BEGGARS AND CHEATS. (continued 2)

The Swell Beggar.

A singular variety of this sort of mendicant used to be seen some years ago in the streets of Cambridge. He had been a gentleman of property, and had studied at one of the colleges. Race-courses, billiard-tables, and general gambling had reduced him to beggary; but he was too proud to ask alms. As the “Ashamed Beggar” fortifies himself with a “pad,” this swell-beggar armed himself with a broom. He swept a crossing. His clothes—he always wore evening-dress—were miserably ragged and shabby; his hat was a broken Gibus, but he managed to have good and fashionable boots; and his shirt collar, and wrist-bands were changed every day. A white cambric handkerchief peeped from his coat-tail pocket, and a gold eye-glass dangled from his neck. His hands were lady-like; his nails well-kept; and it was impossible to look at him without a mingled feeling of pity and amusement.

His plan of operations was to station himself at his crossing at the time the ladies of Cambridge were out shopping. His antics were curiously funny. Dangling his broom between his fore-finger and thumb, as if it were a light umbrella or riding-whip, he would arrive at his stand, and look up at the sky to see what sort of weather might be expected. Then tucking the broom beneath his arm he would take off his gloves, fold them together and put them into his coat-pockets, sweep his crossing carefully, and when he had finished, look at it with admiration. When ladies crossed, he would remove his broken hat, and smile with great benignity, displaying at the same time a fine set of teeth. On wet days his attentions to the fair sex knew no bounds. He would run before them and wipe away every little puddle in their path. On receiving a gratuity, which was generally in silver, he would remove his hat and bow gracefully and gratefully. When gentlemen walked over his crossing he would stop them, and, holding his hat in the true mendicant fashion, request the loan of a shilling. With many he was a regular pensioner. When a mechanic or poor-looking person offered him a copper, he would take it, and smile his thanks with a patronising air, but he never took off his hat to less than sixpence. He was a jovial and boastful beggar, and had a habit of jerking at his stand-up collar, and pulling at his imperial coxcombically. When he considered his day’s work over, he would put on his gloves, and, dangling his broom in his careless elegant way, trip home to his lodging. He never used a broom but one day, and gave the old ones to his landlady. The undergraduates were kind to him, and encouraged his follies; but the college dons looked coldly on him, and when they passed him he would assume an expression of impertinent indifference as if he cut them. I never heard what became of him. When I last saw him he looked between forty and fifty years of age.

Clean Family Beggars.

Clean Family Beggars are those who beg or sing in the streets, in numbers varying from four to seven. I need only particularize one “gang” or “party,” as their appearance and method of begging will do as a sample of all others.

Beggars of this class group themselves artistically. A broken-down looking man, in the last stage of seediness, walks hand-in-hand with a pale-faced, interesting little girl. His wife trudges on his other side, a baby in one arm; a child just able to walk steadies itself by the hand that is disengaged; two or three other children cling about the skirts of her gown, one occasionally detaching himself or herself—as a kind of rear or advanced guard from the main body—to cut off stragglers and pounce upon falling halfpence, or look piteously into the face of a passer-by. The clothes of the whole troop are in that state when seediness is dropping into rags; but their hands and faces are perfectly clean—their skins literally shine—perhaps from the effect of a plentiful use of soap, which they do not wash off before drying themselves with a towel. The complexions of the smaller children, in particular, glitter like sandpaper, and their eyes are half-closed, and their noses corrugated, as with constant and compulsory ablution. The baby is a wonderful specimen of washing and getting-up of ornamental linen. Altogether, the Clean Family Beggars form a most attractive picture for quiet and respectable streets, and “pose” themselves for the admiration of the thrifty matrons, who are their best supporters.

Sometimes the children of the Clean Family Beggars sing—sometimes the father “patters.” This morning a group passed my window, who both sang and “pattered.” The mother was absent, and the two eldest girls knitted and crochetted as they walked along. The burthen of the song which the children shrieked out in thin treble, was,

The rest of the words were undistinguishable. When the little ones had finished, the man, who evidently prided himself upon his powers of eloquence, began, in a loud, authoritative, oratorical tone:—

“My dear friends,—It is with great pain, and affliction, and trouble, that I present myself and my poo—oor family before you, in this wretched situation, at the present moment; but what can I do? Work I cannot obtain, and my little family ask me for bread! Yes, my dear friends—my little family ask me for bread! Oh, my dear friends, conceive what your feelin’s would be, if, like me, at the present moment your poo—oor dear children asked for bread, and you had it not to give them! What then could you do? God send, my dear friends, that no individual, no father of a family, nor mother, nor other individual, with children, will ever, or ever may be drove to do what—or, I should say, that which I am now a-doing of, at the present moment. If any one in this street, or in the next, or in any of the streets in this affluent neighbourhood, had found theirselves in the situation, in which I was placed this morning, it would be hard to say what they could, or would have done; and I assure you, my dear friends,—yes, I assure you, from my heart, that it is very possible that many might have been drove to have done, or do worse, than what I am a doing of, for the sake of my poo—oor family, at the present moment, if they had been drove, by suffering, as I and my poo—oor wife have been the morning of this very day. My wife, my kind friends, is now unfortunately ill through unmerited starvation, and is ill a-bed, from which, at the present moment, she cannot rise. Want we have known together, my dear friends, and so has our poo—oor family, and baby, only eight months old. God send, my dear friends, that none of you, and none of your dear babes, and families, that no individual, which now is listening to my deep distress, at the present moment, may ever know the sufferin’s to which we have been reduced, is my fervent prayer! All I want to obtain is a meal’s victuals for my poo—oor family!”

(Here the man caught my eye, and immediately shifted his ground.)

“You will ask me, my dear friends,” he continued, in an argumentative manner, “you will ask me how and why it is, and what is the reason, which I cannot obtain work? Alas! my dear friends, it is unfortunately so at the present moment. I am a silk-weaver in Bethnal Green, by trade, and the noo International Treaty with France, which Mr. Cobden—” (here he kept his eye on me, as if the political reason were intended for my especial behoof)—“which Mr. Cobden, my dear friends, was depooted to go to the French emperor, Louis Napoleon, to agree upon, betwixt this country and France, which the French manufacturers sends goods into this country, without paying no dooty, and undersells the native manufacturers, though, my dear friends, our workmanship is as good, and English silk as genuine as French, I do assure you. Leastways, there is no difference, except in pattern, and, through the neglect of them as ought to look after it better, that is, to see we had the best designs; for design is the only thing—I mean design and pattern—in which they can outdo us; and also, my dear friends, ladies as go to shops will ask for foreign goods—it is more to their taste than English, at the present moment; and so it is, that many poo—oor families at Bethnal Green and Spitalfields—and Coventry likewise, is redooced to the situation which I myself—that is, to ask your charity—am a doing of—at the present moment.”

I gave a little girl a penny, and the man, still fixing me with his eye, continued—

“You will ask me, my dear friends, praps, how it is that I do not apply to the parish? why not to get relief for myself, my de—ar wife, and little family? My kind friends, you do not know the state in which things is with the poor weavers of Bethnal Green, and, at the present moment, Spitalfields likewise. It comes of the want of knowledge of the real state of this rich and ’appy country, its material prosperity and resources, which you, at this end of the town, can form no idea of. There is now sixteen or seventeen thousand people out of work. Yes, my dear friends, in about two parishes, there is sixteen or seventeen thousand individuals—I mean, of course, counting their poo—oor families and all, which at the present moment, cannot obtain bread. Oh, my dear friends, how grateful ought you be to God that you and your dear families, are not out of work, and can obtain a meal’s victuals, and are not like the sufferin’ weavers of Bethnal Green—and Spitalfields, and Coventry likewise, through the loss of trade; for, my dear friends, if you were like me, forced to what I am doing now at the present moment, &c., &c., &c.”

NAVAL AND MILITARY BEGGARS

are most frequently met with in towns situated at some distance from a seaport or a garrison. As they are distinct specimens of the same tribe, they must be separately classified. The more familiar nuisance is the

Turnpike Sailor.

This sort of vagabond has two lays, the “merchant” lay, and the “R’yal Navy” lay. He adopts either one or the other according to the exigencies of his wardrobe, his locality, or the person he is addressing. He is generally the offspring of some inhabitant of the most notorious haunts of a seaport town, and has seldom been at sea, or when he has, has run away after the first voyage. His slang of seamanship has been picked up at the lowest public-houses in the filthiest slums that offer diversion to the genuine sailor.

When on the “merchant lay” his attire consists of a pair of tattered trousers, an old guernsey-shirt, and a torn straw-hat. One of his principal points of “costume” is his bare feet. His black silk handkerchief is knotted jauntily round his throat after the most approved models at the heads of penny ballads, and the outsides of songs. He wears small gold earrings, and has short curly hair in the highest and most offensive state of glossy greasiness. His hands and arms are carefully tattooed—a foul anchor, or a long-haired mermaid sitting on her tail and making her toilette, being the favourite cartoons. In his gait he endeavours to counterfeit the roll of a true seaman, but his hard feet, knock-knees, and imperceptibly acquired turnpike-trot betray him. His face bears the stamp of diabolically low cunning, and it is impossible to look at him without an association with a police-court. His complexion is coarse and tallowy, and has none of the manly bronze that exposure to the weather, and watching the horizon give to the real tar.

