common tramps, who are satisfied with barns, sheds, empty houses
and workhouses; I write of true beggars, who have not lost their
self-respect, and who, by their exertions, are as sure of a bed at
night--although it is a different one--as other people that have
homes. If they sleep out of doors for a night or two in summer-time,
they do so for pleasure; as people with homes will, when they sleep
in hammocks under trees. The true beggar does not shirk business, or
save money by sleeping out; he still follows his calling and makes
the price of his bed, but in this instance he spends the money on ale
instead of stifling with so many others in a common lodging-house.
A good beggar is always ready to seize opportunities. He will never
allow a man to pass on who greets him pleasantly, or requires
information, without either begging a copper, a pipeful of tobacco,
or even a match. I think now of that memorable morning in America,
when Brum, an excellent beggar, saw a lady kiss a horse. We were
at a camp fire making coffee, when I was startled by the unusual
eagerness of Brum's voice crying, "Look!" Following the direction of
his finger, I saw a lonely house on a hill, and near the house was
a lady in riding-habit, and she was patting a horse's neck. Seeing
nothing unusual in this, I said, "What's the matter?" "You were too
late to see," answered Brum; "she kissed the horse!" Now I am very
fond of dumb creatures, and was therefore very pleased to see Brum
moved so nobly by such an incident; but I was not allowed much time
to congratulate myself on meeting with such a kind-hearted companion,
for these were Brum's next words; "A lady that kisses a horse ought
to be good for a piece of silver"; and before I could utter a word he
had gone. This incident plainly shows how quick a good beggar is to
take advantage of an opportunity. And Brum was right, for he not only
returned with a piece of silver in his pocket, but also a parcel of
food in his hand.
Of course, second-rate beggars in America earn more than first-rate
beggars in Europe. In any of the large cities of America an active
beggar can obtain as much as three dollars in a couple of hours, even
if he suspends work for a drink. If a beggar is lucky enough to meet
a gambler, he is just as likely to get a dollar as ten cents; in
fact a number of beggars in that country make gambling places their
haunts, for gamblers are well known to be superstitious, and few of
them would think of refusing a beggar when on their way to the tables.
One of the quickest ways to make a good haul is to beg a fast
overland train, when it must stop at some out-of-the-way place to
take in water or coal. A beggar often boards one of these trains and,
taking off his hat--not out of respect, but to hold money--goes from
passenger to passenger, from one end of the train to the other. It
is necessary to do business very quick, for the train does not stop
long, and the conductor must be avoided. If a man has the luck to get
right through the train, he often has several dollars to his account.
In this country beggars have different methods. No doubt singing
hymns in Welsh towns and villages is one of the most profitable forms
of begging. The Welsh are very kind-hearted and, being a musical
people, it is almost impossible for them to resist an appeal made by
song. When murder has been committed in a locality, you will always
find a couple of men making a song of it in the streets, and they
certainly do an excellent trade with their song-sheets. Good voices
are not so necessary as a distinct enunciation of particular words
such as blood, axe, bolster, etc. But even in less fortunate cases,
when there has not even been an attempt at murder, beggars can still
do well by singing well-known hymns.
There is one kind of beggar in Wales whose earnings can water the
mouth of many a beggar in America. We must approach this man very
seriously, for he is forced to beg through a terrible affliction.
He is either totally blind or paralysed, and is to be seen standing
or sitting near a pit's mouth on pay-day. For this man the Welsh
colliers have deep pity, and in a very short time they fill his
hat with money, silver shining among the copper, although the
contributors are only working men. But for a man with a more simple
affliction the colliers have, of course, far less sympathy. A great
number of colliers have suffered in accidents, and they are still
working hard, so it cannot be expected that they will make much
distinction between a man who has lost a finger and one that has not.
Beggars that play music do well, whether it is an organ, a cornet, a
concertina, or a tin whistle. Public-houses are the best stands, for
men half drunk are always musically inclined. These men also do well
at private houses. It seems strange to say that houses where a hungry
man has difficulty in getting bread, can generally find a copper
for a beggar musician. The reason is very simple: music pleases the
children, and, naturally, a mother is always willing to assist men
that make the children laugh and dance, and the baby bounce in her
arm. In fact these men are not regarded as beggars, but entertainers.
