EXPERIENCE IN ST. GILES’S.
Deep-snow — Beggar in Belgravia wanted work — He said he was a
Watchmaker — Gave his address — It was false — Met him months after —
The same story — The same untruth — Children hired for the purpose of
Begging — Cellar in St. Giles’s — Inquired for a Poor Woman and Child
— Landlady told me of a Man almost starving in her back kitchen — He
turned out to be an accomplished Swindler — Pot-boys — Caught him at
last — Took him to Bow Street.
Soon after taking up my residence in London, I met with many
applications from street-beggars, with various tales of distress. I
could not imagine that all these were fictitious, and found great
difficulty in selecting the few objects on whom I could bestow my very
moderate means of charity. One severe winter I resolved on making my
own personal observations on the most promising cases which presented
themselves.
The first general principle at which I arrived was, that—
In whatever part of London I might be, if I asked for the residence of
a mendicant, it was pretty sure to be in a quarter very remote from the
one in which he asked relief.
The next was, that—
Those mendicants who professed to want work and not charity, always
belonged to trades in which it was scarcely possible to give them
employment without trusting them with valuable property. {243}
One example will suffice. During a very severe winter, the ground
being covered with snow, whilst passing through Belgrave Square, a man
accosted me, declaring that he could get no work, and that himself and
family were starving.
〈BEGGAR, A WATCHMAKER.〉
I inquired his trade: he was a watchmaker. I asked for his address.
I wrote down in my pocket-book his name, the street, and the number,
and read it to him: it was in Clerkenwell. The next day I went there,
made particular inquiries of the landlord, and was informed that no
person of that name lodged in the house, or ever had lodged in it. I
spoke to several respectable female lodgers also, who gave me the same
information, as far as their knowledge went.
Several months after, I met the same professional mendicant in Portland
Road. He did not recollect me, and again told the same story, and again
gave me the same address. On this, I recalled to his memory that I
had seen him before: that he had given me the same address; and that,
having myself been there to inquire, I had found that his story was
untrue. This statement had allowed him time to invent a new tale.
With well-feigned surprise he suddenly remembered that his wife, about
three months ago, had told him that a strange gentleman had called, and
had particularly inquired for him; that his wife, knowing that a writ
was out against him, and that he was liable to be arrested, had denied
that any person of his name resided in the house.
A few days after I went again to Clerkenwell, and received from the
residents the answer they had given me three months before. I then
went to one of the large shops for tools used by watchmakers near that
locality, and having mentioned the subject to the master, he very
readily asked amongst his shopmen whether they knew of such a person.
{244}
He assured me that, even allowing the man had not usually dealt at his
shop, it was impossible that he should not have been several times
there for some trifling article necessary in the hurry of his business.
I then went to two or three other shops of a similar kind, and found
that his name was entirely unknown. I therefore concluded that he was
an impostor.
I will mention one other case, because it arose entirely out of an
accident, and could not have been foreseen.
Living at that time much in society, I usually walked home from the
hot rooms of an evening party wrapped in a stout cloak, even though
it sometimes rained. On these occasions I was often placed in a most
painful situation.
〈BEGGARS WITH CHILDREN.〉
A half-clad miserable female, with an infant in her arms, and sometimes
accompanied by another just able to walk, followed me through a
drizzling rain to ask charity for her starving children.
I confess it was to me a most painful effort to resist such an
application; yet my better reason informed me that in all probability
these miserable children were hired for the purpose of exciting the
feelings of the charitable. To give money to their heartless conductors
could only be considered charitable, inasmuch as it might contribute to
shorten the lives of their wretched victims.
I fear I gave wrongfully many a sixpence. I inquired into some cases,
but without any result which could enable me to alter the opinion I
have expressed. It was in one of these inquiries that the singular case
I am now about to relate occurred.
In one of the densest of London fogs on a November night, or rather at
between one and two o’clock in the morning, I was inquiring, in one of
the most disreputable streets in London—George Street, St. Giles’s,
long ago pulled down, {245} enlarged, and rebuilt—for a female with an
infant, who had represented herself to me as a miserable mother, and
into the truth of whose story I was anxious to inquire.