I was once walking with a gentleman who had spent the earlier portion of his life at sea, when a turnpike sailor shuffled on before us. We had just been conversing on nautical affairs, and I said to him—

“Now, there is a brother sailor in distress; of course you will give him something?”

“He a sailor!” said my friend, with great disgust. “Did you see him spit?”

The fellow had that moment expectorated.

I answered that I had.

“He spit to wind’ard!” said my friend.

“What of that?” said I.

“A regular landsman’s trick,” observed my friend. “A real sailor never spits to wind’ard. Why, he could’nt.”

We soon passed the fellow, who pulled at a curl upon his forehead, and began in a gruff voice, intended to convey the idea of hardships, storms, shipwrecks, battles, and privations. “God—bless—your—’onors—give—a—copper—to—a—poor—sailor—as—hasn’t—spliced—the—main—jaw—since—the—day—’fore—yesterday—at—eight—bells—God—love—yer—’onors—do!—I—avent—tasted—sin’—the—day—’fore—yesterday—so—drop—a—cop—poor—seaman—do.”

My friend turned round and looked the beggar full in the face.

“What ship?” he asked, quickly.

The fellow answered glibly.

“What captain?” pursued my friend.

The fellow again replied boldly, though his eyes wandered uneasily.

“What cargo?” asked my inexorable companion.

The beggar was not at fault, but answered correctly.

The name of the port, the reason of his discharge, and other questions were asked and answered; but the man was evidently beginning to be embarrassed. My friend pulled out his purse as if to give him something.

“What are you doing here?” continued the indefatigable inquirer. “Did you leave the coast for the purpose of trying to find a ship here?” (We were in Leicester.)

The man stammered and pulled at his useful forelock to get time to collect his thoughts and invent a good lie.

“He had a friend in them parts as he thought could help him.”

“How long since you were up the Baltic?”

“Year—and—a—arf,—yer—’onor.”

“Do you know Kiel?”

“Yes,—yer—’onor.”

“D’ye know the ‘British Flag’ on the quay there?”

“Yes,—yer—’onor.”

“Been there often?”

“Yes,—yer—’onor.”

“Does Nick Johnson still keep it?”

“Yes,—yer—’onor.”

“Then,” said my friend, after giving vent to a strong opinion as to the beggar’s veracity, “I’d advise you to be off quickly, for there’s a policeman, and if I get within hail of him I shall tell him you’re an impostor. There’s no such house on the quay. Get out, you scoundrel!”

The fellow shuffled off, looking curses, but not daring to express them.

On the “R’yal Navy” lay, the turnpike sailor assumes different habiliments, and altogether a smarter trim. He wears coarse blue trousers symmetrically cut about the hips, and baggy over the foot. A “jumper,” or loose shirt of the same material, a tarpaulin hat, with the name of a vessel in letters of faded gold, is struck on the back of his neck, and he has a piece of whipcord, or “lanyard” round his waist, to which is suspended a jack-knife, which if of but little service in fighting the battles of his country has stood him in good stead in silencing the cackling of any stray poultry that crossed his road, or in frightening into liberality the female tenant of a solitary cottage. This “patter,” or “blob,” is of Plymouth, Portsmouth, Cawsen’ Bay, Hamoaze—ships paid off, prize-money, the bo’sen and the first le’tenant. He is always an able-bodied, never an ordinary seaman, and cannot get a ship “becos” orders is at the Hadmiralty as no more isn’t to be put into commission. Like the fictitious merchant-sailor he calls every landsman “your honour,” in accordance with the conventional rule observed by the jack tars in nautical dramas. He exhibits a stale plug of tobacco, and replaces it in his jaw with ostentatious gusto. His chief victims are imaginative boys fresh from “Robinson Crusoe,” and “Tales of the Ocean,” and old ladies who have relatives at sea. For many months after a naval battle he is in full force, and in inland towns tells highly-spiced narratives of the adventures of his own ship and its gallant crew in action. He is profuse in references to “the cap’en,” and interlards his account with, “and the cap’en turns round, and he says to me, he says—” He feels the pulse of his listener’s credulity through their eyes, and throws the hatchet with the enthusiasm of an artist. “When we boarded ’em,” I heard one of these vagabonds say—“oh, when we boarded ’em!” but it is beyond the power of my feeble pen to relate the deeds of the turnpike true blue, and his ship and its gallant, gallant crew, when they boarded ’em, I let him run out his yarn, and then said, “I saw the account of the action in the papers, but they said nothing of boarding. As I read it, the enemy were in too shallow water to render that manœuvre possible; but that till they struck their flag, and the boats went out to take possession, the vessels were more than half a mile apart.”

This would have posed an ordinary humbug, but the able-bodied liar immediately, and with great apparent disgust, said, “The papers! the noo—o—o—s-papers! d——n the noo—o—o—s—papers. You don’t believe what they says, surely. Look how they sarved out old Charley Napier. Why, sir, I was there, and I ought to know.”

At times the turnpike sailor roars out a song in praise of British valour by sea; but of late this “lay” has been unfrequent. At others he borrows an interesting-looking little girl, and tying his arm up in a sling, adds his wounds and a motherless infant to his other claims upon the public sympathy. After a heavy gale and the loss of several vessels, he appears with a fresh tale and a new suit of carefully chosen rags. When all these resources fail him he is compelled to turn merchant, or “duffer,” and invests a small capital in a few hundred of the worst, and a dozen or two of the very best, cigars. If he be possessed of no capital he steals them. He allows his whiskers to grow round his face, and lubricates them in the same liberal manner as his shining hair. He buys a pea-coat, smart waistcoat, and voluminous trousers, discards his black neckerchief for a scarlet one, the ends of which run through a massive ring. He wears a large pair of braces over his waistcoat, and assumes a half-foreign air, as of a mariner just returned from distant climes. He accosts you in the streets mysteriously, and asks you if you want “a few good cigars?” He tells you they are smuggled, that he “run” them himself, and that the “Custom-’us horficers” are after him. I need hardly inform my reader that the cigar he offers as a sample is excellent, and that, should he be weak enough to purchase a few boxes he will not find them “according to sample.” Not unfrequently, the cigar-“duffer” lures his victim to some low tavern to receive his goods, where in lieu of tobacco, shawls, and laces, he finds a number of cut-throat-looking confederates, who plunder and illtreat him.

It must not be forgotten that at times a begging sailor may be met, who has really been a seaman, and who is a proper object of benevolence. When it is so, he is invariably a man past middle age, and offers for sale or exhibition a model of a man-of-war or a few toy yachts. He has but little to say for himself, and is too glad for the gift of a pair of landsmen’s trousers to trouble himself about their anti-nautical cut. In fact, the real seaman does not care for costume, and is as frequently seen in an old shooting-coat as a torn jacket; but despite his habiliments, the true salt oozes out in the broad hands that dangle heavily from the wrists, as if wanting to grip a rope or a handspike; in the tender feet accustomed to the smooth planks of the deck, and in the settled, far-off look of the weather-beaten head, with its fixed expression of the aristocracy of subordination.

In conclusion, a real sailor is seldom or never seen inland, where he can have no chance of employment, and is removed from the sight of the sea, docks, shipmates, and all things dear and familiar to him. He carries his papers about him in a small tin box, addresses those who speak to him as “sir” and “marm,” and never as “your honour” or “my lady;” is rather taciturn than talkative, and rarely brags of what he has seen, or done, or seen done. In these and all other respects he is the exact opposite of the turnpike sailor.

Street Campaigners.

Soldier beggars may be divided into three classes: those who really have been soldiers and are reduced to mendicancy, those who have been ejected from the army for misconduct, and those with whom the military dress and bearing are pure assumptions.

The difference between these varieties is so distinct as to be easily detected. The first, or soldier proper, has all the evidence of drill and barrack life about him; the eye that always “fronts” the person he addresses; the spare habit, high cheekbones, regulation whisker, stiff chin, and deeply-marked line beneath from ear to ear. He carries his papers about him, and when he has been wounded or seen service, is modest and retiring as to his share of glory. He can give little information as to the incidents of an engagement, except as regards the deeds of his own company, and in conversation speaks more of the personal qualities of his officers and comrades than of their feats of valour. Try him which way you will he never will confess that he has killed a man. He compensates himself for his silence on the subject of fighting by excessive grumbling as to the provisions, quarters, &c., to which he has been forced to submit in the course of his career. He generally has a wife marching by his side—a tall strapping woman, who looks as if a long course of washing at the barracks had made her half a soldier. Ragged though he be, there is a certain smartness about the soldier proper, observable in the polish of his boots, the cock of his cap, and the disposition of the leather strap under his lower lip. He invariably carries a stick, and when a soldier passes him, casts on him an odd sort of look, half envying, half pitying, as if he said, “Though you are better fed than I, you are not so free!”

The soldier proper has various occupations. He does not pass all his time in begging: he will hold a horse, clean knives and boots, sit as a model to an artist, and occasionally take a turn at the wash-tub. Begging he abhors, and is only driven to it as a last resource.

