the world, so free that even republics may well envy it its fresh and
pure air; and yet was there ever among the vast masses, rich and poor, a
more universal outburst of hearty loyalty to the Throne, of personal
love of the sovereign, than in the days of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee?
It was said early in her reign by a royal and loyal thinker that
constitutional government was then on its trial in England. So it was,
but it has come out triumphant, and stronger than ever. Constitutional
government under a royal protector will henceforth be recognised as the
most perfect form of government which human ingenuity has been able to
devise, after many centuries of patient and impatient search. Royalty
has proved its right to exist, and that under the sceptre of a Queen
who, if compared to other sovereigns, will be famous not only for much
that she has done, but also for much that she has not done.
Constitutional government has proved its superiority over any form of
government by the triumph on 22nd June.
If the people have been loyal to the Queen, how loyal has the Queen been
to her people; if her subjects have shared her joys and sorrows, how
warmly has she taken the sufferings of her people to heart. Royalty has
its dangers, and mankind has suffered much from kings and emperors, but
the greatness of England during the last sixty years has chiefly been
due to the mutual esteem and love of her people and their sovereign. The
world will know henceforth one at least of the secret springs of
England’s health and wealth and strength—namely, the true sympathy that
for years has knitted ruler and ruled together. England has had great
ministers and counsellors, but ask those ministers, who for years has
been their truest and most trusted counsellor, and they will not
hesitate in their answer. No wonder that England, celebrating the
Sixty-years’ Jubilee of her Sovereign, should have roused the
admiration—and it may be, the envy also—of other nations. Let us hope
that the admiration, so ungrudgingly bestowed, may last, and that the
envy, if any, may pass away. “Viel Ehr, viel Feind” is as true here as
elsewhere. Let other nations blame and criticise, it is the highest
compliment they can pay. But let them ponder what Europe would have been
without England, what the world would have been without the sceptre of
the wise and good Queen Victoria.
BEGGARS
Often when I had related to my friends some of my painful experiences
with beggars and they laughed at me, “Wait,” I said, “I shall have my
revenge; and when I am unfit to do anything else, I shall write a book
about Beggars.” Now it has sometimes happened to me of late that, when I
had sat down to do the work to which I have been accustomed for so many
years, I could not get on at all, or if by a great effort of will I
managed to do something, it was of no use, and had to be done again. I
felt, therefore, that the time had come for rest, or at all events, for
a change of occupation, and, though I had not yet sufficient time to
spare for writing a whole book on beggars, I thought I might jot down a
few of my experiences, not only as an amusement to myself, but possibly
as a useful lesson to some of my friends. It seems to me that my
experience has been large, larger than that of most of my acquaintances.
Why, I cannot tell; but beggars, and extremely clever beggars too, have
evidently singled me out as an easy prey. They seem to have imagined—in
fact they told me so again and again—that I was a rich man, and could
well afford to help a poor beggar. They little knew what a poor beggar I
was myself, and how hard I have had to work through life to keep myself
afloat, and to live as I was expected to live among my wealthy
colleagues at Oxford. They would have smiled incredulously if I had told
them how many hours, nay, how many weeks, a scholar has often to do the
hardest drudgery without getting a penny for his work. He has often to
be thankful if he can find a publisher for what is the outcome of years
of hard labour. It is schoolbooks only that are remunerative, or novels
and sermons, and novels he has to leave to his worldly, sermons to his
unworldly, fellow-labourers.
Some of my beggar acquaintances were so clever and so well educated that
they might easily have made a living for themselves; but, as one of them
told me when I thought I had made him thoroughly ashamed of himself, and
quite confidential, they preferred begging to any other kind of
occupation. “Talk of shooting partridges or pheasants,” he said, “talk
of racing or gambling, there is no sport like begging. There must always
be risk in sport, and the risk in begging is very great. You are
fighting,” my half-penitent informant said, “against tremendous odds.
You ring at the door, and you must first of all face a servant, who
generally scrutinises you with great suspicion, and declines to take
your name or your card, unless you have a clean shirt and a decent pair
of boots. Then, after you have been admitted to the presence, you have
to watch every expression of your enemy or your friend, as the case may
be. You have to face the cleverest people in the world, and you know all
the time that the slightest mistake in your looks or in the tone of your
voice may lead to ruin. You may be kicked out of the house, and if you
meet with a high-minded and public-spirited gentleman, who does not mind
trouble and expense, you may find yourself in the hands of the police
for trying to obtain money under false pretences. No,” he concluded, “I
have known in my time what hunting and shooting and gambling are; but I
assure you there is no sport like begging.”
