everything was prepared for their reception with a dramatic regard
for propriety. The garret was made as clean and as uncomfortable
as possible. Mr. Kaggs was put to bed, and the purpled pinkness of
his complexion toned down with violet powder and cosmetics. A white
handkerchief, with the Thirlbrook crest in a corner, was carelessly
dropped upon the coverlid. A few physic bottles, an old United Service
paper, and a ponderous Bible lay upon a ricketty round table beside
him. Mrs. Kaggs was propped up with pillows in an arm-chair near the
fireplace, and desired to look rheumatic and resigned. Kitty was sent
out of the way; and the two children were dressed up in shabby black,
and promised plums if they would keep quiet. Miss Betsey herself, in
grey stuff and an apron, meek, mild, and matronly beyond her years,
glided about softly, like a Sister of Mercy connected with the family.
My readers must understand that Mr. Kaggs was the sole tenant of the
house he lived in, though he pretended that he only occupied the
garrets as a lodger.
During the stay of the fashionable Samaritans Lieut. Thirlbrook--who
had received a wound in his leg at Barossa, under the Duke--would say
but little, but now and then his mouth would twitch as with suppressed
pain. The visitors were generally much moved at the distressing
scene. The gallant veteran--the helpless old lady--the sad and silent
children--and the ministering angel of a daughter, were an impressive
spectacle. The ladies would promise to exert themselves among their
friends, and do all in their power to relieve them.
“Miss Thirlbrook,” they would ask, as Miss Betsey attended them to the
street-door, “those dear children are not your brother and sister, are
they?”
Betsey would suppress a sigh, and say, “They are the son and daughter
of my poor brother, who was a surgeon in the Navy--they are orphans. My
brother died on the Gold Coast, and his poor wife soon followed him.
She was delicate, and could not bear up against the shock. The poor
things have only us to look to, and we do for them what little lies in
our power.”
This last stroke was a climax. “She never mentioned them before!”
thought the ladies. “What delicacy! What high feeling! These are not
common beggars, who make an exaggerated statement of their griefs.”
“Miss Thirlbrook, I am sure you will pardon me for making the offer;
but those dear children upstairs do not look strong. I hope you will
not be offended by my offering to send them a luncheon now and then--a
few delicacies--nourishing things--to do them good.”
Miss Betsey would curtsey, lower her eyelids, and say, softly, “They
_are not_ strong.”
“I’ll send my servant as soon as I get home. Pray use this trifle for
the present,” (the lady would take out her purse,) “and good morning,
Miss Thirlbrook. I must shake hands with you. I consider myself
fortunate in having made your acquaintance.”
Betsey’s eyes would fill with tears, and as she held the door open,
the expression of her face would plainly say: “Not only for myself, oh
dear and charitable ladies, but for my father--my poor father--who was
wounded, at Barossa, in the leg--do I thank you from the depths of a
profoundly grateful heart.”
When the basket arrived, Miss Betsey would sit down with her worthy
parents and enjoy whatever poultry or meat had not been touched; but
anything that had been cut, anything “second-hand,” that dainty and
haughty young lady would instruct her sister Kitty to give to the poor
beggars.
This system of swindling could not, of course, last many years,
and when the west end of London became too hot to hold them, the
indefatigable Kaggses put an advertisement into the _Times_ and
_Morning Post_, addressed to the charitable and humane, saying that “a
poor, but respectable family, required a small sum to enable them to
make up the amount of their passage to Australia, and that they could
give the highest references as to character.”
The old certificates were hawked about, and for more than two years
they drove a roaring trade in money, outfits, and necessaries for a
voyage. Mr. Kaggs, too, made a fortunate hit. He purchased an old
piano, and raffled it at five shillings a head. Each of his own family
took a chance. At the first raffle Miss Betsey won it, at the second,
Miss Kitty, on the third, Mr. Kaggs, on the fourth, his faithful
partner, and on the fifth and last time, a particular friend of Miss
Kitty’s, a young lady in the green-grocery line. This invaluable piece
of furniture was eventually disposed of by private contract to a dealer
in Barret’s Court, Oxford Street, and, a few days after, the Kaggs
family really sailed for Melbourne, and I have never since heard of
them.
