ♣  
♣

     
‘When he went away, his Royal ’Ighness was good enough to say “My Lord Mayor, all I can say is this, I only ’ope your Lordship’s successor will entertain me as ’andsome as you ’ave entertained me ’andsome this night.” That was about enough, boys, wasn’t it? Eh? eh? eh?’

     
‘Will,’ said Allen, ‘I hate money. They talk about nothing else. Where are the people who read books and talk about
things that don’t mean money?’

‘I don’t know,’ Will answered. ‘I don’t hate money. With money you can buy whatever you like. The richer I get the better I shall like it. With money, Allen, you can even buy books.’

     
They went to an old grammar school about two miles nearer
town. To get there the lads had to tramp the two miles there
and back every day; they marched side by side; frequently,
on Saturday afternoons expecially, they would encounter other
lads from Stratford, Bow, Clapton, Stepney, and Old Ford.
Then there would be a fight, in which they sometimes came off
victors and sometimes had to retire. Yet not ingloriously, for
who could resist the ponderous charge of Will, master of an
iron fist, ambidexter, the Achilles of the Forest? Beside him
charged Allen, as plucky yet not so stout of build; and, outside
the mêlée Tommy plied the dexterous pebble. Insomuch that the prowess of the three was bruited abroad, and the chivalry of the East-end came forth. When the worsted combatants
went home again they always boasted of a victory and egged
their friends to go too, and try their luck. But it was observed
by the thoughtful that no one went twice.

     
The school was an ancient foundation, and the boys were
well taught. It was not wholly, for instance, a school for the
training of the Perfect Clerk, which is simple, and means handwriting,
spelling, and book-keeping. The Perfect Clerk needs
little more. It was rather a school for the training of the
ambitious clerk who aspires to a partnership. Most of the
boys’ fathers were already partners, and intended that the boys should follow after them. There were many things taught in
the school, and it was the fault of the masters if the Literæ
humaniores were generally regarded by the boys as encumbrances, or perhaps useless ornaments, to their possession. The masters, for instance, knew quantities of Latin — a fact most discouraging to the student, because clearly they made no
money. There was an atmosphere of the City about the school.
And it was an interesting school, and had a most charming old
building of red brick with ivy and picturesque masters’ houses; yet it was a school from which the boys did not run away to sea, or enlist in the army, or go on the stage, or become artists, or take to letters, or try any of the fancy methods of living. They all
looked forward to going into the City. The knowledge of this
ought to make the fortune of the school.