If my readers would inquire why a man so ready to work should not be able to obtain employment, he will receive the answer that universally applies to all questions of hardship among the humbler classes—the vice of the discharged soldier is intemperance.

The second sort of soldier-beggar is one of the most dangerous and violent of mendicants. Untamable even by regimental discipline, insubordinate by nature, he has been thrust out from the army to prey upon society. He begs but seldom, and is dangerous to meet with after dark upon a lonely road, or in a sequestered lane. Indeed, though he has every right to be classed among those who will not work, he is not thoroughly a beggar, but will be met with again, and receive fuller justice at our hands, in the, to him, more congenial catalogue of thieves.

The third sort of street campaigner is a perfect impostor, who being endowed, either by accident or art, with a broken limb or damaged feature, puts on an old military coat, as he would assume the dress of a frozen-out gardener, distressed dock-yard labourer, burnt-out tradesman, or scalded mechanic. He is imitative, and in his time plays many parts. He “gets up” his costume with the same attention to detail as the turnpike sailor. In crowded busy streets he “stands pad,” that is, with a written statement of his hard case slung round his neck, like a label round a decanter. His bearing is most military; he keeps his neck straight, his chin in, and his thumbs to the outside seams of his trousers; he is stiff as an embalmed preparation, for which, but for the motion of his eyes, you might mistake him. In quiet streets and in the country he discards his “pad” and begs “on the blob,” that is, he “patters” to the passers-by, and invites their sympathy by word of mouth. He is an ingenious and fertile liar, and seizes occasions such as the late war in the Crimea and the mutiny in India as good distant grounds on which to build his fictions.

I was walking in a high-road, when I was accosted by a fellow dressed in an old military tunic, a forage-cap like a charity boy’s, and tattered trousers, who limped along barefoot by the aid of a stick. His right sleeve was empty, and tied up to a button-hole at his breast, à la Nelson.

“Please your honour,” he began, in a doleful exhausted voice, “bestow your charity on a poor soldier which lost his right arm at the glorious battle of Inkermann.”

I looked at him, and having considerable experience in this kind of imposition, could at once detect that he was “acting.”

“To what regiment did you belong?” I asked.

“The Thirty —, sir.”

I looked at his button and read Thirty —

“I haven’t tasted bit o’ food, sir, since yesterday at half-past four, and then a lady give me a cruster bread,” he continued.

“The Thirty —!” I repeated. “I knew the Thirty —. Let me see—who was the colonel?”

The man gave me a name, with which I suppose he was provided.

“How long were you in the Thirty —?” I inquired.

“Five year, sir.”

“I had a schoolfellow in that regiment, Captain Thorpe, a tall man with red whiskers—did you know him?”

“There was a captain, sir, with large red whiskers, and I think his name was Thorpe; but he warn’t captain of my company, so I didn’t know for certain,” replied the man, after an affected hesitation.

“The Thirty — was one of the first of our regiments that landed, I think?” I remarked.

“Yes, your honour, it were.”

“You impudent impostor!” I said; “the Thirty — did not go out till the spring of ’55. How dare you tell me you belonged to it?”

The fellow blenched for a moment, but rallied and said, “I didn’t like to contradict your honour for fear you should be angry and wouldn’t give me nothing.”

“That’s very polite of you,” I said, “but still I have a great mind to give you into custody. Stay; tell me who and what you are, and I will give you a shilling and let you go.”

He looked up and down the road, measured me with his eye, abandoned the idea of resistance, and replied:

“Well, your honour, if you won’t be too hard on a poor man which finds it hard to get a crust anyhow or way, I don’t mind telling you I never was a soldier.” I give his narrative as he related it to me.

“I don’t know who my parents ever was. The fust thing as I remember was the river side (the Thames), and running in low tide to find things. I used to beg, hold hosses, and sleep under dry arches. I don’t remember how I got any clothes. I never had a pair of shoes or stockings till I was almost a man. I fancy I am now nearly forty years of age.

“An old woman as kep a rag and iron shop by the water-side give me a lodging once for two years. We used to call her ‘Nanny;’ but she turned me out when she caught me taking some old nails and a brass cock out of her shop; I was hungry when I done it, for the old gal gi’ me no grub, nothing but the bare floor for a bed.

“I have been a beggar all my life, and begged in all sorts o’ ways and all sorts o’ lays. I don’t mean to say that if I see anything laying about handy that I don’t mouch it (i. e. steal it). Once a gentleman took me into his house as his servant. He was a very kind man; I had a good place, swell clothes, and beef and beer as much as I liked; but I couldn’t stand the life, and I run away.

“The loss o’ my arm, sir, was the best thing as ever happen’d to me: it’s been a living to me; I turn out with it on all sorts o’ lays, and it’s as good as a pension. I lost it poaching; my mate’s gun went off by accident, and the shot went into my arm, I neglected it, and at last was obliged to go to a orspital and have it off. The surgeon as ampitated it said that a little longer and it would ha’ mortified.

“The Crimea’s been a good dodge to a many, but it’s getting stale; all dodges are getting stale; square coves (i. e., honest folks) are so wide awake.”

“Don’t you think you would have found it more profitable, had you taken to labour or some honester calling than your present one?” I asked.

“Well, sir, p’raps I might,” he replied; “but going on the square is so dreadfully confining.”

FOREIGN BEGGARS.

These beggars appeal to the sympathies as “strangers”—in a foreign land, away from friends and kindred, unable to make their wants known, or to seek work, from ignorance of the language.

In exposing the shams and swindles that are set to catch the unwary, I have no wish to check the current of real benevolence. Cases of distress exist, which it is a pleasure and a duty to relieve. I only expose the “dodges” of the beggar by profession—the beggar by trade—the beggar who lives by begging, and nothing else, except, as in most cases, where he makes the two ends of idleness and self-indulgence meet,—by thieving.

Foreign beggars are generally so mixed up with political events, that in treating of them, it is more than usually difficult to detect imposition from misfortune. Many high-hearted patriots have been driven to this country by tyrants and their tools, but it will not do to mistake every vagabond refugee for a noble exile, or to accept as a fact that a man who cannot live in his own country, is necessarily persecuted and unfortunate, and has a claim to be helped to live in this.

The neighbourhood of Leicester Square is, to the foreign political exile, the foreign political spy, the foreign fraudulent tradesman, the foreign escaped thief, and the foreign convict who has served his time, what, in the middle-ages, sanctuary was to the murderer. In this modern Alsatia—happily for us, guarded by native policemen and detectives of every nation in the world—plots are hatched, fulminating powder prepared, detonating-balls manufactured, and infernal machines invented, which, wielded by the hands of men whose opinions are so far beyond the age in which they live, that their native land has cast them out for ever; are destined to overthrow despotic governments, restore the liberty of the subject, and, in a wholesale sort of way, regenerate the rights of man.

Political spies are the monied class among these philanthropic desperadoes. The political regenerators, unless furnished with means from some special fund, are the most miserable and abject. Mr. Thackeray has observed that whenever an Irishman is in difficulties he always finds another Irishman worse off than himself, who talks over creditors, borrows money, runs errands, and makes himself generally useful to his incarcerated fellow-countryman. This observation will apply equally to foreigners.

There is a timid sort of refugee, who lacking the courage to arrive at political eminence or cash, by means of steel, or poison, is a hanger-on of his bolder and less scrupulous compatriot. This man, when deserted by his patron, is forced to beg. The statement that he makes as to his reasons for leaving the dear native land that the majority of foreigners are so ready to sing songs in praise of, and to quit, must be, of course, received with caution.

The French Beggar.

My reader has most likely, in a quiet street, met a shabby little man, who stares about him in a confused manner, as if he had lost his way. As soon as he sees a decently-dressed person he shuffles up to him, and taking off a “casquette” with considerably more brim than body, makes a slight bow, and says in a plaintive voice. “Parlez Français, m’sieu?”

If you stop and, in an unguarded moment, answer “Oui,” the beggar takes from his breast-pocket a greasy leather book, from which he extracts a piece of carefully folded paper, which he hands you with a pathetic shrug.

The paper, when opened, contains a small slip, on which is written in a light, foreign hand—

“You are requested to direct the bearer to the place to which he desires to go, as he cannot speak English!”

The beggar then, with a profusion of bows, points to the larger paper.

“Mais, m’sieu, ayez la bonté de lire. C’est Anglais.”

The larger paper contains a statement in French and English, that the bearer Jean Baptiste Dupont is a native of Troyes, Champagne, and a fan-maker by trade; that paralysis in the hand has deprived him of the power of working; that he came to England to find a daughter, who had married an Englishman and was dwelling in Westminster, but that when he arrived he found they had parted for Australia; that he is fifty-two years of age, and is a deserving object of compassion, having no means of returning to Troyes, being an entire stranger to England, and having no acquaintances or friends to assist him.

This statement is without any signature, but no sooner have you read it than the beggar, who would seem to have a blind credence in the efficacy of documents, draws from his pocket-book a certificate of birth, a register of marriage, a passport, and a permission to embark, which, being all in a state of crumpled greasiness, and printed and written in French, so startles and confounds the reader, that he drops something into the man’s hand and passes on.

