CROESUS AS HERMIT.

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 7752, 22 July 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

CROESUS AS HERMIT.

SOME ROBINSON CRUSOES OF It is ono of tho ironies of life that, wlulo some men of millions find their greatest pleasure in squandering their gold, there aro others who look on their "F-f . a , s « U-onhlesomn burden, from which they are glad to escape Kueli a man is Char'cs Alvord, who not many years ago was one of the most enviable and courted men in American society Ihe son of n father who had accumulated millions by a life of stroniio.is labour and self-denial, he found himself while still a young man tlie owner of mo.iv gold than he could easily spend. Ho had his town house ahd his country mansions; his horses and his equipages alone represented a fortune, Ins yacht was one of tlie most palatial Oil tho seas Ho was a man of culture, w bo liiad bad a brilliant university cfiiynr; n member of tlie most exclusive o.tib.s, and one of the most popular m.'ui m New York. And yet this Croesus, .with the world of pleasure at lrs feet, turned his back resolutely and firmly on it to spend Ins life a lonely hermit, on a small island off tho Connecticut coast, lvmote from the haunts of men. Jiore ho loads s life more lonely than that of Robinson Crusoe, spending liis days with bis books or in silent meditation; in I mating and fishing and shooting, to keep lrs modest birder supplied. “No on'.? ever comes to see m.e,” be says, “and 1 go nowhere, save a Ittlo any from my sle-nd to draw the nets >r -sot tho lobster-pots. 1 am always alone. I am cut off from tlie world :s on the planet Mars; but I have found happiness. I r,ead, work, think, keeping abreast with tho times, but with never a heart to re-enter the struggle. I am content to sit aloof, like* Pytli igorns of old, watching the battle critically from afar; for riches, honours, social triumphs and all for which men f.iyj willing to lay down their very lives aro notlrng to nie now.” A MISERLY MILLIONAIRE. While Charles Alvord was .spending bis days on his tiny Pacific Island, • Samuel Dunlop, a man at least as rich, i was leading a life little Jess lonely among New York’s millions. For forty , voars, before d-eath came to him a short . time ago, this man, who might have ' had bis palace m the Fifth Avenue. ' I ved in a sordid. -attiG with his o'd housekeeper ns liis solitary attendant and companion. She, used, we are told, “to cut his hair once a month, and lie told her save the hair and put it in a niattiv s, J a.s it was a pity to waste it.” In forty j years be w.as only known to buy one suit, a. cheap pair of trousers and two j overcoats; when his frock-coat grew ! very frayed and green liis housekeeper \ cut off' the tails and converted it into ‘ n jacket, and he would never allow her j to brush lrs clothes for fear of wearing them out. A few years ago there died at Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, Mr. During, known locally as the “hermit squire.'’ Hisisplendid old house, Lock ley Hal', had been practically uncared-for sine# liis father died, more than half a century ealier. Most of its windows wore kept shuttered; its treasures of costly c In inn, statuary and old furniture were concealed under thick buyers of dust, th.o acciimukit'on ol long years; and pictures by Holbein, Fra Bartolomeo, mid other old masters, worth thousands of pound's each, wore stacked, three or four deep, face to the wall. Tho front door was overgrown with creepers; tho stab'es had been empty for fifty yours: and in the comeli-houses were splendid coaches which had not hern used s'nee mid-Victorian days. C UT OFF FROM THE WORLD. So dotmnined was Mr. Dering to cut himself off from all sight and sound *9 tb«' world that lay outside his park of £• thousand arces, that he objected to the neighbouring church having a chime of hells lest he should hear them; and spoilt 1*20,T)00 in making a new road in place of the main highway which rail too near his house. But even Mr. Doring was a sociable man compared -witu John \ underbill, a member of the famous family o! multi-millionaires, who for long years has m-n\» his horn .' on the remote sumli)• t of the Wteli’s Head Mountain, in Pennsylvania in a tumh'e-down bri 'k cottage, for ’which, with a few surrounding acres of barren land, ho paid ninety pounds. Here, screened from Ihe most curious eves hy dense foliage, he spent hit hermit days, happy in ms

