The Man Who Always Had a Penny
by R.H. Horne.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.1 #1 (01 Jan 1847).
There lived at a little village near Redcar, in the North Riding of Yorkshire—a village celebrated for its east wind and gravelly soil—a poor, but industrious labourer, named Peter Winch. He was a strong-boned, sinewy man, and stood five feet ten inches. He always worked from six in the morning till six at night, summer and winter. His usual work was in the limestone quarries and gravel-pits; and sometimes, when work was slack there, in consequence of hard frost, or a heavy fall of snow, he drove a team, broke stones in the road, carted ice for the fishmongers of Redcar, or swept snow and chopped dead wood in gardeners' grounds, while the frozen-out gardeners were begging in the town. In one way or the other, Peter Winch always worked twelve hours a-day,—often fourteen hours, never less than twelve,—and he had done this ever since he was ten years old. He was now in his forty-eighth year. By dint of his constant labours, he had always contrived to live with honest independence, as an English labourer should. In the very worst seasons, he had never once applied to his parish for relief; he always paid his way; never borrowed; hated to run in debt for the least thing; and, from a feeling of providence in his mind, not knowing what might happen in this world, he made it a rule never to spend his last penny.
Peter Winch, when a young man, had often wished to be married; but he was always prevented, by being unable to see his way, in the matter of bread and cheese, and clothing. Young men of the working class—and of classes above them too—scarcely ever seemed to think, beforehand, of how they should support a wife and family. But Peter Winch was a very strange man, for a poor man, in this exercise of discretion and common sense. "Those above me," thought Peter Winch, "can afford to be imprudent, and trust to their friends, or their good luck; but a hard-working man, like me, has no friends that can help him; and as for good luck, he can never expect it. By working twelve hours a-day, and sometimes fourteen, I have always been able to support myself without any obligations, without any debts at all,—in short, to obtain sufficient food, and clothing, and lodging, and to stand quite clear with the world. But, in doing this, I have been quite unable to save a shilling. At this very time I have only a penny in my pocket;—'tis true, I want for nothing, except a wife,—but what a want that is! Yet how can I venture upon such a waggon-load of fresh needs, as would be sure to follow; such a long string of cares and sleepless nights? It makes me have so many thoughts, that sometimes there seems enough of them to fill a church. And, if Martha Brown had not such pretty eyes, and little black curls all round the back of her neck, I certainly never would think of it."
Peter bought the ring the day after his great soliloquy; and honest, hard-working, independent, prudent, poor Peter Winch, was married to Martha Brown. It was not done upon the strength of the penny in his pocket; he did not deceive himself, and knew he was acting very imprudently;—it was the strength of his feelings that carried him away. He therefore determined to risk all his future life upon those pretty eyes, and little black curls. Nevertheless, Peter had not been deficient in sense as to his choice. Martha was a healthy, strong, hardworking, cheerful young woman, who would rather be a help than a burden to a working man. She was five-and-twenty years of age. Peter Winch was thirty. Among the working classes, an unmarried man, sound of limb, and of the age of thirty, is almost unprecedented. Such a personage as an old bachelor, is unknown among the working-classes. With what ease does such a sentence drop quietly out of the pen; but what a world of destitution and misery it involves!
Peter, however, had made a good choice. He and his wife worked hard, morning, noon, and night, and by this means Peter not only paid his way, and supported his wife, and three children, without spending his last penny, but they would have been happy, and even comfortable, only for a misfortune. It was a misfortune, that was sure to bring many others upon them. He and his wife had contrived to grind on through life pretty well, notwithstanding the three children; but there came three more children—and there came the measles, and the small-pox, and the hooping-cough; and Martha was often ailing, and could not work, and one child broke its leg, and the eldest girl fell down stairs, with the baby in her arms; and the doctor came, and an unusually cold winter came, and Christmas came—with several bills.
While Peter had been a single man, he never owed a penny—his daily work of twelve hours had always prevented that. While his wife continued well, and strong, and they only had three children, Peter had still contrived to pay for everything weekly, so that he ran no scores. Now it was quite impossible to help it. Besides, he had of late felt unwell himself, and had pains in his joints, and, once or twice, giddiness in the head. He did not "lay-by," however, or cease his work for a single day; he was too poor to afford to be ill, so long as he could stand; he therefore continued to work his twelve hours a day as usual—and sometimes fourteen. He often came home so tired that he sank down upon the bed unable to take off his clothes. In the morning, up before six as usual—and at it again. He paid everything as far as he could, and when he came to his last penny, he replaced that in his pocket, saying, with a melancholy smile, "Well, you do not belong to me, because I owe you to the baker and the doctor; but I will keep you honestly for them, and pay as soon as I can." And poor Peter Winch did, in a few years, contrive to pay every penny he owed, and keep one over for himself. He and his wife made a little joke about this fancy of his, about always having a penny. Peter said it made him feel "independent like," and as if he was not quite reduced to the last extremity.