* * * * *
Among the begging-letter fraternity there are not a few persons who
affect to be literary men. They have at one time or another been
able to publish a pamphlet, a poem, or a song--generally a patriotic
one, and copies of these works--they always call them “works”--they
constantly carry about with them to be ready for any customer who
may turn up. I have known a notable member of this class of beggars
for some years. He was introduced to me as a literary man by an
innocent friend who really believed in his talent. He greeted me as
a brother craftsman, and immediately took from the breast-pocket of
his threadbare surtout a copy of one of his works. “Allow me,” he
said, “to present you with my latest work; it is dedicated, you will
perceive, to the Right Honourable the Earl of Derby--here is a letter
from his lordship complimenting me in the most handsome terms;” and
before I could look into the book, the author produced from a well-worn
black pocket-book a dirty letter distinguished by a large red seal.
Sure enough it was a genuine letter beginning “The Earl of Derby
presents his compliments,” and going on to acknowledge the receipt
of a copy of Mr. Driver’s work. Mr. Driver--I will call my author
by that name--produced a great many other letters, all from persons
of distinction, and the polite terms in which they were expressed
astonished me not a little. I soon, however, discovered the key to
all this condescension. The work was a political one, glorifying the
Conservative party, and abounding with all sorts of old-fashioned Tory
sentiments. The letters Mr. Driver showed me were of course all from
tories. The “work” was quite a curiosity. It was called a political
novel. It had for its motto, “Pro Rege, Lege, Aris et Focis,” and the
dedication to the Right Honourable the Earl of Derby was displayed over
a whole page in epitaph fashion. At the close of our interview Mr.
Driver pointed out to me that the price of the work was two shillings.
Understanding the hint, I gave him that amount, when he called for pen
and ink, and wrote on the fly leaf of the work, “To ---- ----, Esq.,
with the sincere regards of the author.--J. Fitzharding Driver.” On
looking over the book--it was a mere paper-covered pamphlet of some
hundred pages--I found that the story was not completed. I mentioned
this to Mr. Driver the next time I met him, and he explained that he
meant to go to press--that was a favourite expression of his--to go to
press with the second volume shortly. Ten years, however, have elapsed
since then, and Mr. Driver has not yet gone to press with his second
volume. The last time I met him he offered me the original volume
as his “last new work,” which he presumed I had never seen. He also
informed me that he was about to publish a patriotic song in honour of
the Queen. Would I subscribe for a copy--only three-and-sixpence--and
he would leave it for me? Mr. Driver had forgotten that I had
subscribed for this very song eight years previously. He showed me
the selfsame MS. of the new national anthem, which I had perused so
long ago. The paper had become as soft and limp and dingy as a Scotch
one-pound note, but it had been worth a good many one-pound notes
to Mr. Fitzharding Driver. Mr. Driver has lived upon this as yet
unpublished song, and that unfinished political novel, for ten years
and more. I have seen him often enough to know exactly his _modus
operandi_. Though practically a beggar Mr. Driver is no great rogue.