I had been into several of the lowest lodging-houses, and into the
cellars of that nest of misery and guilt, and was unsuccessful in
finding the object I sought.
〈THE LANDLADY IN GEORGE STREET, ST. GILES’S.〉
Only a few of these abodes of wretchedness remained unvisited, when
I inquired after the poor woman I was seeking of a somewhat decently
clothed woman, who rented one of them.
She was the weekly tenant of one of these houses, and told me that
on the preceding night a poor woman, with a child wrapped up in a
miserably torn shawl, had applied for a lodging at about eleven
o’clock. It was raining hard, and the poor woman possessed only
twopence, and the price of a bed in the cellar was at this house
threepence. The poor woman went away, remarking that she must then go
and pawn the remnant of the shawl that covered her infant. She went,
but returned no more.
The ancient weekly tenant then thought it necessary to defend, or
rather to explain, her own apparently cruel conduct. I told her that
it was unnecessary, and that even in my inmost thoughts I had not cast
a reproach upon her. I told her that, from my knowledge of the misery
suffered by poor people, I could readily imagine circumstances which
might fully explain her conduct.
Her heart, however, was too full, so I sat down and listened to her
tale. She was a widow advanced in years, having no relatives, or even
friends, to assist her in her old age. She was the weekly tenant of a
small house in that villanous street, and was entirely supported by
letting out every foot of floor which could be made available for a
human being to {246} sleep upon. But the stern necessity which hung
over her with its iron hand was this:—
Her weekly rent became due on each Monday, and if not paid on that
night, the next morning would see her inexorably turned out of her only
home, and deprived of her only means of sustaining life.
〈A STARVING MAN IN HER KITCHEN.〉
She was pleased at my attention to her sad tale, and, with a little
encouragement, mentioned some of the experience she had had in her
painful vocation.
“At this moment,” she said, “there is lying on a rug in the back
kitchen a young man, who has tasted nothing during the last two
days but water from the pump on the opposite side of the street. He
appears,” she said, “to have been in better circumstances in other
times.”
It was now two o’clock in the morning, in the midst of a dense fog. I
inquired whether it would be possible at this hour to get some soup
or meat, or anything to sustain life. I went down into the close
unventilated room, and beheld, stretched on a kind of thing like a
couple of sacks, a pale, emaciated man, apparently about two or three
and thirty years of age. I desired him to call on me the next morning;
and, leaving my address with his landlady, left also a small sum of
money to procure for him, if possible, present necessaries.
The next morning this half-starved man called at my house, in garments
scarcely covering him. I inquired into his history, and he told me
one probably as fabulous as that with which he afterwards deluded me,
during my own short acquaintance with him.
I supplied him with a few clothes, shoes, and other things, just to
replace the worn-out rags in which I had found him, and desired him in
a day or two, when he got them into a {247} serviceable form, to come
to me, that I might see what his capacity was, and by what means he
could best earn a subsistence.
〈AN ACCOMPLISHED ROGUE.〉
It is unnecessary to enter into the long and artful stories he
invented. The short result was this: that he had been a steward of
a merchant ship—had been in the West Indies, and on other voyages;
that having, on his return from some voyage, been reduced by illness
to spend all his little earnings, and even to sell his clothes, and
having no friends in London, he could not go amongst the merchant
captains for want of decent clothes to appear in. This difficulty was
partially removed by my giving him a suit. He called one day to tell me
that he had succeeded in getting the situation of steward in a small
West Indiaman, and that he did not like to sell or exchange a pair of
top-boots which I had given him without asking my permission, which,
of course, I gave. He told me that if he sold the boots, and purchased
light, gaudy-coloured waistcoating, he might do a little profitable
business with the niggers. He showed me the card of the shop in
Monmouth Street at which he had commenced a negotiation about the sale
of the boots, and another, in the same street, at which he proposed to
purchase the waistcoats. He gave me the name of his ship, and of its
captain, and the day of sailing. I flattered myself that he was now in
a fair position to get a fresh start in life.
A few evenings after the ship was supposed to have sailed he called at
my house, in the midst of heavy rain, apparently much agitated, and
stated that, in raising their anchor, an accident had happened, by
which the captain’s leg had been broken.