Peter was now in his forty-eighth year; this was stated at the commencement of his story, and we have thus regularly worked him down to that period. From ten years of age he has ground his way through life, in gravel-pits, in stone-quarries, on hard roads, through winter and summer, and amidst breast-biting east winds; driving teams, carting ice, and pottering about frozen gardens, twelve and fourteen hours a day; never asking any relief from the parish—always paying his way, with credit to himself, and being considered a pattern for all working men in his parish. As the reward of all this, he has always been able to obtain the bare means of existence—and to wear the uncommon feather in his cap, of having a penny to spare after paying for everything. He has had a beautiful time of it!
Peter Winch was forty-eight. We have said that he was a strong-boned, sinewy man; that he had originally possessed an equally strong constitution, the constant hard labour of eight-and-thirty years is a sufficient proof. However, bone and muscle must wear out as well as bricks and mortar; and the strongest constitution cannot be expected to set at complete defiance the ungenial influences, gravel-pits, east winds, and the variety of labours performed by the mortal machinery of poor Peter Winch. This man, being now only in what, with anything like fair wear and tear, would have been the prime of his life and strength, began to display signs of a rapid break up. His constitution went first. He often felt unwell; he was quite unable to work more than six or seven hours in the day; his breath grew short. He next found that lifting great weights hurt him; and, somehow, after a few hours carting gravel, he actually had pains in his loins and back. One day, while carrying a sack of potatoes, he fell down: he could give no reason for it. The winters were colder than they used to be eight or ten years ago, and he was obliged to give up carting ice—he always took such bad colds and coughs by standing about with wet feet. Even the wind—the east one—seemed to get right into his chest under his shirt—he could not make out what was come to him. Poor, hard-worked, honest, worn-out daily labourer! he did not know that it was premature Old Age who had come to him. Somehow he could not work as he once did. He would pause at times, and look down upon his feet; and resume his spade or pick-axe with a sigh.
He was taken ill one afternoon, and unable to leave the house next day. As he sat in his chair by the fire, being in his forty-ninth year, the light came up to his face, and showed that it was all full of deep lines, and pits, and hard grains. He looked like a dry, tanned, worn-down old man of ninety. He sat silently in this way a few days; he would not send for the doctor; he said it was all no use.
As Peter Winch was unable to work, and as he had never been able to lay by money, because of his family, and because of his honest payment of his way, and because he would never apply to the parish for relief, he was now obliged to run into debt; his family could not live without doing so. Peter paid away all he had, even to his last penny—then began the bills and borrowings. He had always held up his head, and had never yet applied to the parish; his wife was now obliged to apply for out-door relief, and the overseer at the workhouse told her that they should be admitted into the house. Peter quietly refused to go in; and a few days afterwards he died—he had said he knew it was all over with him when he parted with his last penny. It was not because of parting with it—this would have been absurd—he was far too strong-minded a man for this; it was because the parting with his very last penny marked, in his mind, the final failure of a whole life of unremitting laborious toils and honest endeavours—the only product of which had been the day by day, and week by week, means of existence, which he had worn himself out in earning. All his vitality had been exclusively devoted to gravel-pits and roads, and every other kind of hard work that fell in his way; and he had no time for the chance of his mind's fair growth—no time for domestic-affections and a little amusement—no time for a quiet communion with his God: his whole physical, mental, moral, and spiritual nature had been kneaded into dust and clod—such is the result of a life—of how many lives! Moreover, Peter Winch was a man out of the pale of pity, being in his circumstances, by reason of his unremitting assiduity, a degree above the great majority of his class. He never troubled his parish, and he always had a trifle in hand (say a penny) beyond his actual and immediate necessities. Who would pity such a man?
After his death the parochial authorities, having directed that his wife and children should be admitted into the workhouse, caused a little wooden board, painted white, to be erected over his grave, with the following inscription:—
HERE LIES THE BODY OF PETER WINCH;
BORN 1796, DIED 1845.
HE WAS A LABOURER, WHOSE CONSTANT HARD WORK, FROM
BOYHOOD TO THE END OF HIS LIFE,
ENABLED HIM TO SUPPORT HIMSELF AND FAMILY
THROUGHOUT VARIOUS PERIODS OF DOMESTIC TROUBLE,
WITHOUT ONCE ASKING FOR PAROCHIAL RELIEF;
TO ACT UNIFORMLY AS AN HONEST, UPRIGHT MAN,
AND A CHRISTIAN,
AND ALWAYS TO HAVE MONEY IN HIS PURSE.
HIS WHOLE LIFE IS AN EXAMPLE FOR ALL WORKING MEN.
GO YE AND DO LIKEWISE, SO SHALL YE FIND
YOUR REWARD IN THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. AMEN.
Where else, poor, upright, worn-out Christian labourer, canst thou hope to find thy reward—a reward more worthy of thy noble patience than mere daily bread?