I have been often stopped by this sort of beggar. In the last case I met with I held a long talk with the man—of course, in his own language, for he will seldom or never be betrayed into admitting that he has any knowledge of English.

“Parlez Français, m’sieu?”

“Yes, I do,” I answered. “What do you want?”

“Deign, monsieur, to have the bounty to read this paper which I have the honour to present to monsieur.”

“Oh, never mind the papers!” I said, shortly. “Can’t you speak English?”

“Alas, monsieur, no!”

“Speak French, then!”

My quick speaking rather confused the fellow, who said that he was without bread, and without asylum; that he was a tourneur and ebeniste (turner, worker in ebony and ivory, and cabinet-maker in general) by trade, that he was a stranger, and wished to raise sufficient money to enable him to return to France.

“Why did you come over to England?” I asked.

“I came to work in London,” he said, after pretending not to understand my question the first time.

“Where?” I inquired.

At first I understood him to answer Sheffield, but I at last made out that he meant Smithfield.

“What was your master’s name?”

“I do not comprehend, monsieur—if monsieur will deign to read—”

“You comprehend me perfectly well; don’t pretend that you don’t—that is only shuffling (tracasserie).

“The name of my master was Johnson.”

“Why did you leave him?” I inquired.

“He is dead, monsieur.”

“Why did you not return to France at his death?” was my next question.

“Monsieur, I tried to obtain work in England,” said the beggar.

“How long did you work for Mr. Johnson?”

“There was a long time, monsieur, that—”

“How long?” I repeated. “How many years?”

“Since two years.”

“And did you live in London two years, and all that time learn to speak no English?”

“Ah, monsieur, you embarrass me. If monsieur will not deign to aid me, it must be that I seek elsewhere—”

“But tell me how it was you learnt no English,” I persisted.

“Ah, monsieur, my comrades in the shop were all French.”

“And you want to get back to France?”

“Ah, monsieur, it is the hope of my life.”

“Come to me to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock—there is my address.” I gave him the envelope of a letter. “I am well acquainted with the French Consul at London Bridge, and at my intercession I am sure that he will get you a free passage to Calais; if not, and I find he considers your story true, I will send you at my own expense. Good night!”

Of course the man did not call in the morning, and I saw no more of him.

Destitute Poles.

It is now many years since the people of this country evinced a strong sympathy for Polish refugees. Their gallant struggle, compulsory exile, and utter national and domestic ruin raised them warm friends in England; and committees for the relief of destitute Poles, balls for the benefit of destitute Poles, and subscriptions for the relief of the destitute Poles were got up in every market-town. Shelter and sustenance were afforded to many gentlemen of undoubted integrity, who found themselves penniless in a strange land, and the aristocracy fêted and caressed the best-born and most gallant. To be a Pole, and in distress, was almost a sufficient introduction, and there were few English families who did not entertain as friend or visitor one of these unfortunate and suffering patriots.

So excellent an opportunity for that class of foreign swindlers which haunt roulette-tables, and are the pest of second-rate hotels abroad, was of course made use of. Crowds of adventurers, “got up” in furs, and cloaks, and playhouse dresses, with padded breasts and long moustachios, flocked to England, and assuming the title of count, and giving out that their patrimony had been sequestered by the Emperor of Russia, easily obtained a hearing and a footing in many English families, whose heads would not have received one of their own countrymen except with the usual credentials.

John Bull’s partiality for foreigners is one of his well-known weaknesses; and valets, cooks, and couriers in their masters clothes, and sometimes with the titles of that master whom they had seen shot down in battle, found themselves objects of national sympathy and attention. Their success among the fair sex was extraordinary; and many penniless adventurers, with no accomplishments beyond card-sharping, and a foreign hotel waiter’s smattering of continental languages, allied themselves to families of wealth and respectability. All, of course, were not so fortunate; and after some persons had been victimized, a few inquiries made, and the real refugee gentlemen and soldiers had indignantly repudiated any knowledge of the swindlers or their pretensions, the pseudo-Polish exiles were compelled to return to their former occupations. The least able and least fortunate were forced to beg, and adopted exactly the same tactics as the French beggar, except that instead of certificates of birth, and passports, he exhibited false military documents, and told lying tales of regimental services, Russian prisons, and miraculous escapes.

The “destitute Pole” is seldom met with now, and would hardly have demanded a notice if I had not thought it right to show how soon the unsuccessful cheat or swindler drops down into the beggar, and to what a height the “Polish fever” raged some thirty years ago. It would be injustice to a noble nation if I did not inform my reader that but few of the false claimants to British sympathy were Poles at all. They were Russians, Frenchmen, Hungarians, Austrians, Prussians, and Germans of all sorts.

The career of one fellow will serve to show with what little ingenuity the credulous can be imposed on. His real name is lost among his numerous aliases, neither do I know whether he commenced life as a soldier, or as a valet; but I think it probable that he had combined those occupations and been regimental servant to an officer. He came to London in the year 1833 under the name of Count Stanislas Soltiewski, of Ostralenka; possessed of a handsome person and invulnerable audacity, he was soon received into decent society, and in 1837 married a lady of some fortune, squandered her money, and deserted her. He then changed his name to Levieczin, and travelled from town to town, giving political lectures at town-halls, assembly-rooms, and theatres. In 1842 he called himself Doctor Telecki, said he was a native of Smolensk, and set up a practice in Manchester, where he contracted a large amount of debts. From Manchester he eloped with one of his patients, a young lady to whom he was married in 1845, in Dublin, in which place he again endeavoured to practise as a physician. He soon involved himself in difficulties, and quitted Dublin, taking with him funds which had been entrusted to him as treasurer of a charitable institution. He left his second wife, and formed a connexion with another woman, travelled about, giving scientific lectures, and sometimes doing feats of legerdemain. He again married a widow lady who had some four or five hundred pounds, which he spent, after which he deserted her. He then became the scourge and terror of hotel-keepers, and went from tavern to tavern living on every luxury, and, when asked for money, decamping, and leaving behind him nothing but portmanteaus filled with straw and bricks. He returned to England and obtained a situation in a respectable academy as a teacher of French and the guitar. Here he called himself Count Hohenbreitenstein-Boitzenburg.

Under this name he seduced a young lady, whom he persuaded he could not marry on account of her being a Protestant, and of his being a Count of the Holy Roman Empire in the pontifical degree. By threatening exposure he extracted a large sum of money from her friends, with which he returned to London, where he lived for some time by begging letters, and obtaining money on various false pretences. His first wife discovered him, and he was charged with bigamy, but owing to some technical informality was not convicted. He then enlisted in the 87th regiment, from which he shortly after deserted. He became the associate of thieves and the prostitutes who live in the neighbourhood of Waterloo Road. After being several times imprisoned for petty thefts he at length earned a miserable living by conjuring in low public-houses, where he announced himself as the celebrated Polish professor of legerdemain, Count Makvicz.

He died in August, 1852, and, oddly enough, in a garret in Poland Street, Oxford Street.

Of modern Polish swindlers and beggars, the most renowned is Adolphus Czapolinski. This “shabby genteel man of military appearance”—I quote the daily papers,—“has been several times incarcerated, has again offended, and been again imprisoned. His fraudulent practices were first discovered in 1860.” The following is from the Times, of June the 5th of that year:—

“Bow Street.—A military-looking man, who said his name was Lorenzo Noodt, and that he had served as captain in one of our foreign legions during the Crimean war, was brought before Mr. Henry on a charge of attempting to obtain money by false and fraudulent pretences from the Countess of Waldegrave.”

Mr. George Granville Harcourt (the husband of Lady Waldegrave), deposed:

“I saw the prisoner to-day at my house in Carlton Gardens, where he called by my request in reference to a letter which Lady Waldegrave had received from him. It was a letter soliciting charitable contributions, and enclosing three papers. The first purported to be a note from Lady Stafford, enclosing a post-office order for 3l. I know her ladyship’s handwriting, and this is like it, but I cannot say whether it is genuine. The second is apparently a note from Colonel Macdonald, sending him a post-office order for 4l. on the part of the Duke of Cambridge. The third is a note purporting to be written by the secretary of the Duke d’Aumale. This note states that the duke approves this person’s departure for Italy, and desires his secretary to send him 5l. We were persuaded that it could not be genuine, in the first place, as we have the honour of being intimate with the Duke d’Aumale. We perfectly well knew that he would not say to this individual, or to any one else, that he approved his departure for Italy; in the second place, there are mistakes in the French which render it impossible that the duke’s secretary should have written it; in the third place, the name is not that of the secretary, though resembling it. Under all the circumstances, I took an opportunity of asking both the secretary and the Duke d’Aumale whether they had any knowledge of this communication, and they stated that they knew nothing of it. The duke said that it was very disagreeable to him that he should be supposed to be interfering to forward the departure of persons to Italy, which would produce an impression that he was meddling in the affairs of that country. I wrote to the prisoner to call on me, in order to receive back his papers. At first another man called, but on his addressing me in French I said, ‘You are an Italian, not a German. I want to see the captain himself.’ To-day the prisoner called. I showed the papers, and asked him if they were the letters he had received, and if he had received the money referred to in those letters. To both questions he replied in the affirmative. The officer Horsford, with whom I had communicated in the meanwhile, was in the next room. I called him in, and he went up to Captain Noodt, telling him he was his prisoner. He asked why? Horsford replied, for attempting to obtain money by means of a forged letter. He then begged me not to ruin him, and said that the letter was not written by him.”