He also said that, being sent up with the ship’s boat to fetch the new
captain, he could not resist calling at my house {248} once more to
express all his gratitude. I confess I entertained some suspicion about
this story; but I said nothing.
The next morning I found that during his visit he had extracted
something more from my female servants, upon whose sympathy he had
worked, and who had previously contributed very liberally to his wants.
〈CONSULTATION AT BOW STREET.〉
I now went to search for him in his old haunts, and with much
difficulty ascertained that he had been living riotously at some
public-house in another quarter, and had been continually drunk.
My next step was to go to Bow Street and consult Sir Richard Birnie.
Having explained the case, he consulted several of his most skilful
officers; but none were acquainted with the man. Sir Richard remarked
that he was a very adroit fellow, and that it was doubtful whether he
had actually committed an act of swindling. I inquired what I should do
in case I found him. The magistrate replied, “Bring him before me;” but
he did not indicate the slightest expectation of my accomplishing that
object.
Having thanked Sir Richard, I withdrew, determined, if the fellow were
in London, I would catch him.
I now renewed my inquiries, which at first were ineffectual. One day
it occurred to me that, as he had shown me two cards of shopkeepers in
Monmouth Street, I might possibly, by cautious inquiry, get some clue
to his whereabouts.
Although it was Sunday when this idea occurred, I immediately commenced
at one end of the street to knock at each door, apologize to the
landlord or landlady, and, shortly stating my case, to inquire if they
could throw any light upon the subject. I went up one side of the
street, and down part of the other, having at two places gained some
traces of the fellow. {249}
〈MORNING VISIT TO ST. GILES’S.〉
I will say, to the credit of the then residents, some of whom I
intruded upon at their dinner hour, that I received in no one instance
the slightest incivility, nor even coldness.
The most important information I obtained was, that a certain pot-boy
(name and name of his public-house both unknown) would probably be able
to give me some clue.
I next took my station at the northern end of Monmouth Street, and
during three hours accosted every pot-boy who passed. At last I got
hold of the right one, and so ultimately obtained the information I
wanted.
The fellow was then arrested, and brought before Sir R. Birnie. The
magistrate was much surprised that so clever a fellow should not have
been known to any of his officers. After a long examination, I stated
to the magistrate, that though I was very reluctant to appear before
the public in such a case, yet that if he thought it a public duty, I
should not shrink from it. Sir Richard remarked, that the inconvenience
of my attending two or three days to prosecute would be very great—that
the fellow was so accomplished an artist, that it was very doubtful if
he could be convicted. He then added, that the best thing to be done
for the man himself would be, if I could produce any new evidence, that
he should be remanded for a week, to hear it, and then be discharged
with a caution from the bench.
As my servants could give additional evidence, the fellow was remanded
for a week, then duly lectured and discharged.
In the course of my efforts to inform myself of the real wants of
those around me, I profited much by the experience of one or two
friends, both most excellent and kind-hearted men, whose official
duties rendered them far more conversant than myself with the subject.
Mr. Walker and Mr. Broderip, both of them magistrates, were amongst
my intimate friends. {250} Mr. Walker, the author of “The Original,”
maintained that no one ever was actually starved in London, except
through his own folly or fault.
〈VALUABLE MAGISTRATES.〉
The result of my own experience leads me to recommend all those who do
not possess time and the requisite energies for personal inquiries, to
place the means they wish to devote to charity in the hands of some
sensible and kind-hearted magistrate.
I have been present, in the course of my life, at many cases brought
before our London police magistrates. They possess an immense power of
doing good—a power of making the law respected, not by its punishments,
but by their own kindliness of manner and thoughtful consideration for
the feelings of those brought into close contact with them.
Plain common sense, a kind heart, and, above all, the feelings of a
thorough gentleman, are invaluable qualities in a magistrate. They give
dignity to the court over which he presides, as well as an example
which will be insensibly followed by all its officers. I have seen
cases from which my own avocations have imperatively called me away,
when I would gladly have remained to admire the kindness and the tact
with which entangled questions have been gradually brought to a humane
and just conclusion.
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