A Well-Educated Beggar.
J. R. P. F. A man about 45 years of age, the son of a much respected clergyman in Lancashire, who had received a good classical education, and was capable of gaining an excellent livelihood, applied to various persons for aid, in consequence, as he said, of being in great distress through want of a situation. He carefully selected those gentlemen who were well acquainted with, and respected, his father, some of whom, mistrusting his representations, forwarded the letters to the Mendicity Society for inquiry, which proved the applicant to be a most depraved character, who had been a source of great trouble to his parents for many years, they having provided him with situations (as teacher in various respectable establishments) from time to time, and also furnished him with means of clothing himself respectably; but on every occasion he remained in his employment but a very short time, before he gave way to his propensity to drink, and so disgraced himself that his employers were glad to get rid of him; whereupon he made away with his clothing to indulge his vicious propensity.
I will now proceed to give an account of the beggars of London, as they have come under my notice in the course of the present inquiry.
BEGGING-LETTER WRITERS.
FOREMOST among beggars, by right of pretension to blighted prospects and correct penmanship, stands the Begging-Letter Writer. He is the connecting link between mendicity and the observance of external respectability. He affects white cravats, soft hands, and filbert nails. He oils his hair, cleans his boots, and wears a portentous stick-up collar. The light of other days of gentility and comfort casts a halo of “deportment” over his well-brushed, white-seamed coat, his carefully darned black-cloth gloves, and pudgy gaiters. He invariably carries an umbrella, and wears a hat with an enormous brim. His once raven hair is turning grey, and his well-shaved whiskerless cheeks are blue as with gunpowder tattoo. He uses the plainest and most respectable of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, and keeps his references as to character in the most irreproachable of shabby leather pocket-books. His mouth is heavy, his under-lip thick, sensual, and lowering, and his general expression of pious resignation contradicted by restless, bloodshot eyes, that flash from side to side, quick to perceive the approach of a compassionate-looking clergyman, a female devotee, or a keen-scented member of the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity.
Among the many varieties of mendacious beggars, there is none so detestable as this hypocritical scoundrel, who, with an ostentatiously-submissive air, and false pretence of faded fortunes, tells his plausible tale of undeserved suffering, and extracts from the hearts and pockets of the superficially good-hearted their sympathy and coin. His calling is a special one, and requires study, perseverance, and some personal advantages. The begging-letter writer must write a good hand, speak grammatically, and have that shrewd perception of character peculiar to fortune-tellers, horoscopists, cheap-jacks, and pedlars. He “must read and write, and cast accounts”; have an intuitive knowledge of the “nobility and landed gentry”; be a keen physiognomist, and an adept at imitation of handwritings, old documents, quaint ancient orthography, and the like. He must possess an artistic eye for costume, an unfaltering courage, and have tears and hysterics at immediate command.
His great stock-in-trade is his register. There he carefully notes down the names, addresses, and mental peculiarities of his victims, and the character and pretence under which he robbed them of their bounty. It would not do to tell the same person the same story twice, as once happened to an unusually audacious member of the fraternity, who had obtained money from an old lady for the purpose of burying his wife, for whose loss he, of course, expressed the deepest grief. Confident in the old lady’s kindness of heart and weakness of memory, three months after his bereavement he again posted himself before the lady’s door, and gave vent to violent emotion.
“Dear me!” thought the old lady, “there’s that poor man who lost his wife some time ago.” She opened the window, and, bidding the vagabond draw nearer, asked him what trouble he was in at present.
After repeated questioning the fellow gurgled out, “That the wife of his bosom, the mother of his children, had left him for that bourne from which no traveller returns, and that owing to a series of unprecedented and unexpected misfortunes he had not sufficient money to defray the funeral expenses, and—”
“Oh, nonsense!” interrupted the old lady. “You lost your wife a quarter of a year ago. You couldn’t lose her twice; and as to marrying again, and losing again in that short time, it is quite impossible!”
I subjoin some extracts from a Register kept by a begging-letter writer, and who was detected and punished:—
Cheltenham.
May 14, 1842.
REV. JOHN FURBY.—Springwood Villa.—Low Church.—Fond of architecture—Dugdale’s Monastica—Son of architect—Lost his life in the “Charon,” U.S. packet—£2, and suit of clothes—Got reference.
MRS. BRANXHOLME.—Clematis Cottage—Widow—Through Rev. Furby, £3 and prayer-book.
Gloucester.
May 30.
MRS. CAPTAIN DANIELS.———Street.—Widow—Son drowned off Cape, as purser of same ship, “The Thetis”—£5 and old sea-chest. N.B.: Vamosed next day—Captain returned from London—Gaff blown in county paper. Mem.: Not to visit neighbourhood for four years.
Lincoln.
June 19.
ANDREW TAGGART.———street.—Gentleman—Great abolitionist of slave trade—As tradesman from U.S., who had lost his custom by aiding slope of fugitive female slave—By name Naomi Brown—£5. N.B.: To work him again, for he is good.
Grantham.
July 1.