The prisoner’s letter to Lady Waldegrave was then read as follows:—

“Milady Countess,

“I am foreigner, but have the rank of captain by my service under English colours in the Crimean war, being appointed by her Majesty’s brevet. I have struggled very hard, after having been discharged from the service, but, happily, I have been temporarily assisted by some persons of distinction, and the Duke of Cambridge. To-day, milady Countess, I have in object to ameliorate or better my condition, going to accept service in Italian lawful army, where by the danger I may obtain advancement. Being poor, I am obliged to solicit of my noble patrons towards my journey. The Duc d’Aumale, the Marchioness of Stafford, &c., kindly granted me their contributions. Knowing your ladyship’s connexion with those noble persons, I take the liberty of soliciting your ladyship’s kind contribution to raise any funds for my outfit and journey. In ‘appui’ of my statements I enclose my captain’s commission and letters, and, in recommending myself to your ladyship’s consideration, I present my homage, and remain,

“Your humble servant, “Captain L. B. Noodt.”

The letter of the pretended secretary was as follows:—

“Monsieur le Capitaine,

“Son altesse Monseigneur le Duc d’Aumale approuve votre départ pour l’Italie, et pour vous aider dans la dépense de votre voyage m’a chargé de vous transmettre 5l., ci inclus, que vous m’obligerez de m’en accuser la reception.

“Agréez, monsieur le capitaine, l’assurance de ma consideration distinguée.

“Votre humble serviteur, “Chs. Couleuvrier, Sec.”

The prisoner, who appeared much agitated, acknowledged the dishonesty of his conduct, but appealed to the pity of Mr. Harcourt, saying that he had suffered great hardships, and had been driven to this act by want. It was sad that an officer bearing the Queen’s commission should be so humiliated. The letter was not written by himself, but by a Frenchman who led him into it.

Mr. Henry said he had brought the humiliation on himself. He must be well aware that the crime of forgery was punished as severely in his own country as here. The prisoner should have the opportunity of producing the writer of the letter, or of designating him to the police. On the recommendation to mercy of Mr. Harcourt, he was only sentenced to one month’s imprisonment.

On July the 9th he was brought up to Marlborough Street by Horsford, the officer of the Mendicity Society, charged with obtaining by false and fraudulent pretences the sum of 3l. from Lady Stafford. Since his imprisonment it had been discovered that his real name was Adolphus Czapolinski, and that he was a Pole. The real Captain Noodt was in a distant part of the kingdom, and Czapolinski had obtained surreptitious possession of his commission, and assumed his name. The indefatigable Mr. Horsford had placed himself in communication with the secretary of the Polish Association, who had known the prisoner (Czapolinski) for twenty-five years. It would seem that in early life he had been engaged under various foreign powers, and in 1835 he came to this country and earned a scanty maintenance as a teacher of languages; that he was addicted to drinking, begging, and thieving, and upon one occasion, when usher in a school, he robbed the pupils of their clothes, and even fleeced them of their trifling pocket-money. While in the House of Detention he had written to Captain Wood, the secretary of the Mendicity Society, offering to turn approver. The letter in question ran thus:—

“Sir,—Permit me to make you a request, which is, not to press your prosecution against me, and I most solemnly promise you that for this favour all my endeavours will be to render you every assistance for all the information you should require. I was very wrong to not speak to you when I was at your office, but really I was not guilty of this charge, because the letter containing the post-office order was delivered to Captain Noodt. I was only the messenger from Lady Stafford.

“Look, Captain Wood, I know much, and no one can be so able to render you the assistance and information of all the foreigners than me. Neither any of your officers could find the way; but if you charge me to undertake to find I will, on only one condition—that you will stop the prosecution. The six weeks of detention were quite sufficient punishment to me for the first time; and let it be understood that for your condescension to stop the prosecution all my services shall be at your orders, whenever you shall require, without any remuneration. My offers will be very advantageous to you under every respect. Send any of your clerks to speak with me to make my covenant with you, and you will be better convinced of my good intentions to be serviceable to you.

“I am, &c., “A. Czapolinski.”

He was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment and hard labour.

Czapolinski is one of the most extraordinary of the beggars of the present day. He raises money both by personal application and by letter. He has been known to make from 20l. to 60l. per day. He is a great gambler, and has been seen to lose—and to pay—upwards of 100l. at a gambling house in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square in the course of a single night and morning.

Hindoo Beggars

Are those spare, snake-eyed Asiatics who walk the streets, coolly dressed in Manchester cottons, or chintz of a pattern commonly used for bed-furniture, to which the resemblance is carried out by the dark, polished colour of the thin limbs which it envelopes. They very often affect to be converts to the Christian religion, and give away tracts; with the intention of entrapping the sympathy of elderly ladies. They assert that they have been high-caste Brahmins, but as untruth, even when not acting professionally, is habitual to them, there is not the slightest dependence to be placed on what they say. Sometimes, in the winter, they “do shallow,” that is, stand on the kerb-stone of the pavement, in their thin, ragged clothes, and shiver as with cold and hunger, or crouch against a wall and whine like a whipped animal; at others they turn out with a small, barrel-shaped drum, on which they make a monotonous noise with their fingers, to which music they sing and dance. Or they will “stand pad with a fakement,” i. e. wear a placard upon their breasts, that describes them as natives of Madagascar, in distress, converts to Christianity, anxious to get to a seaport where they can work their passage back. This is a favourite artifice with Lascars—or they will sell lucifers, or sweep a crossing, or do anything where their picturesque appearance, of which they are proud and conscious, can be effectively displayed. They are as cunning as they look, and can detect a sympathetic face among a crowd. They never beg of soldiers, or sailors, to whom they always give a wide berth as they pass them in the streets.

From the extraordinary mendacity of this race of beggars—a mendacity that never falters, hesitates, or stumbles, but flows on in an unbroken stream of falsehood,—it is difficult to obtain any reliable information respecting them. I have, however, many reasons for believing that the following statement, which was made to me by a very dirty and distressed Indian, is moderately true. The man spoke English like a cockney of the lowest order. I shall not attempt to describe the peculiar accent or construction which he occasionally gave to it.

“My name is Joaleeka. I do not know where I was born. I never knew my father. I remember my mother very well. From the first of my remembrance I was at Dumdum, where I was servant to a European officer—a great man—a prince—who had more than a hundred servants beside me. When he went away to fight, I followed among others—I was with the baggage. I never fought myself, but I have heard the men (Sepoys) say that the prince, or general, or colonel, liked nothing so well as fighting, except tiger-hunting. He was a wonderful man, and his soldiers liked him very much. I travelled over a great part of India with Europeans. I went up country as far as Secunderabad, and learned to speak English very well—so well that, when I was quite a young man, I was often employed as interpreter, for I caught up different Indian languages quickly. At last I got to interpret so well that I was recommended to ——, a great native prince who was coming over to England. I was not his interpreter, but interpreter to his servants. We came to London. We stopped in an hotel in Vere-street, Oxford-street. We stayed here some time. Then my chief went over to Paris, but he did not take all his servants with him. I stopped at the hotel to interpret for those who remained. It was during this time that I formed a connexion with a white woman. She was a servant in the hotel. I broke my caste, and from that moment I knew that it would not do for me to go back to India. The girl fell in the family-way, and was sent out of the house. My fellow-servants knew of it, and as many of them hated me, I knew that they would tell my master on his return. I also knew that by the English laws in England I was a free man, and that my master could not take me back against my will. If I had gone back, I should have been put to death for breaking my caste. When my master returned from France, he sent for me. He told me that he had heard of my breaking my caste, and of the girl, but that he should take no notice of it; that I was to return to Calcutta with him, where he would get me employment with some European officer; that I need not fear, as he would order his servants to keep silent on the subject. I salaamed and thanked him, and said I was his slave for ever; but at the same time I knew that he would break his word, and that when he had me in his power, he would put me to death. He was a very severe man about caste. I attended to all my duties as before, and all believed that I was going back to India—but the very morning that my master started for the coast, I ran away. I changed my clothes at the house of a girl I knew—not the same one as I had known at the hotel, but another. This one lived at Seven Dials. I stopped in-doors for many days, till this girl, who could read newspapers, told me that my master had sailed away. I felt very glad, for though I knew my master could not force me to go back with him, yet I was afraid for all that, for he knew the King and the Queen, and had been invited by the Lord Mayor to the City. I liked England better than India, and English women have been very kind to me. I think English women are the handsomest in the world. The girl in whose house I hid, showed me how to beg. She persuaded me to turn Christian, because she thought that it would do me good—so I turned Christian. I do not know what it means, but I am a Christian, and have been for many years. I married that girl for some time. I have been married several times. I do not mean to say that I have ever been to church as rich folks do; but I have been married without that. Sometimes I do well, and sometimes badly. I often get a pound or two by interpreting. I am not at all afraid of meeting any Indian who knew me, for if they said anything I did not like, I should call out “Police!” I know the law better than I did. Every thing is free in England. You can do what you like, if you can pay, or are not found out. I do not like policemen. After the mutiny in 1857 I did very badly. No one would look at a poor Indian then—much less give to him. I knew that the English would put it down soon, because I know what those rascals over there are like. I am living now in Charles Street, Drury Lane. I have been married to my present wife six years. We have three children and one dead. My eldest is now in the hospital with a bad arm. I swept a crossing for two years; that was just before the mutiny. All that knew me used to chaff me about it, and call me Johnny Sepoy. My present wife is Irish, and fought two women about it. They were taken to Bow-street by a policeman, but the judge would not hear them. My wife is a very good wife to me, but she gets drunk too often. If it were not for that, I should like her better. I ran away from her once, but she came after me with all the children. Sometimes I make twelve shillings a week. I could make much more by interpreting, but I do not like to go among the nasty natives of my country. I believe I am more than fifty years of age.”