Were you to dress him well, he might pass for a nobleman. As it is,
in his shabby genteel clothes he looks a broken-down swell. And so in
fact he is. In his young days he had plenty of money, and went the pace
among the young bloods of Bond Street. Mr. Driver’s young days were
the days of the Regent. He drove a dashing phaeton-and-four then, and
lounged and gambled, and lived the life of a man about town. He tells
you all that with great pride, and also how he came to grief, though
this part of the story is not so clear. There is no doubt that he had
considerable acquaintance among great people in his prosperous days. He
lives now upon his works, and the public-house parlours of the purlieus
of the west-end serve him as publishing houses. He is a great political
disputant, and his company is not unwelcome in those quarters. He
enters, takes his seat, drinks his glass, joins in the conversation,
and, as he says himself, shows that he is a man of parts. In this way
he makes friends among the tradesmen who visit these resorts. They
soon find out that he is poor, and an author, and moved both to pity
and admiration, each member of the company purchases a copy of that
unfinished political novel, or subscribes for that new patriotic song,
which I expect will yet be in the womb of the press when the crack of
doom comes. I think Mr. Driver has pretty well used up all the quiet
parlours of W. district by this time. Not long ago I had a letter from
him enclosing a prospectus of a new work to be entitled “Whiggery,
or the Decline of England,” and soliciting a subscription to enable
him to go to press with the first edition. I have no doubt that every
conservative member of both houses of Parliament has had a copy of that
prospectus. Mr. Fitzharding Driver will call at their houses for an
answer, and some entirely out of easy charity, and others from a party
feeling of delight at the prospect of the Whigs being abused in a book
even by this poor beggar, will send him down half-crowns, and enable
the poor wretch to eat and drink for a few months longer. On more than
one occasion while I have known him, Mr. Driver has been on the point
of “being well off again,” to use his own expression. His behaviour
under the prospect was characteristic of the man, his antecedents,
and his mode of life. He touched up his seedy clothes, had some
cotton-velvet facings put to his threadbare surtout, revived his hat,
mounted a pair of shabby patent-leather boots, provided himself with a
penny cane, adorned with an old silk tassel, and appeared each day with
a flower in his button-hole. In addition to these he had sewn into the
breast of his surtout a bit of parti-coloured ribbon to look like a
decoration. In this guise he came up to me at the Crystal Palace one
day, and appeared to be in great glee. His ogling and mysterious manner
puzzled me. Judge of my astonishment when this hoary, old, tottering,
toothless beggar informed me, with many self-satisfied chuckles, that a
rich widow, “a fine dashing woman, sir,” had fallen in love with him,
and was going to marry him. The marriage did not come off, the pile is
worn away from the velvet facings, the patent-leather boots have become
mere shapeless flaps of leather, the old broad-brimmed hat is past the
power of reviver, and the Bond Street buck of the days of the Regent
now wanders from public-house to public-house selling lucifer-matches.
He still however carries with him a copy of his “work,” the limp and
worn MS. of his anthem, and the prospectus of “Whiggery, or the Decline
of England.” These and the letters from distinguished personages stand
him in better stead than the lucifer-matches, when he lights upon
persons of congenial sympathies.
ADVERTISING BEGGING-LETTER WRITERS.
Among many begging-letter writers who appealed to sentiment, the most
notorious and successful was a man of the name of Thomas Stone, alias
Stanley, alias Newton. He had been in early life transported for
forgery, and afterwards was tried for perjury; and when his ordinary
methods of raising money had been detected and exposed, he resorted to
the ingenious expedient of sending an advertisement to the _Times_, of
which the following is a copy:--
“To the Charitable and Affluent.
“At the eleventh hour a young and most unfortunate lady is driven by
great distress to solicit from those charitable and humane persons
who ever derive pleasure from benevolent acts, some little _pecuniary
assistance_. The advertiser’s condition is almost hopeless, being,
alas! friendless, and reduced to the last extremity. The smallest aid
would be most thankfully acknowledged, and the fullest explanation
given. Direct Miss T. C. M., Post-office, Great Randolph St., Camden
New Town.”
This touching appeal was read by a philanthropic gentleman, who sent
the advertiser 5_l._, and afterwards 1_l._ more, to which he received
a reply in the following words:--
“SIR,--I again offer my gratitude for your charitable kindness. I
am quite unable to speak the promptings of my heart for your great
goodness to me, an entire stranger, but you may believe me, sir, I am
very sincerely thankful. You will, I am sure, be happy to hear I have
paid the few trifling demands upon me, and also obtained sufficient of
my wearing apparel to make a decent appearance; but it has swallowed
up the whole of your generous bounty, or I should this day have moved
to the Hampstead Road, where a far more comfortable lodging has been
offered me, and where, sir, if you would condescend to call I would
cheerfully and with pleasure relate my circumstances in connexion
with my past history, and I do hope you might consider me worthy of
your further notice. But it is my earnest desire to support myself
and my dearest child by my own industry. As I mentioned before, I
have youth and health, and have received a good education, but alas!