What is one to do with such a visitor—in appearance, in manners, and in
language, quite a gentleman, or a _ci-devant_ gentleman, a man who has
been at a university, and who, when asked, will translate a page of
Homer to you very fairly, who bears, of course, a noble name, and has
friends, as he gives you to understand, in every university or at every
court in Europe—what is one to do with him, if not to accelerate his
departure by means of a small gift, for which he is generally very
grateful? But that is really the worst one can do. For, on the strength
of it, your noble sportsman will at once go to other covers, to all your
friends, tell them that you have helped him, describe your generosity,
your room, your dog, your cat, and thus among your unsuspecting friends
secure a fresh bag, dearer to him, if you may believe him, than any
number of pheasants and partridges.
The information which these beggars possess is quite astounding. They
have stepped into my room, and given me the most minute information
about my friends and relations in Germany, who live in a small and
little-known town, describing their houses, their gardens, their
dogs—everything, in fact, to show that they had been on the most
familiar terms with them. This happened to me some years ago when the
organisation among the foreign beggars in London was far more perfect
than it is, or seems to be, at present. It may be, of course, that they
know that an old fox who has been hunted again and again is difficult to
catch. Anyhow, I have not of late heard of any such exploits as,
unfortunately, I have had to suffer from in former years.
It was after the Schleswig-Holstein war, in about 1850, that one morning
a young military-looking man stepped into my room. He limped, and told
me he had still a ball in his leg, which must be removed. He presented
himself as an officer in the Danish Army—the only officer who had joined
the rebels, the Schleswig-Holsteiners—and had been taken prisoner at the
battle of Idstedt in 1850. He described most graphically how he was
confronted with his former Danish comrades, how his epaulettes were torn
off, how his sword was broken, and he himself sent to a military prison,
previous, as he thought, to being _fusillé_ for high treason. All this
naturally appealed to my sympathy, and then he went on telling me, in
the most confidential way, that when at last sentence of death had been
pronounced against him, he knew quite well that it would never be
carried out, because the Queen of Denmark was his dearest friend, and
would never have allowed such a thing. “Give me some paper,” he said; “I
must write to my beloved Queen, and tell her I am safe in England. She
will be in deep distress till she hears of me.” He sat down and wrote a
letter, which he wished me to read. I only saw the beginning of it: that
was quite enough; it was in a style which only the most devoted lover
could have used. That letter was stamped—I supplied the stamps—dropped
into the pillar-box, sent to Copenhagen, and must have been delivered to
the Queen, though I doubt its being preserved in the royal archives. And
that was not all. In a few days a letter came from Copenhagen, delivered
by post, which again I was asked to read, but declined. I did not wish
to pry into State or Court secrets. But all this showed, at all events,
how cleverly the whole scheme had been laid, so that a confederate could
send from Copenhagen a letter apparently written by the Queen, in answer
to a letter despatched to her a few days before. I was completely taken
in. The young officer went to London to have the ball extracted. I doubt
now whether there was any ball to extract. There he made many
acquaintances, and was helped by some very influential people. I
remember one, who afterwards rose to the highest post in our Diplomatic
Service, and was at that time known among his friends as never having a
five-pound note in his possession. He gave him £10, and when I asked
him: “But, my dear fellow, where in the world did you get that ten-pound
note?” he used, as was his wont, very strong language, and said: “I
borrowed it from the porter at my club.” This little comedy went on for
some time. The man himself must have enjoyed his sport thoroughly, and
he never lost his presence of mind. I still think that he must have been
at one time in the Danish Service, as he possessed very accurate
information about Danish officials and Danish affairs in general, though
in what capacity he served his country and his Queen has never been
found out. His ostensible correspondence with the Queen continued for
some time. Even remittances arrived, as we were told from his royal
patroness, but most of his funds were drawn, I am sorry to say, from
English pockets, and might have served some better purpose. As far as I
remember—for I am trying to recall events that happened nearly fifty
years ago—a collection was made for our clever adventurer, and he left
England uninjured to look for more dupes in the United States.
Though I might have learnt a lesson, I have to confess that hardly a
month passed without something of the same kind happening to me. Few
swindlers were so clever or had their schemes so beautifully prepared as
my Danish friend, but I generally felt whenever I was taken in that I
could hardly have acted differently. Nay, when I mustered courage to say
“No,” I often regretted it. Let me give an instance. A gentleman steps
into your room, tells you that he has been robbed, offers you his gold
watch, and asks you to lend him a pound to pay his bill at the hotel.