Negro Beggars.

The negro beggar so nearly resembles the Hindoo that what I have said of one, I could almost say of the other. There are, however, these points of difference. The negro mendicant, who is usually an American negro, never studies the picturesque in his attire. He relies on the abject misery and down-trodden despair of his appearance, and generally represents himself as a fugitive slave—with this exception, his methods of levying contributions are precisely the same as his lighter-skinned brother’s.

Some years ago it was a common thing to see a negro with tracts in his hand, and a placard upon his breast, upon which was a wood-cut of a black man, kneeling, his wrists heavily chained, his arms held high in supplication, and round the picture, forming a sort of proscenium or frame, the words: “Am I not a man and a brother?” At the time that the suppression of the slave trade created so much excitement, this was so excellent a “dodge” that many white beggars, fortunate enough to possess a flattish or turned-up nose, dyed themselves black and “stood pad” as real Africans. The imposture, however, was soon detected and punished.

There are but few negro beggars to be seen now. It is only common fairness to say that negroes seldom, if ever, shirk work. Their only trouble is to obtain it. Those who have seen the many negroes employed in Liverpool, will know that they are hard-working, patient, and, too often, underpaid. A negro will sweep a crossing, run errands, black boots, clean knives and forks, or dig, for a crust and a few pence. The few impostors among them are to be found among those who go about giving lectures on the horrors of slavery, and singing variations on the “escapes” in that famous book ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Negro servants are seldom read of in police reports, and are generally found to give satisfaction to their employers. In the east end of London negro beggars are to be met with, but they are seldom beggars by profession. Whenever they are out of work they have no scruples, but go into the streets, take off their hats, and beg directly.

I was accosted by one in Whitechapel, from whom I obtained the following statement:—

“My father was a slave, so was my mother. I have heard my father say so. I have heard them tell how they got away, but I forget all about it. It was before I was born. I am the eldest son. I had only one brother. Three years after his birth my mother died. My father was a shoe-black in New York. He very often had not enough to eat. My brother got a place as a servant, but I went out in the streets to do what I could. About the same time that my father, who was an old man, died, my brother lost his place. We agreed to come to England together. My brother had been living with some Britishers, and he had heard them say that over here niggers were as good as whites; and that the whites did not look down on them and illtreat them, as they do in New York. We went about and got odd jobs on the quay, and at last we hid ourselves in the hold of a vessel, bound for Liverpool. I do not know how long we were hid, but I remember we were terribly frightened lest we should be found out before the ship got under weigh. At last hunger forced us out, and we rapped at the hatches; at first we were not heard, but when we shouted out, they opened the hatches, and took us on deck. They flogged us very severely, and treated us shamefully all the voyage. When we got to Liverpool, we begged and got odd jobs. At last we got engaged in a travelling circus, where we were servants, and used to ride about with the band in beautiful dresses, but the grooms treated us so cruelly that we were forced to run away from that. I forget the name of the place that we were performing at, but it was not a day’s walk from London. We begged about for some time. At last, my brother—his name is Aaron—got to clean the knives and forks at a slap-bang (an eating-house) in the city. He was very fortunate, and used to save some bits for me. He never takes any notice of me now. He is doing very well. He lives with a great gentleman in Harewood-square, and has a coat with silver buttons, and a gold-laced hat. He is very proud, and I do not think would speak to me if he saw me. I don’t know how I live, or how much I get a week. I do porter’s work mostly, but I do anything I can get. I beg more than half the year. I have no regular lodging. I sleep where I can. When I am in luck, I have a bed. It costs me threepence. At some places they don’t care to take a man of colour in. I sometimes get work in Newgate-market, carrying meat, but not often. Ladies give me halfpence oftener than men. The butchers call me ‘Othello,’ and ask me why I killed my wife. I have tried to get aboard a ship, but they won’t have me. I don’t know how old I am, but I know that when we got to London, it was the time the Great Exhibition was about. I can lift almost any weight when I have had a bit of something to eat. I don’t care for beer. I like rum best. I have often got drunk, but never when I paid for it myself.”

The following cases of genuine distress fell under my notice. My readers will observe the difference of tone, the absence of clap-trap, and desire to enlarge upon a harrowing fact of those unfortunates who have been reduced to beggary, compared with the practised shuffle and conventional whine of the mendicant by profession.

I was standing with a friend at the counter of a tavern in Oxford Street, when a man came in and asked me to help him with a penny.

I saw at a glance that he was a workman at some hard-working trade. His face was bronzed, and his large, hard hands were unmistakably the hands of a labourer. He kept his eyes fixed on me as he spoke, and begged with a short pipe in his mouth.

I asked him if he would have some beer?

“Thank ye, sir, I don’t want beer so much as I want a penny loaf. I haven’t tasted since morn, and I’m not the man I was fifteen year ago, and I feel it.”

“Will you have some bread-and-cheese and beer?” I asked.

“Thank ye, sir; bread-and-cheese and beer, and thank ye, sir; for I’m beginning to feel I want something.”

I asked the man several questions, and he made the following statement:—

“I’m a miner, sir, and I’ve been working lately five mile from Castleton in Darbyshire. Why did I leave it? Do you want me to tell the truth, now—the real truth? Well then I’ll tell you the real truth. I got drunk—you asked me for the real truth, and now you’ve got it. I’ve been a miner all my life, and been engaged in all the great public works. I call a miner a man as can sink a shaft in anything, barring he’s not stopped by water. I’ve got a wife and two children. I left them at Castleton. They’re all right. I left them some money. I’ve worked in eighteen inches o’ coal. I mean in a chamber only eighteen inches wide. You lay on your side and pick like this. (Here he threw himself on the floor, and imitated the action of a coal-miner with his pick.) I’ve worked under young Mr. Brunel very often. He were not at all a gentleman unlike you, sir, only he were darker. My last wages was six shilling a-day. I expect soon to be in work again, for I know lots o’ miners in London, and I know where they want hands. I could get a bed and a shilling this minute if I knew where my mates lived; but to-day, when I got to the place where they work, they’d gone home, and I couldn’t find out in what part of London they lived. We miners always assist each other, when we’re on the road. I’ve worked in lead and copper, sir, as well as coal, and have been a very good man in my time. I am just forty year old, and I think I’ve used myself too much when I were young. I knows the Cornish mines well. I’m sure to get work in the course of the week, for I’m well known to many on ’em up at Notting Hill. I once worked in a mine where there were a pressure of fifty pound to the square foot of air. You have to take your time about everything you do there—you can’t work hard in a place like that. Thank you, sir, much obliged to you.”

One evening in the parish of Marylebone an old man who was selling lucifer-matches put his finger to his forehead, and offered me a box. “Ha’penny a box, sir,” he said.

I told him to follow me; an old woman also accompanied us. He made the following statement:—

“My name is John Wood—that’s my wife. I am sixty-five years of age; she’s seventy-five—ten years older than I am. I kept a shop round this street, sir, four-and-twenty years. I’ve got a settlement in this parish, but we neither of us like to go into the union—they’d separate us, and we like to be together for the little time we shall be here. The reason we went to the bad was, I took a shop at Woolwich, and the very week I opened it, I don’t know how many hundred men were not discharged from the Arsenal and Dockyard. I lost £350 there; after that we tried many things; but everything failed. This is not a living. I stood four hours last night, and took twopence-ha’penny. We lodge in Warde’s Buildings. We pay one and ninepence a-week. We’ve got sticks of our own,—that is a bed, and a table. We are both of us half-starved. It is hard—very hard. I’m as weak as a rat, and so is my wife. We’ve tried to do something better, but we can’t. If I could get some of the folks that once knew me to assist me, I might buy a few things, and make a living out of them. We’ve been round to ’em to ask ’em, but they don’t seem inclined to help us. People don’t, sir, when you’re poor. I used to feel that myself one time, but I know better now. Good night, sir, and thank you.”