I fear I shall have a great difficulty in obtaining employment such
as I desire, for I have fallen! I am a mother, and my dear poor boy
is the child of sin. But I was deceived--cruelly deceived by a base
and heartless villain. A licence was purchased for our marriage; I
believed all; my heart knew no guile; the deceptions of the world I
had scarcely ever heard of; but too soon I found myself destroyed
and lost, the best affections of my heart trampled upon, and myself
infamous and disgraced. But I did not continue to live in sin. Oh no!
I despised and loathed the villain who so deceived me. Neither have
I received, nor would I, one shilling from him. I think I stated in
my first letter I am the daughter of a deceased merchant; such is the
case; and had I some friends to interest themselves for me, I do think
it would be found I am entitled to some property; however, it would
be first necessary to explain personally every circumstance, and to
you, sir, I would unreservedly explain all. And oh! I do earnestly
hope you would, after hearing my sad tale, think there was some little
palliation of my guilt.
“In answer to the advertisement I had inserted, I received many offers
of assistance, but they contained overtures of such a nature that I
could not allow myself to reply to any of them. You, sir, have been
my best friend, and may God bless you for your sympathy and kindness.
I am very desirous to remove, but cannot do so without a little money
in my pocket. Your charity has enabled me to provide all I required,
and paid that which I owed, which has been a great relief to my mind.
I hope and trust that you will not think me covetous or encroaching
upon your goodness, in asking you to assist me with a small sum
further, for the purpose named. Should you, however, decline to do so,
believe me, I should be equally grateful; and it is most painful and
repugnant to my feelings to ask, but I know not to whom else to apply.
Entreating your early reply, however it may result, and with every
good wish, and the sincerest and warmest acknowledgments of my heart,
believe, sir, always your most thankful and humble servant,
“FRANCES THORPE.
“Please direct T. C. M., Post-office, Crown Street, Gray’s Inn Road.”
With the same sort of tale, varying the signature to Fanny Lyons, Mary
Whitmore, and Fanny Hamilton, &c., Mr. Stone continued to victimize the
public, until the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity laid him
by the heels. He was committed for trial at Clerkenwell Sessions, and
sentenced to transportation for seven years.
I must content myself with these few specimens of the begging-letter
impostors; it would be impossible to describe every variety. Sometimes
they are printers, whose premises have been destroyed by fire; at
others, young women who have been ruined by noblemen and are anxious to
retrieve themselves; or widows of naval officers who have perished in
action or by sickness. There was a long run upon “aged clergymen, whose
sands of life were fast running out,” but the fraud became so common
that it was soon “blown.”
The greatest blow that was ever struck at this species of imposition
was the establishment of the Begging-Letter Department by the Society
for the Suppression of Mendicity. In the very first case they
investigated they found the writer--who had penned a most touching
letter to a well-known nobleman--crouching in a fireless garret in
one of the worst and lowest neighbourhoods of London. This man was
discovered to be the owner and occupier of a handsomely-furnished house
in another part of the town, where his wife and family lived in luxury.
The following is a specimen of a most artful begging letter from
America.
_Ellicot’s Mills, Howard Co., Maryland,
United States_,
_June_ 6, 1859.
“MY DEAREST FRIEND,
“Why--why have you not written, and sent me the usual remittances?
Your silence has caused me the greatest uneasiness. Poor dear
Frederick is dying and we are in the extremest want. The period to
hear from you has past some time, and no letter. It is very strange!
What can it mean?
“In a short time your poor suffering son will be at rest. I shall then
trouble you no more; but--oh! I beseech you, do not permit your poor
son to die in want. I have expended my last shilling to procure him
those little necessaries he must and shall have. Little did I think
when, long, long years ago, I deserted all, that you might be free and
happy, that you would fail me in this terrible hour of affliction--but
you have not--I know you have not. You must have sent, and the letter
miscarried. Your poor dying son sends his fondest love. Poor dear
fellow!--he has never known a father’s care; still, from a child,
he has prayed for, revered, and loved you--he is now going to his
Father in heaven, and, when he is gone my widowed heart will break.