If they know their business well, they will keep a sharp eye on the
door and windows, and when they see a child's face, nod and smile,
and throw kisses to it. Then the child laughs and claps its little
hands, and the mother hears the child and she laughs also. The
meanest woman would not rob the child of this enjoyment, and if she
allows the music to continue she is under a moral obligation to pay
for it.
I knew Billy the whistler well, and he only had one complaint--dogs.
He could seldom blow three notes on his tin whistle before he was
accompanied, against his wish, by a dog's voice. The bottom of his
trousers was always in tatters, so much did dogs dislike a tin
whistle.
Manchester Jack was one of the best beggars that I have met in this
country. He scorned to play music, sing, or sell. Although he was a
big, strong, able-bodied man in the prime of life, he could earn more
than a crippled young man or an old man feebled and paralysed. This
sounds like a reproach to the world, but it is very easy to explain.
Manchester Jack, being active and business-like, could call at three
times more houses than a man that was afflicted by age or accident.
He would certainly be refused at one or two places where the latter
would succeed, but the greater number of houses he called at would
give him the advantage. From a beggar's point of view, the world
consists of two kinds of people--the good and the bad. The good
will not refuse a man because he is able-bodied, and the bad can and
will always find some excuse for not giving assistance. The very few
that give in particular cases are in such a minority that a man like
Manchester Jack would be very little affected.
I travelled with him for ten days, and when I took one side of a
street, and he the other, he not only finished his side first, but,
starting at the other end of mine, would meet me half way. He was a
kind-hearted fellow, always willing to give strangers information
about good or bad towns. On one occasion, when we had just finished
begging a street, Manchester Jack asked me if I had received any
scrand (food). I told him yes; that I had taken fivepence and two
parcels of food, which were in my pockets. "Well, lad," he answered,
"I have taken ninepence, but no scrand. Let me have the scrand and
I will make it all right later on." I gave him the two parcels, but
was considerably taken by surprise; for I knew Jack was too proud a
beggar to be seen eating in public, and preferred to sit comfortably
in a warm lodging-house kitchen. Taking the food he went to a house
that he had just left, knocked at the door, handed in the parcels
and began to retreat, followed by a woman's voice, which made him
hurry faster. When he came back he explained to me that he had called
at that house, and the woman had begun to cry, saying at last that
she was in want herself. "So," said Manchester Jack, "I have given
her your parcels and a couple of pennies to get a bit of tea."
On another occasion he was leaving a house when he ran into a very
dirty-looking tramp, who was wasting his precious time looking at
the doors instead of knocking at them. "Mister," said this dirty
and timid man, judging Jack by his smart walk and confident smile
to be the tenant of the house--"Mister," said he, "is the Mrs. any
good for a mouthful of bread?" "Here," answered Jack, giving him a
penny--"here, and get out of this street at once; for a beggar has
just left this house, and the lady cannot give to everyone; take my
advice and go to another street."
I got on very well with Manchester Jack, and we might have been
together for a long time, had he not been arrested for begging, and
sentenced to a few days' imprisonment.
XIX
Charity in Strange Quarters
A fine house is seldom worth a beggar's notice, for the simple
reason that it has too many people to consult. The servant girl has
to tell the cook, and the cook has her orders from the mistress;
and either one of these has power to stop the flow of charity. The
servant girl may, if no one is looking, dismiss a beggar with a
shake of her head; or the cook may think she has quite enough work
to do without waiting on tramps. The fact of the matter is that
you can seldom find a servant and her mistress of one mind; if the
latter is kind and charitable, it is often found that the servant is
otherwise. If the mistress is mean and uncharitable, the servant is
often--sometimes through spite, and no kindness in herself--inclined
to charity. All tramps have experiences to relate of how kind-hearted
ladies or gentlemen have come out of the house and called them
back, or met them at the gate and, after enquiring their wants, led
them back to the house and reprimanded the servants for sending
poor men away empty-handed. Again, there are other cases of servant
girls giving charity against the strict orders of their masters and
mistresses--girls with good, kind hearts. So, you see, a fine house
is so unreliable that it always pays a beggar to confine his efforts
to small houses. There is not the least doubt but what bells cry
hunger, common iron knockers spell charity, and shabby doors that
cannot afford either bell or knocker, and require bare knuckles,
are--from a beggar's point of view--the richest.