In the same neighbourhood I saw an elderly man who looked as if he would beg of me if he dared. I turned round to look at him, and saw that his eyes were red as if with crying, and that he carried a rag in his hand with which he kept dabbing them. I gave him a few pence.

“Thank you, sir,” he said; “God bless you. Excuse me, sir, but my eyes is bad—I suffer from the erysipelas—that is what brought me to this. Kindness rather overcomes me—I’ve not been much used to it of late.”

He made the following statement:

“I have been a gentleman’s servant, sir, but I lost my place through the erysipelas. I was mad with it, and confined in Bedlam for four years. The last place I was in service at was Sir H—— H——’s (he mentioned the name of an eminent banker). Sir H—— was very kind to me. I clean his door-plate now, for which I get a shilling a-week—that’s all the dependence I have now. The servants behave bad to me. Sir H—— said that I was to go into the kitchen now and then; but they never give me anything. I don’t get half enough to eat, and it makes me very weak. I’m weak enough naturally, and going without makes me worse. I lodge over in Westminster. I pay threepence a-night, or eighteenpence a-week. There are three others in the same room as me. I hold horses sometimes, and clean knives and forks when I can get it to do; but people like younger men than me to do odd jobs. I can’t do things quick enough, and I’m so nervous that I ain’t handy. I can go into the workhouse, and I think I shall in the winter; but the confinement of it is terrible to me. I’d like to keep out of it if I can. My shilling a-week don’t pay my rent, and I find it very hard to get on at all. Nobody can tell what I go through. I suppose I must go into the workhouse at last. They’re not over kind to you when you’re in. Every day the first thing I try to get is the threepence for my lodging. I pay nightly, then I don’t have anything to pay on Sundays. I don’t know any trade; gentlemen’s servants never do. I used to have the best of everything when I was in service. God bless you, sir, and thank you. I’m very much obliged to you.”

DISASTER BEGGARS.

This class of street beggars includes shipwrecked mariners, blown-up miners, burnt-out tradesmen, and lucifer droppers. The majority of them are impostors, as is the case with all beggars who pursue begging pertinaciously and systematically. There are no doubt genuine cases to be met with, but they are very few, and they rarely obtrude themselves. Of the shipwrecked mariners I have already given examples under the head of Naval and Military Beggars. Another class of them, to which I have not referred, is familiar to the London public in connection with rudely executed paintings representing either a shipwreck, or more commonly the destruction of a boat by a whale in the North Seas. This painting they spread upon the pavement, fixing it at the corners, if the day be windy, with stones. There are generally two men in attendance, and in most cases one of the two has lost an arm or a leg. Occasionally both of them have the advantage of being deprived of either one or two limbs. Their misfortune so far is not to be questioned. A man who has lost both arms, or even one, is scarcely in a position to earn his living by labour, and is therefore a fit object for charity. It is found, however, that in most instances the stories of their misfortunes printed underneath their pictures are simply inventions, and very often the pretended sailor has never been to sea at all. In one case which I specially investigated, the man had been a bricklayer, and had broken both his arms by falling from a scaffold. He received some little compensation at the time, but when that was spent he went into the streets to beg, carrying a paper on his breast describing the cause of his misfortune. His first efforts were not successful. His appearance (dressed as he was in workman’s clothes) was not sufficiently picturesque to attract attention, and his story was of too ordinary a kind to excite much interest. He had a very hard life of it for some length of time; for, in addition to the drawback arising from the uninteresting nature of his case, he had had no experience in the art of begging, and his takings were barely sufficient to procure bread. From this point I will let him tell his own story:—

A Shipwrecked Mariner.

“I had only taken a penny all day, and I had had no breakfast, and I spent the penny in a loaf. I was three nights behind for my lodging, and I knew the door would be shut in my face if I did not take home sixpence. I thought I would go to the workhouse, and perhaps I might get a supper and a lodging for that night. I was in Tottenham Court-road by the chapel, and it was past ten o’clock. The people were thinning away, and there seemed no chance of anything. So says I to myself I’ll start down the New Road to the work’ouse. I knew there was a work’ouse down that way, for I worked at a ’ouse next it once, and I used to think the old paupers looked comfortable like. It came across me all at once, that I one time said to one of my mates, as we was sitting on the scaffold, smoking our pipes, and looking over the work’ouse wall, ‘Jem, them old chaps there seems to do it pretty tidy; they have their soup and bread, and a bed to lie on, and their bit o’ baccy, and they comes out o’ a arternoon and baskes in the sun, and has their chat, and don’t seem to do no work to hurt ’em.’ And Jem he says, ‘it’s a great hinstitooshin, Enery,’ says he, for you see Jem was a bit of a scollard, and could talk just like a book. ‘I don’t know about a hinstitooshin, Jem,’ says I, ‘but what I does know is that a man might do wuss nor goe in there and have his grub and his baccy regular, without nought to stress him, like them old chaps.’ Somehow or other that ’ere conversation came across me, and off I started to the work’ouse. When I came to the gate I saw a lot of poor women and children sitting on the pavement round it. They couldn’t have been hungrier than me, but they were awful ragged, and their case looked wuss. I didn’t like to go in among them, and I watched a while a little way off. One woman kep on ringing the bell for a long time, and nobody came, and then she got desperate, and kep a-pulling and ringing like she was mad, and at last a fat man came out and swore at her and drove them all away. I didn’t think there was much chance for me if they druv away women and kids, and such as them, but I thought I would try as I was a cripple, and had lost both my arms. So I stepped across the road, and was just agoing to try and pull the bell with my two poor stumps when some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round and saw it was a sailor-like man, without ne’er an arm like myself, only his were cut off short at the shoulder. ‘What are you agoing to do?’ says he. ‘I was agoing to try and ring the work’ouse bell,’ says I. ‘What for?’ says he. ‘To ask to be took in,’ says I. And then the sailor man looks at me in a steady kind of way, and says, ‘Want to get into the work’ouse, and you got ne’er an arm? You’re a infant,’ says he. ‘If you had only lost one on ’em now, I could forgive you, but—’ ‘But surely,’ says I, ‘it’s a greater misfortune to lose two nor one; half a loaf’s better nor no bread, they say.’ ‘You’re a infant,’ says he again. ‘One off aint no good; both on ’em’s the thing. Have you a mind to earn a honest living,’ says he, quite sharp. ‘I have,’ says I; ‘anything for a honest crust.’ ‘Then,’ says he, ‘come along o’ me.’ So I went with the sailor man to his lodging in Whitechapel, and a very tidy place it was, and we had beefsteaks and half a gallon o’ beer, and a pipe, and then he told me what he wanted me to do. I was to dress like him in a sailor’s jacket and trousers and a straw ’at, and stand o’ one side of a picture of a shipwreck, vile he stood on the ’tother. And I consented, and he learned me some sailors’ patter, and at the end of the week he got me the togs, and then I went out with him. We did only middlin the first day, but after a bit the coppers tumbled in like winkin’. It was so affectin’ to see two mariners without ne’er an arm between them, and we had crowds round us. At the end of the week we shared two pound and seven shillings, which was more nor a pound than my mate ever did by his self. He always said it was pilin’ the hagony to have two without ne’er an arm. My mate used to say to me, ‘Enery, if your stumps had only been a trifle shorter, we might ha’ made a fortun by this time; but you waggle them, you see, and that frightens the old ladies.’ I did well when Trafalgar Jack was alive. That was my mate, sir; but he died of the cholera, and I joined another pal who had a wooden leg; but he was rough to the kids, and got us both into trouble. How do I mean rough to the kids? Why, you see, the kids used to swarm round us to look at the pictur just like flies round a sugar-cask, and that crabbed the business. My mate got savage with them sometimes, and clouted their heads, and one day the mother o’ one o’ the brats came up a-screaming awful and give Timber Bill, as we called him, into custody, and he was committed for a rogue and vagabond. Timber Bill went into the nigger line arterwards and did well. You may have seen him, sir. He plays the tambourine, and dances, and the folks laugh at his wooden leg, and the coppers come in in style. Yes, I’m still in the old line, but it’s a bad business now.”

Blown-up Miners.