solitude and caring nothing for t o 1 « le be enjoying. “A greats pider,” wo are told, “htus S I'"“ lts »eb across his doorway He Stoops on entering that its home ma v pt be destroyed.” A few children are iter i y ■ fl ' ends j hls olll y grownup vis--9* £ young farmer wlio at interval* 1“ mgs him supplies of flour, eggs, and meat, and executes small commissions toi him -.n the neurost town. He is liis own cook and maid-of-all-work; Im hls , j mel l m a neighbouring stieain, catches his own trout, »hoo» his.own game, cultivates liis vegetableand makes his own bread. He neither writes nor receives letters; he never -seesa newspaper; and all liis reading is confined to the few favourite hooks he took wth Imi to his hermitage. One* a y° ar °njy l'*- n leaves hi.; mountain f,ast_ noss, and walks barefooted down the lull to Lower Sancon to u.iithaw* a supply of coarse cornmcal, from which to make hoe-cakes, liis chief and favouriffe food. A RUSSIAN RECLUSE. ! nf'k*! ""t long w’ncc wv- were reading I °f, ¥* Solodovnikoff, tlio richest ol all tlie Czar’s subjects a man whoso wealth was estimated at -i hundred million roubles, and. who ended his days m a miserable two-storv cottage, surrounded bv dilapidated and rott.m furniture, which wou'd Iwve been dear at the price of a live-pound M. Solodovnikoff had made liis colos. sal fortune by speculation on tlie Bourse; lie was the principal proprietor of seveni of Russia s greatest railways, I and Ins shareholdings were so vast that ten clerks wer 0 kept constantly on u+i • A n * ian dlmg liis coupons. And ueb this Croesus, whose yearly income could A. have heon much loss than £1,000,00(1 is said to have worn the same suit tor a score of years, patched and repntchcd until notiling remained ot tlie original cloth; he would sit in tho darkness before an empty grate through tho most Arctic winter, in order to save tho cost of fire end lightand lie grudged oven the few coppers lor cutting his hair, an office which was performed hy h:s o'd housekeeper, and only companion. In one of the most sordid slums ot rtew York there is living to-day Mr. J. Eads How, a highly-cultured, mucfitraveiled member of one of America's richest families, who, a few years ago, turned liis back on tlie world of fashion and pleasure to devote, his life to tins I P™ l ' in the heart of what is called 1 , Russia.” “Such squalid quar- | tors, ive are told, “could not well a tmaginod without a visit to them. The moment you get in the neighbourhood you are overcome hy an awful stench. You grope your way through dingy litU- streets, down alleys and into backyards li you know the way well, you struggle up dilapidated stairways and luul yourself in low, suffocating rooms, each of which is iccupied by half-a-dozen or more persons/’ Jt is in this haunt of N(|iialor, d seab© jtmi fi.th incredible that Mr. Eads How lias made his home, cooking liis simp'© • meals and sharing in all ways tho life of the submerged outcasts to whom lie ! btas dedicated his life. \ ALONE IN PARIS. | A few years ago M. Paul (Wasson, j the famous Parisian hermit, died n liis j palatial home in tlie Rue Galileo, which j for more than a quarter of a century ! /'ad boon liis hermitage and prison. I I hirty yoars earlier, he had been one , °f the most brilliant and envied figmes mi French society, a man of enormous j wealth which he spent with a lavish j hand. His hospitality and his charities were both on a regal scale. It was one j day in the late seventies that n sudden • tragedy revolutionised his life, when his j iavourit© nephew, a hoy whom In* loved as a son, was burnt to death at a fancy- > dress ball. ! I'l oin that day M. Colasson was drcid j to the wou’d. He disriiisvd li s hug'* j staff of servants, shuttered bis winj ‘b’ws. and shut Irinsolf up in a corner | of bis palace, with an old dependent to attend to bis wants. No one was allowed to enter the door, through which ho never once passed himself: and thus, surrounded b.v the wealth which was no lusn tTian dross to him, lip lived alone with his grief for twent.vs.*von years until at last merciful death A more romantic hermit is Mr. Bayard Brown, the “mysterious nul' onaire, who. for more than a store ot years, made liis home on liis 800-ton steam yacht moored off Brightlingsea, flinging his gold with prodigal hand to ' 1 o iiundied* of “ cadgers” whos» hoats Mwarni'-d daily round his v,ess-el. Day alter day the eager crowds would gather round the yacht, each clamorous for his or her share of tlie daily benevolence, and often waiting for hours in the hop© of bong summoned on deck to receive a few pieces of gold. GOLD FOR ALL COMERS. “Fabulous tales are told of Bayard Brown’s generosity—bow In* gave LI,OOO to this man and £SOO to that.. Agricultural labourers have received as much as a. year’s wages in on© gift; to a local curate lie sent £3OO as a wedding present, and so on- all classes sharing in tlie prouigal distribution of gold, which it is s:r'd, lias far exceeded £250,000.” But the most picturesque of all these wealthy "hermits” Wins Mr. Andrew Ross, whose death was announced a. few weeks ago; and who. like his father and grandfather before him, spent his life on ih * remote island of Cocos, m tho South Indian Ocean. Here. Mr. Ross, who succeeded to lrs father's fo: - tun)' of over £200,000, was monrm-ii and autocrat of a score of small islands, with COO subjects to pay homage to him; and so beneficent was bis rule that povei ty and erme were equally unknown in his kingdom. Each “king” in turn chose his wife from among his übi ■ d • l n deal life.