Even when rich people are charitable, and give food, clothes, and
money, they never seem to be impressed by the word workhouse; for
they seem to regard that place as a comfortable home. But to mention
workhouse to the poor is to send a shudder through them, and they
will always try to assist a man to escape it. They see that dreadful
place before themselves, when old age and poverty come, and they pity
a man that has to go there, if only for one night.
A man that played an accordion, whom I often saw, had a certain
pitch. People that passed by could not help but pity him, thinking
that he was a stranger in the town, and did not know the almshouses
from other dwellings. But this musician knew well what the houses
were, for he had been to them before and--in a whisper--these
almshouses were almost his best pitch. Going up a narrow passage,
he would take up a position in a large stone yard, where he would
stand and play a few tunes, and would be rewarded with three or four
pennies and a couple of parcels of food. This was certainly good, for
it was all bunts (profit). He will not be so successful when he plays
to a row of fine villas at the other end of the town. If it were not
for making himself a nuisance, and being paid to go away, it would
never be worth while to play to fine houses.
I shall never forget the summer's day when I accidentally discovered
a long row of small houses hidden away from all eyes. Having been
given a sandwich, I had put it in my pocket, but on second thoughts
decided to wrap it in paper. Seeing a dark, narrow passage between
two shops, I entered, so as to have some privacy to do so. While
I was in the act of wrapping this sandwich in paper, and returning
it to my pocket, I was surprised at being passed by three small
children, and wondered what they were doing there. But I lost sight
of them at once, around a short bend in the passage. Being curious
to know what was around this bend, I advanced, and what do you think
I saw? A long yard, with more than a dozen small cottages in a row.
This was a lovely sight for a beggar! In there a man could beg
without fear of policemen, and without being annoyed by the stares
of people passing in carts and on foot. But the best of it was that
these houses would escape ninety-nine beggars out of a hundred.
I lost no time in going to work, in spite of a number of children
that were playing in the yard. Instead of beginning at the first
house, as an amateur would, I passed them all by, intending to
begin at the extreme end, calling at every house on my return. My
motive for doing this will be approved by all true beggars; it was
to advertise my presence, so that people would expect me, and save
me the trouble of knocking and explaining my wants, and my time
would not be wasted. This turned out well, for, after I had called
at the end cottage, where I was not expected, I had nothing to do
after but receive the ready pennies and food from the neighbours,
as I came to them. As I have said, it was a summer's day, and all
the doors were open, so that the people could hardly fail to know
of my arrival. Moreover, the children had found time to run in and
tell their mothers to expect me, and when. No beggar could ever have
done business quicker, for in less than a quarter of an hour, I was
finished, having received fivepence halfpenny and two parcels of
food. At one house, where I was given a penny, the woman also gave me
a glass of beer, saying that she was thirty-five years of age that
day, and had been married fourteen years, and was respected wherever
she went.
Yes, sometimes charity comes from strange quarters, as only beggars
know. One day an old lady gave me half a chicken and a sponge cake,
with the information that she was getting parish relief. I don't know
how to account for this, but suppose she was fortunate in being well
looked after by some rich family for whom she had worked.
Another time I went to a small cottage, and the door was answered
by a very shabby-looking old lady. I was selling needles and laces,
at the time, and, when the old lady was asked to buy, she answered
that she had not one penny in the house. She looked so very poor that
I felt ashamed of having called there, and felt much inclined to
make her a present of a packet of needles. As I was about to leave,
she said: "Would you like to have something to eat?" Not caring to
take anything from this poor woman, I said: "No, thank you; I have
plenty in my pockets." "No matter for that," she answered briskly.