CHARLES JAMES CAMPION.—Westby House.—Gentleman—Literary—Writes plays and novels—As distant relative of George Frederick Cooke, and burnt-out bookseller—£2 2s. N.B.: Gave me some of his own books to read—Such trash—Cadger in one—No more like cadger than I’m like Bobby Peel—Went to him again on 5th—Told him thought it wonderful, and the best thing out since Vicar of Wakefield—Gave me £1 more—Very good man—To be seen to for the future.
Huntingdon.
July 15.
MRS. SIDDICK.———Street.—Widow—Cranky—Baptist—As member of persuasion from persecution of worldly-minded relatives—£10—Gave her address in London—Good for a £5 every year—Recognized inspector—Leave to-night.
There are, of course, many varieties of the begging-letter writer; but although each and all of them have the same pretensions to former respectability, their mode of levying contributions is entirely different. There are but few who possess the versatility of their great master—Bampfylde Moore Carew; and it is usual for every member of the fraternity to chalk out for himself a particular “line” of imposition—a course of conduct that renders him perfect in the part he plays, makes his references and certificates continually available, and prevents him from “jostling” or coming into collision with others of his calling who might be “on the same lay as himself, and spoil his game!” Among the many specimens, one of the most prominent is the
Decayed Gentlemen.
The conversation of this class of mendicant is of former greatness, of acquaintance among the nobility and gentry of a particular county—always a distant one from the scene of operations—of hunting, races, balls, meets, appointments to the magistracy, lord-lieutenants, contested elections, and marriages in high life. The knowledge of the things of which he talks so fluently is gleaned from files of old county newspapers. When at fault, or to use his own phrase, “pounded,” a ready wit, a deprecating shrug, and a few words, such as, “Perhaps I’m mistaken—I used to visit a good deal there, and was introduced to so many who have forgotten me now—my memory is failing, like everything else”—extricate him from his difficulty, and increase his capital of past prosperity and present poverty. The decayed gentleman is also a great authority on wines—by right of a famous sample—his father “laid down” in eighteen eleven, “the comet year you know,” and is not a little severe upon his past e
xtravagance. He relishes the retrospection of the heavy losses he endured at Newmarket, Doncaster, and Epsom in “forty-two and three,” and is pathetic on the subject of the death of William Scott. The cause of his ruin he attributes usually to a suit in the Court of Chancery, or the “fatal and calamitous Encumbered Irish Estates Bill.” He is a florid impostor, and has a jaunty sonorous way of using his clean, threadbare, silk pocket-handkerchief, that carries conviction even to the most sceptical.
It is not uncommon to find among these degraded mendicants one who has really been a gentleman, as far as birth and education go, but whose excesses and extravagances have reduced him to mendicity. Such cases are the most hopeless. Unmindful of decent pride, and that true gentility that rises superior to circumstance, and finds no soil upon the money earned by labour, the lying, drunken, sodden wretch considers work “beneath him”; upon the shifting quicksands of his own vices rears an edifice of vagabond vanity, and persuades himself that, by forfeiting his manhood, he vindicates his right to the character of gentleman.
The letters written by this class of beggar generally run as follows. My readers will, of course, understand that the names and places mentioned are the only portions of the epistles that are fictitious.
“Three Mermaids Inn, Pond Lane.
April—, 18
“SIR, or MADAM,
“Although I have not the honour to be personally acquainted with you, I have had the advantage of an introduction to a member of your family, Major Sherbrook, when with his regiment at Malta; and my present disadvantageous circumstances emboldens me to write to you, for the claims of affliction upon the heart of the compassionate are among the holiest of those kindred ties that bind man to his fellow-being.
“My father was a large landed proprietor at Peddlethorpe,——shire. I, his only son, had every advantage that birth and fortune could give me claim to. From an informality in the wording of my father’s will, the dishonesty of an attorney, and the rapacity of some of my poor late father’s distant relatives, the property was, at his death, thrown into Chancery, and for the last four years I have been reduced to—comparatively speaking—starvation.
“With the few relics of my former prosperity I have long since parted. My valued books, and, I am ashamed to own, my clothes, are gone. I am now in the last stage of destitution, and, I regret to say, in debt to the worthy landlord of the tavern from which I write this, to the amount of eight and sixpence. My object in coming to this part of the country was to see an old friend, whom I had hoped would have assisted me. We were on the same form together at Rugby—Mr. Joseph Thurwood of Copesthorpe. Alas! I find that he died three months ago.
“I most respectfully beg of you to grant me some trifling assistance. As in my days of prosperity I trust my heart was never deaf to the voice of entreaty, nor my purse closed to the wants of the necessitous; so dear sir, or madam, I hope that my request will not be considered by you as impertinent or intrusive.
“I have the honour to enclose you some testimonials as to my character and former station in society; and trusting that the Almighty Being may never visit you with that affliction which it has been His all-wise purpose to heap on me, I am
“Your most humble and
“Obliged servant,
“FREDERICK MAURICE STANHOPE,
“Formerly of Stanhope House,——shire.”