What are you to do? I declined to advance any money, particularly as my
visitor behaved rather like a sturdy beggar, and what was the
consequence? He broke out into violent abuse, mentioned a number of
newspapers whose correspondent he professed to be, and told me I should
rue the day when I had insulted him. And it was not a vain threat. From
time to time I received extracts, not indeed from _The Times_ or the
_Débats_ or the _Augsburger Zeitung_, but from some obscure local
papers, with violent tirades against me as an ignoramus, as a Jesuit, as
a German spy, as a hard-hearted miser, etc. For all I know, the man may
have been in momentary distress, but was I to open a pawnbroker’s shop
in my house?
There was a time, and it lasted for several years, when a man, though he
never tried his hand on me, victimised a large number of my friends. He
called himself my brother, evidently unaware of the fact that I never
had a brother. He must have taken the “Clergy List,” for week after week
came letters from my friends, mostly clergymen in London who had known
me at Oxford and who had been swindled by my brother.
Twice _The Times_ was kind enough to print a letter from me in large
type to warn my friends. It was of no use. I seldom went to London
without some friend coming up to me and asking after my brother, or
expressing himself thoroughly ashamed of having allowed himself to be so
stupidly victimised by a common impostor. One friend told me that he was
so convinced that the man was a swindler that he had him turned out of
the house. But then it struck him that after all the man might really be
my brother, who only wanted a ticket to go to Oxford, so he rushed into
the street after him, apologised, and pressed a sovereign into his hand.
“There were telegraphs in those days, and why did you not telegraph to
me?” I said. But my brother went on unabashed. He once called at the
house of Lord W., telling the old story of having been robbed, and
wanting a ticket to go to Oxford to see his dear brother. Lord W. was
not to be taken in so easily, but Lady W., who came into the room and
heard the story, said to the young man: “Perhaps you are not aware that
you are speaking to a very near relation of your brother, who is the
husband of my niece?” The man never flinched, but was rushing up to Lady
W. to shake hands most affectionately and to embrace her, if she had not
beaten a sudden retreat. Lord W. was quite convinced that the man was an
impudent beggar, took him to the front door, and told him to be gone.
“Would you tell your servant to call a cab for me,” he said, “to go to
the station?” A servant, who was present, hailed a cab. “Please to give
the man half a crown,” my brother said. The half-crown was given, and
the man got away unharmed, having swindled one of the cleverest
financial men in London out of half a crown. Only a few minutes after,
my wife called at her aunt’s house, and regretted that she was just too
late to make the long-desired personal acquaintance of my lost brother.
After carrying on this business for more than two years in England, and
chiefly in London, the place seems to have become too hot at last. He
vanished from the soil of England without ever having called on his
brother at Oxford, and the next I heard of him was through some friends
in New Zealand, who had suffered as others had suffered before in
England.
The worst of such experiences is that they make us very hard-hearted.
One believes nothing that a man tells one who comes begging to the door.
And yet how much of real misery there is! It is a problem which really
seems to admit of no solution. Of course we must not expect angels to
come to us in the disguise of beggars. All beggars are more or less
disreputable; not one of them would venture to tell the true story of
his life. Yet they generally have something to say for themselves, and
they hardly know the mischief they are doing by making it impossible for
any one with any self-respect to believe the old, old stories which they
are telling. They say: “What can we do? We must say something to appeal
to your pity, and the unvarnished tale of our life is too long and too
dry, and not likely to excite your sympathy.” All this is true, but what
is to be done to alleviate or to cure this terrible evil of poverty and
beggary? Nothing really seems to remain but to adopt the example of the
Buddhists, and give to the beggar a recognised status in society. The
Buddhists have no poor rates, but whoever is admitted to the brotherhood
has a right to go round the village or town once or twice a day, to hold
out his begging bowl, and to take home to his monastery whatever is
given him. No householder likes these Bhikshus or beggars to depart from
his house without having received a gift, however small, while the
Bhikshu himself is not degraded, but enjoys, on the contrary, the same
respect which the begging friars enjoyed during the middle ages. Even in
later times we hear in Scotland of the Gaberlunzie men, and elsewhere of
Bedesmen, Bluegowns, etc., all forming a kind of begging fraternity, and
having a recognised position in society.
Free above Scot-free, that observe no laws,
Obey no governor, use no religion,
But what they draw from their own ancient custom,
Or constitute themselves, yet they are no rebels.