When I look back upon the long past, although broken-hearted and
crushed to the earth, yet I cannot tutor my heart to regret it, for
I dearly loved you. Yes, and proved it, dearest friend, by forsaking
and fleeing with my poor fatherless boy to this strange and distant
land, that you might be free and happy with those so worthy of you;
and, believe me when I say, that your happiness has been my constant
prayer. In consequence of poor dear Frederick’s sickness we are in
the greatest distress and want. I have been compelled to forego all
exertion, and attend solely upon him; therefore, do, I pray you, send
me, without an instant’s delay, a 10_l._ note. I must have it, or I
shall go mad. Your poor suffering boy must not die in misery and want.
Send the money by return mail, and send a Bank of England note, for I
am now miles away from where I could get a draught cashed. I came here
for the benefit of poor dear Frederick, but I fear it has done him no
good. We are now among strangers, and in the most abject distress,
and unless you send soon, your afflicted unoffending boy will starve
to death. I can no longer bear up against poverty, sickness, and your
unkindness; but you must have sent; your good, kind heart would not
permit you to let us die in want. God bless you, and keep you and
yours. May you be supremely happy! Bless you! In mercy send soon, for
we are in extremest want.
“Remaining faithfully,
“Your dearest friend,
“KATE STANLEY.
“Pay the postage of your letter to me, or I shall not be able to
obtain it, for I am selling everything to live.”
The above affecting letter was received by the widow of a London
merchant six months after his death. The affair was investigated and
proved to be an imposture. The moral character of Mr. ---- had been
irreproachable. American begging-letter writers read the obituaries in
English newspapers and ply their trade, while the loss of the bereaved
relatives of the man whose memory they malign is recent.
ASHAMED BEGGARS.
By the above title I mean those tall, lanthorn-jawed men, in seedy
well-brushed clothes, who, with a ticket on their breasts, on which
a short but piteous tale is written in the most respectable of
large-hand, and with a few boxes of lucifer-matches in their hands,
make no appeal by word of mouth, but invoke the charity of passers-by
by meek glances and imploring looks--fellows who, having no talent
for “patter,” are gifted with great powers of facial pathos, and make
expression of feature stand in lieu of vocal supplication. For some
years I have watched a specimen of this class, who has a regular “beat”
at the west end of London. He is a tall man, with thin legs and arms,
and a slightly-protuberant stomach. His “costume” (I use the word
advisedly, for he is really a great actor of pantomime,) consists of an
old black dress-coat, carefully buttoned, but left sufficiently open
at the top to show a spotlessly white shirt, and at the bottom, to
exhibit an old grey waistcoat; and a snowy apron, which he wears after
the fashion of a Freemason, forgetting that real tradesmen are never
seen in their aprons except behind the counter. A pair of tight, dark,
shabby trousers, black gaiters without an absent button, and heavy
shoes of the severest thickness, cover his nether man. Round his neck
is a red worsted comforter, which neatly tied at the throat, descends
straight and formally beneath his coat, and exhibits two fringed ends,
which fall, in agreeable contrast of colour, over the before-mentioned
apron. I never remember seeing a beggar of this class without an apron
and a worsted comforter--they would appear to be his stock-in-trade, a
necessary portion of his outfit; the white apron to relieve the sombre
hue of his habiliments, and show up their well-brushed shabbiness; the
scarlet comforter to contrast with the cadaverous complexion which
he owes to art or nature. In winter the comforter also serves as an
advertisement that his great-coat is gone.
The man I am describing wears a “pad” round his neck, on which is
written--
Kind Friends and Christian Brethren!
I was once a
Respectable Tradesman,
doing a Good Business;
till Misfortune reduced me to
this Pass!
Be kind enough to Buy
some of the Articles I offer,
and you will confer a
Real Charity!
In his hands, on which he wears scrupulously-darned mittens, he carries
a box or two of matches, or a few quires of note-paper or envelopes,
and half-a-dozen small sticks of sealing-wax. He is also furnished
with a shabby-genteel looking boy of about nine years old, who wears
a Shakesperian collar, and the regulation worsted comforter, the ends
of which nearly trail upon the ground. The poor child, whose features
do not in the least resemble the man’s, and who, too young to be his
son, is too old to be his grandson, keeps his little hands in his large
pockets, and tries to look as unhappy and half-starved as he can.