The Broken-down Tradesman
is a sort of retail dealer in the same description of article as the decayed gentleman. The unexpected breaking of fourteen of the most respectable banking-houses in New York, or the loss of the cargoes of two vessels in the late autumnal gales, or the suspension of payment of Haul, Strong, and Chates, “joined and combined together with the present commercial crisis, has been the means of bringing him down to his present deplorable situation,” as his letter runs. His references are mostly from churchwardens, bankers, and dissenting clergymen, and he carries about a fictitious set of books—day-book, ledger, and petty-cash-book, containing entries of debts of large amounts, and a dazzling display of the neatest and most immaculate of commercial cyphering. His conversation, like his correspondence, is a queer jumble of arithmetic and scripture. He has a wife whose appearance is in itself a small income. She folds the hardest-working-looking of hands across the cleanest of white aprons, and curtseys with the humility of a pew-opener. The clothes of the worthy couple are shabby, but their persons and linen are rigorously clean. Their cheeks shine with yellow soap, as if they were rasped and bee’s-waxed every morning. The male impostor, when fleecing a victim, has a habit of washing his hands “with invisible soap and imperceptible water,” as though he were waiting on a customer. The wedded pair—and, generally, they are really married—are of congenial dispositions and domestic turn of mind, and get drunk, and fight each other, or go half-price to the play according to their humour. It is usually jealousy that betrays them. The husband is unfaithful, and the wife “peaches”; through her agency the police are put upon the track, and the broken-down tradesman is committed. In prison he professes extreme penitence, and has a turn for scriptural quotation, that stands him in good stead.
On his release he takes to itinerant preaching, or political lecturing. What becomes of him after those last resources it is difficult to determine. The chances are that he again writes begging letters, but “on a different lay.”
The Distressed Scholar
is another variety of the same species, a connecting link between the self-glorification of the decayed gentleman and the humility of the broken-down tradesman. He is generally in want of money to pay his railway-fare, or coach-hire to the north of England, where he has a situation as usher to an academy—or he cannot seek for a situation for want of “those clothes which sad necessity has compelled him to part with for temporary convenience.” His letters, written in the best small hand, with the finest of upstrokes and fattest of downstrokes, are after this fashion:
“Star Temperance Coffee House,
“Gravel Walk.
“SIR, or MADAM,
“I have the honour to lay my case before you, humbly entreating your kind consideration.
“I am a tutor, and was educated at St.——’s College, Cambridge. My last situation was with the Rev. Mr. Cross, Laburnum House, near Dorking. I profess English, Latin, Greek, mathematics, and the higher branches of arithmetic, and am well read in general literature, ancient and modern. ‘Rudem esse omnino in nostris poetis est inertissimæ signitiæ signum.’
“I am at present under engagement to superintend the scholastic establishment of Mr. Tighthand of the classical and commercial academy———, Cumberland, but have not the means of defraying the expenses of my journey, nor of appearing with becoming decency before my new employer and my pupils.
“My wardrobe is all pledged for an amount incommensurate with its value, and I humbly and respectfully lay my case before you, and implore you for assistance, or even a temporary accommodation.
“I am aware that impostors, armed with specious stories, often impose on the kind-hearted and the credulous. “Nervi atque artus est sapientiæ—non temere credere.’ I have therefore the honour to forward you the enclosed testimonials from my former employers and others as to my character and capacity.
“That you may never be placed in such circumstances as to compel you to indite such an epistle as the one I am at present penning is my most fervent wish. Rely upon it, generous sir—or madam—that, should you afford me the means of gaining an honourable competence, you shall never have to repent your timely benevolence. If, however, I should be unsuccessful in my present application, I must endeavour to console myself with the words of the great poet. ‘Ætas ipsa solatium omnibus affert,’ or with the diviner precept: ‘And this too shall pass away.’
“I have, sir—or madam—the honour to be
“Your humble and obedient servant,
“HORACE HUMM.”
A gracefully flourished swan, with the date in German text on his left wing, terminates t
he letter.
The Kaggs Family.
This case of cleverly organized swindling fell beneath the writer’s personal observation.
In a paved court, dignified with the name of a market, leading into one of the principal thoroughfares of London, dwelt a family whom, from fear of an action for libel which, should they ever read these lines, they would assuredly bring, I will call Kaggs. Mr. Kaggs, the head of the family, had commenced life in the service of a nobleman. He was a tall, portly man, with a short nose, broad truculent mouth, and a light, moist eye. His personal advantages and general conduct obtained him promotion, and raised him from the servants’ hall to the pantry. When he was thirty years of age, he was butler in the family of a country gentleman, whose youngest daughter fell in love, ran away with, and—married him. The angry father closed his doors against them, and steeled his heart to the pathetic appeals addressed to him by every post. Mr. Kaggs, unable to obtain a character from his last place, found himself shut out from his former occupation. His wife gave promise of making an increase to the numbers of the family, and to use Mr. Kaggs’s own pantry vernacular, “he was flyblown and frostbitten every joint of him.”
The London Underworld in the Victorian Period: Authentic First-Person Accounts by Beggars, Thieves and Prostitutes: v. 1 Page 48