“Antiquary,” chap. xii.
All this is extinct now, but the beggar is not extinct, and never will
be, as we are told. What then is to be done? for we are all more or less
responsible for their existence. It seems to me that there is only one
thing to be done, namely, to give up, every one of us, whatever quotum
of our income we think right, and to hand it over to such societies as
take the trouble to find out for us some not quite undeserving poor. Our
Charity Organisation Society does no doubt much good, but it should have
another branch, the members of which should be understood to give, say,
a tenth part, or any other quotum of their annual income for charitable
purposes. Such a society existed formerly. The members of it were not
subjected to any inquisitorial questions. They simply declared that they
would regularly devote a tenth of their income to the alleviation of
poverty, and they were left perfectly free to do it each in his own way.
What has become of that society? The organiser and leading spirit of it
died, and no one seems to have taken it up again.
There is, however, one class of beggars and impostors more objectionable
than any—people who do not beg for money, but borrow, and never mean to
return either the money or any thanks. I have known of a good many cases
where young men visiting Oxford and having made a few acquaintances
among the undergraduates, were invited to dinner in college, and not
only borrowed from their young companions, but, introduced by their
young friends, ran up bills among the tradesmen of the town, and then
quietly slipped away, leaving their friends to satisfy their creditors
as best they could. All this goes on, and it seems impossible to stop
it. Even if now and then these swindlers make a mistake, and place
themselves within the clutches of the law, what satisfaction is it to
keep them in prison for a month or two? No one knows their real names.
They are boarded and fed at the expense of the country, and enjoy a
little rest from their labours. That is all. They go in and come out of
prison as if nothing had happened, and all they have learnt in prison is
how to be more careful in future.
Who can doubt that there is much poverty and suffering, even undeserved
suffering, among the poor, more particularly among poor foreigners in
London? The Society for the Relief of Foreigners in Distress does much,
but that much is but like a drop of milk in an ocean of salt water. The
stories of the applicants printed each year, and carefully sifted by the
committee, are simply heart-rending. And those who go to see for
themselves often wish they had never crossed the thresholds of these
hovels in which whole families live huddled up together, hungry, sick,
dying, dead. One feels utterly hopeless and helpless at the sights one
sees. One might as well jump into the Atlantic to save a sinking vessel
and a drowning crew as attempt to rescue this drowning humanity.
And the men, after all, can help themselves. They can work, they may
fight and beg, and even steal, and be sent to prison. But what is the
fate of the poor unfortunate women!
There is one more class of beggars, though they would indignantly
protest against such a name, who have given me great trouble. They are
gentlemen who have something to sell and who are willing to sell it to
you as a great favour. In Oxford these gentlemen have generally
manuscripts to sell, ancient, valuable, unique. As I spent a good deal
of my time at the Bodleian Library, and was there every day for several
years as Oriental librarian, I made some curious acquaintances. After
some time I never trusted a man who offered to sell scarce manuscripts
or unique books to the library. My experiences were many, most of them
painful. Perhaps the most interesting was when we received a visit from
the famous forger, Simonides. Fortunately his fame had preceded him.
There had been a full account of his doings and misdoings abroad, yet he
arrived quite unabashed with a box full of Greek MSS. I had warned our
librarian, the Rev. H. O. Coxe, and it was amusing to watch the two when
their _pourparlers_ began. Simonides—so called, not because he was a
descendant of the poet Simonides, but (with a long _î_) because his
ancestor was one Simon, a Jew—addressed the librarian half in ancient
Greek, half in modern English. He knew both equally well. His manners
were most engaging. The librarian was equally polite, and began to
examine some of the Greek MSS. “These are of small value,” Simonides
said, “they are modern. What century would you assign to them?” The
librarian assigned the thirteenth century to them, and Simonides fully
agreed. He then went on producing MS. after MS., but claiming for none
of them more than the twelfth or tenth century. All went on most
amicably until he produced some fragments of an uncial Greek MS. The
librarian opened his eyes wide, and, examining them very carefully, put
some of them aside for further consideration. Becoming more and more
confidential, Simonides at last produced a real treasure. “This,” he
said, “ought to repose nowhere but in the Bodleian Library. And what
century would you assign to it, Mr. Librarian?” Simonides said with a
smile and a respectful bow. Mr. Coxe turned over a few pages, and,
looking very grave, though never quite without his usual twinkle, “The
second half of the nineteenth century, sir,” he said, “and now pack up
your MSS. and _Apage_ (begone).”