Saying this, she went indoors, and in a few moments returned with
a brown-paper parcel in her hands. It looked very much like a suit
of clothes, but when I received it I was astonished at its weight.
Thanking her I left, and at the first opportunity sat down to examine
the contents. To my surprise I had half a rabbit pie and a whole
custard pudding. This woman, it seemed, was far from being poor, and
lived well; and that she had not a penny in the house was not to say
that she was in poverty, as I first supposed.
When I was once followed by school-children, I could not help but
see by their whispers that something unusual was about to happen. It
was not long before a little girl came forward and put a penny in my
hand. This was the most extraordinary charity that I ever received;
for the child was old enough to know the value of money and the
number of sweet things, so dear to childhood, that a penny could
buy. Another, a little boy, seeing this wonderful deed of sacrifice,
wanted me to take his slice of bread and jam, most of the jam being
licked off.
A beggar soon forgets a kindness, but it is most certain that the
charity he receives from the young affects him longest. Sometimes
boys, who take their dinners with them to work, have food left;
and it gives them great pride to meet a beggar and give it to him.
Sometimes--more often than not--it is only dry bread; and they
offer it to a beggar who perhaps has better food in his pockets.
Now, if a man or woman gave such a beggar this dry bread, he would
most likely receive it with indifference and cold thanks, and throw
it away, being none too particular in carrying it beyond the eyes
of the giver. But when he is offered this dry bread by innocent,
well-meaning boys, he not only takes it with a great show of
gratitude and pleasure, but is very careful that the boys will get no
chance to see him throw it away.
XX
Enemies of Beggars
It is almost time that our streets were cleared of so many
house-callers that, hour after hour, knock at doors and ring bells
until a lady is not in a fit condition to listen to a beggar. It is
commonly thought that policemen and dogs are a beggar's only enemies,
but this is far from true; even the child that waits at the gate to
see if he gets anything, and, if possible, what he does get--even
this small innocent must be regarded as an enemy to a beggar; not
to mention hundreds of adults that pester people for rent and
instalments for goods received, and others that beg people to buy
coal, wood, and oil, vegetables and fruit. Of course, these callers
do not matter much to the true beggar, for he goes blindly to work,
careless of his surroundings; but the timid beginner, who looks to
the right and left of him, before and behind, is very apt to pass on
if a neighbourhood is not kept more quiet for his work.
The true beggar, as I have said, is not often annoyed by these
pestilent callers. Sometimes he knocks at a door and, before his
knock can be answered, some infernal agent comes to the same door.
In a case of this kind, the new beggar would be flurried, and most
likely leave the house in possession of his enemy--but it is far
different with the true beggar. He wishes his enemy a cheerful good
morning--although it is seldom that he gets a civil answer--and is
not afraid to speak out when the lady comes. In fact, he would be the
first to explain his business, whether he was there first or not.
A first-class beggar like Brum would scorn to mention such little
difficulties as these, and I know well that all good beggars will
despise me for raising such paltry objections. But even Brum himself
has given way before people that were not regarded as beggars; even
he had to give way--not out of spite or ill-will, but through his
kindness or generosity. One day, when we were both out begging, Brum
surprised me with these words--"One beggar is quite enough in this
street; let us go to another." I was quite surprised at these words,
for I knew well that Brum would not have budged an inch if there were
a dozen beggars in the street. But what surprised me more was that
when I looked before and behind, I could not see anyone that could be
mistaken for a beggar. "I don't see anyone," I said at last, looking
at him for an explanation. "Don't you?" he asked. "Well, there she
is, and good luck to her!" And to my astonishment he nodded towards
a Sister of Charity. It would never have occurred to me to regard
such a person as a beggar, but she certainly was; and it proved how
kind-hearted and considerate Brum was to give way to her, so that she
might have every opportunity to get what the street was worth.