These are simply a variety of the large class of beggars who get their living in the streets, chiefly by frequenting public-houses and whining a tale of distress. The impostors among them—and they are by far the greater number—do not keep up the character of blown-up miners all the year round, but time the assumption to suit some disaster which may give colour to their tale. After a serious coal-mine accident “blown-up miners” swarm in such numbers all over the town that one might suppose the whole of the coal-hands of the north had been blown south by one explosion. The blown-up miner has the general appearance of a navvy; he wears moleskin trousers turned up nearly to the knees, a pair of heavy-laced boots, a sleeved waistcoat, and commonly a shapeless felt hat of the wide-awake fashion. He wears his striped shirt open at the neck, showing a weather-browned and brawny chest. The state of his hands and the colour of his skin show that he has been accustomed to hard work, but his healthy look and fresh colour give the lie direct to his statement that he has spent nearly the whole of his life in working in the dark many hundred feet beneath the surface of the earth. Many of them do not pretend that they have been injured by the explosion of the mine, but only that they have been thrown out of work. These are mostly excavators and bricklayers’ labourers, who are out of employ in consequence of a stoppage of the works on which they have been engaged, or more often, as I have proved by inquiry, in consequence of their own misconduct in getting drunk and absenting themselves from their labour. These impostors are easily detected. If you cross-question them as to the truth of their stories, and refer to names and places which they ought to be acquainted with if their representations were genuine, they become insolent and move away from you. There are others, however, who are more artful, and whose tales are borne out by every external appearance, and also by a complete knowledge of the places whence they pretend to have come. These men, though sturdy and horny-fisted, have a haggard, pallid look, which seems to accord well with the occupation of the miner. They can converse about mining operations, they describe minutely the incidents of the accident by which they suffered, and they have the names of coal-owners and gangsmen ever ready on their tongues. In addition to this they bare some part of their bodies—the leg or the arm—and show you what looks like a huge scald or burn. These are rank impostors, denizens of Wentworth-street and Brick-lane, and who were never nearer to Yorkshire than Mile-end gate in their lives. Having met with one or two specimens of “real” distressed miners, I can speak with great certainty of the characteristics which mark out the impostor. For many years past there has always been an abundance of work for miners and navigators; indeed the labour of the latter has often been at a premium; cases of distress arise among them only from two causes—ill-health and bodily disaster. If they are in health and found begging it is invariably during a long journey from one part of the country to another. The look and manner of these miners forbids the idea of their being systematic mendicants or impostors. They want something to help them on the road, and they will be as grateful for a hunck of bread and cheese as for money. If you cross-question these men they never show an uncomfortable sense of being under examination, but answer you frankly as if you were merely holding a friendly conversation with them. Miners are very charitable to each other, and they think it no shame to seek aid of their betters when they really need it. Of the device called the “scaldrum dodge,” by which beggars of this class produce artificial sores, I shall have to treat by-and-bye.

Burnt-out Tradesmen.

With many begging impostors the assumption of the “burnt-out tradesman” is simply a change of character to suit circumstances; with others it is a fixed and settled rôle. The burnt-out tradesman does not beg in the streets by day; he comes out at night, and his favourite haunts are the private bars of public-houses frequented by good company. In the day-time he begs by a petition, which he leaves at the houses of charitable persons with an intimation that he will call again in an hour. In the evening he is made up for his part. He lurks about a public-house until he sees a goodly company assembled in the private bar, and then, when the “gents,” as he calls them, appear to be getting happy and comfortable, he suddenly appears among them, and moves them by the striking contrast which his personal appearance and condition offers to theirs. Like many others of his class he has studied human nature to some purpose, and he knows at a glance the natures with which he has to deal. Noisy and thoughtless young men, like clerks and shopmen, he avoids. They are generally too much occupied with themselves to think of him or his misfortunes; and having had no experience of a responsible position, the case of a reduced tradesman does not come home to them. A quiet and sedate company of middle-aged tradesmen best suits his purpose. They know the difficulties and dangers of trade, and maybe there are some of them who are conscious that ruin is impending over themselves. To feeling men of this class it is a terrible shock to see a man, who has once been well-to-do like themselves, reduced to get a living by begging. The burnt-out tradesman’s appearance gives peculiar force to his appeal. He is dressed in a suit of black, greasy and threadbare, which looks like the last shreds of the dress suit which he wore on high days and holidays, when he was thriving and prosperous. His black satin stock, too, is evidently a relict of better days. His hat is almost napless; but it is well brushed—indicating care and neatness on the part of its owner. His shoes are mere shapeless envelopes of leather, but the uppers are carefully polished, and the strings neatly tied. When the burnt-out tradesman enters a bar he allows his appearance to have its due effect before he opens his mouth, or makes any other demonstration whatever. In this he seems to imitate the practice of the favourite comedian, who calculates upon being able to bespeak the favour of his audience by merely showing his face. The beggar, after remaining motionless for a moment, to allow the company fully to contemplate his miserable appearance, suddenly and unexpectedly advances one of his hands, which until now has been concealed behind his coat, and exposes to view a box of matches. Nothing can surpass the artistic skill of this mute appeal. The respectable look, and the poor, worn clothes, first of all—the patient, broken-hearted glance accompanied by a gentle sigh—and then the box of matches! What need of a word spoken. Can you not read the whole history? Once a prosperous tradesman, the head of a family, surrounded by many friends. Now, through misfortune, cast out of house and home, deserted by his friends, and reduced to wander the streets and sell matches to get his children bread. Reduced to sell paltry matches! he who was in a large way once, and kept clerks to register his wholesale transactions! It is seldom that this artist requires to speak. No words will move men who can resist so powerful an appeal. When he does speak he does not require to say more than—“I am an unfortunate tradesman, who lost everything I possessed in the world by a disastrous fire—” Here the halfpence interrupt his story, and he has no need to utter another word, except to mutter his humble thanks.

There are a great many beggars of this class, and they nearly all pursue the same method. They are most successful among tradesmen of the middle class, and among the poor working people. One of them told me that the wives of working men were, according to his experience, the most tender-hearted in London. “The upper classes, the swells, aint no good,” he said; “they subscribe to the Mendicity Society, and they thinks every beggar an imposture. The half-and-half swells, shopmen and the likes, aint got no hearts, and they aint got no money, and what’s the good. Tradesmen that aint over well off have a fellow feeling; but the workmen’s wives out a-marketing of a Saturday night are no trouble. They always carries coppers—change out of sixpence or a something—in their hands, and when I goes in where they are a havin’ their daffies—that’s drops o’ gin, sir—they looks at me, and says, ‘Poor man!’ and drops the coppers, whatever it is, into my hand, and p’raps asks me to have a half-pint o’ beer besides. They’re good souls, the workmen’s wives.”

There is a well-known beggar of this class who dresses in a most unexceptionable manner. His black clothes are new and glossy, his hat and boots are good, and to heighten the effect he wears a spotless white choker. He is known at the west end by the name of the “Bishop of London.” His aspect is decidedly clerical. He has a fat face, a double chin, his hat turns up extensively at the brim, and, as I have said, he wears a white neck-cloth. When he enters a bar the company imagine that he is about to order a bottle of champagne at least; but when he looks round and produces the inevitable box of matches, the first impression gives way either to compassion or extreme wonder. So far as my experience serves me, this dodge is not so successful as the one I have just described. A person with the most ordinary reasoning powers must know that a man who possesses clothes like those need not be in want of bread; but if the power of reasoning were universally allotted to mankind, there would be a poor chance for the professional beggar. There never was a time or place in which there were not to be found men anxious to avoid labour, and yet to live in ease and enjoyment, and there never was a time in which other men were not, from their sympathy, their fears, or their superstition, ready to assist the necessitous, or those who appeared to be so, and liable to be imposed upon or intimidated, according as the beggar is crafty or bold.

As a rule the burnt-out tradesmen whom I have described are impostors, who make more by begging than many of those who relieve them earn by hard and honest labour. The petitions which they leave at houses are very cleverly drawn out. They are generally the composition of the professional screevers, whose practices I shall have to describe by-and-by. They have a circumstantial account of the fire by which the applicant “lost his all,” and sometimes furnish an inventory of the goods that were destroyed. They are attested by the names of clergymen, churchwardens, and other responsible persons, whose signatures are imitated with consummate art in every variety of ink. Some specimens of these petitions and begging letters will be found under the head of “Dependants of Beggars.”

Lucifer Droppers.

The lucifer droppers are impostors to a man—to a boy—to a girl. Men seldom, if ever, practise this “dodge.” It is children’s work; and the artful way in which boys and girls of tender years pursue it, shows how systematically the seeds of mendicancy and crime are implanted in the hearts of the young Arab tribes of London. The artfulness of this device is of the most diabolical kind; for it trades not alone upon deception, but upon exciting sympathy with the guilty at the expense of the innocent. A boy or a girl takes up a position on the pavement of a busy street, such as Cheapside or the Strand. He, or she—it is generally a girl—carries a box or two of lucifer matches, which she offers for sale. In passing to and fro she artfully contrives to get in the way of some gentleman who is hurrying along. He knocks against her and upsets the matches which fall in the mud. The girl immediately begins to cry and howl. The bystanders, who are ignorant of the trick, exclaim in indignation against the gentleman who has caused a poor girl such serious loss, and the result is that either the gentleman, to escape being hooted, or the ignorant passers by, in false compassion, give the girl money. White peppermint lozenges are more often used than lucifers. It looks a hopeless case, indeed, when a trayful of white lozenges fall in the mud.

Bodily Afflicted Beggars.

Beggars who excite charity by exhibiting sores and bodily deformities are not so commonly to be met with in London as they were some years ago. The officers of the Mendicity Society have cleared the streets of nearly all the impostors, and the few who remain are blind men and cripples. Many of the blind men are under the protection of a Society, which furnishes them with books printed in raised type which they decipher by the touch. Others provide their own books, and are allowed to sit on door steps or in the recesses of the bridges without molestation from the police. It has been found on inquiry that these afflicted persons are really what they appear to be—poor, helpless, blind creatures, who are totally incapacitated from earning a living, and whom it would be heartless cruelty to drive into the workhouse, where no provision is made for their peculiar wants.