I ought not to have been surprised to hear Brum say these words,
for I had often heard him at the camps and elsewhere laud a certain
Christian leader as "the greatest beggar that ever lived." To Brum
this man was a perfect hero, whose prowess amazed him. Brum followed
his career with as much interest as any man ever followed the doings
of Napoleon; and every scrap of paper that came to hand, on which he
saw the name of this Christian leader, was read and re-read by Brum,
and commented on daily. In fact, Brum was never without two or three
pieces of paper relating to "the greatest beggar that ever lived."
"He does not beg a needle, a piece of thread, a cake, a sandwich, a
pair of stockings, or a shirt," Brum would say, glancing with scorn
at other beggars in the camp; "he knows nothing about our petty ways
of doing business: he begs shiploads of provisions, wardrobes of
clothes; aye, acres of land and barrels of money. And this man is
an Englishman," Brum would add, with a slight sneer at any American
beggars who happened to be present. The latter had to admit that
their country had not yet produced so great a beggar.
Curly Jack, of England, had never met Brum and never heard of him,
but he was of exactly the same opinion; but whereas Brum admired
the man as a hero, Curly Jack abused him for his success. Whereas
Brum was as delighted as a child to see his hero's banner in charge
of a trusty officer, and to hear the band--Curly Jack no sooner saw
or heard, than he slunk off in an opposite direction, scowling and
muttering curses.
One Sunday morning Curly Jack and myself were in Northampton, and we
had left the lodging-house together; after which we parted, he going
down one street, while I went farther on, so as to give him plenty of
room.
I did not find Northampton very bad, although the boot trade--its
main industry--had been declining for a long time. In about half
an hour I had several pennies over my bed money, also a quantity
of food, so I thought I would get a newspaper and return to the
lodging-house, and take it easy for the rest of the day.
As I was on my way back I saw Curly Jack going to a house, and
waited--at his motion--until he was at liberty to come. "What luck,
Jack?" I asked, when he came. "Very bad," he answered; "I was in a
good street, where I have done well before, but twenty or thirty
beggars have been there this morning before me, and played it
out." These words surprised me not a little, and I asked him for
an explanation. "There they are again," he cried, with an oath. I
looked in every direction, but all I saw was three little children
together, and one couple that appeared to be lovers. "Can't you hear
the beggars?" he asked. "I hear the Salvation Army," I said; "surely
you don't mean them!" "Of course I mean them," he answered, with
some impatience. "What difference can they make?" I said, at a loss
to understand him. "I should think their presence would be good for
beggars--that they would open people's hearts." "Come with me, and I
will show you how they spoil the street for a beggar," said Jack. And
away we went.
In a few moments we were in the same street as the Salvation Army,
and my companion walked boldly towards them, while I lingered a
little behind. However, when I saw him standing near them, I joined
him, and could not help but notice that several members of the Army
rewarded our presence with smiles.
It was not long before I saw how the Salvation Army could spoil a
street for a beggar. While the meeting was going on, several members
not only went from house to house, but even begged passers-by--aye,
even came to me and my seedy friend. "Now," said Curly Jack, as we
were leaving--"now, are you satisfied? What chance has a beggar, be
he ever so good, against these people? It will be impossible for the
rest of the day to get a single penny in this street, or any other
street that they have been to."
People will now be able to see, by these incidents, the great number
of enemies a poor beggar has to contend with; enemies that would take
the bread out of his mouth.
It is very true that in the green country beggars have a little dread
of policemen and dogs, but in towns they fear more the annoyance
of other callers, who are not beggars. One thing they dread very
much, in towns of some size, is to be offered a ticket to introduce
them to a charitable organization that professes to attend to
their wants. True beggars know well what these organizations are.
But sometimes the man who is looking for work is only too glad to
receive this ticket--and he certainly gets plenty of work. He does
about three shillings' worth of labour for a bed whose only virtue
is cleanliness, and about threepenny worth of food. However, the
poor fellow is well satisfied, because he is a very timid man, and
he feels less shame in being made a slave than a beggar. He is only
too glad to perform these tasks at every opportunity, but the true
English beggar is a Briton that never will be a slave.
XXI
The Lowest State of Man