THE amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful
purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the Window
Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions of this
time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does
to the deserving,—dirtying the stream of true benevolence, and muddling
the brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between the
base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us,—he
is more worthy of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst
characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have
been sent there long ago.
I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver
of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as
regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the great
branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence. I ought to know
something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door at all
hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in
ambush for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town
into the country; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have been
staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense
distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has
died and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed from
this transitory scene: he has been his own son, his own mother, his own
baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He
has wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in; a pound to set him up in life
for ever; a pair of boots to take him to the coast of China; a hat to get
him into a permanent situation under Government. He has frequently been
exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence. He has had such
openings at Liverpool—posts of great trust and confidence in merchants’
houses, which nothing but seven-and-sixpence was wanting to him to
secure—that I wonder he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at the
present moment.
The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most
astounding nature. He has had two children who have never grown up; who
have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been continually
driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of
fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his
letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have never changed in
the least degree through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife,
what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always
been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and has
never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has
never cared for himself; he could have perished—he would rather, in
short—but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a
father,—to write begging letters when he looked at her? (He has usually
remarked that he would call in the evening for an answer to this
question.)
He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has
done to him would have broken anybody else’s heart. His brother went
into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got him
to be security for an immense sum and left him to pay it; his brother
would have given him employment to the tune of hundreds a-year, if he
would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated
principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in
consequence) permit his brother to provide for him. His landlord has
never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I
don’t know, but he has never taken it out. The broker’s man has grown
grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.
He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the
army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press,
the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of
business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every
college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote Latin in his letters (but
generally misspells some minor English word); he can tell you what
Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be
observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the
newspapers; and rounds off his appeal with some allusion, that may be
supposed to be in my way, to the popular subject of the hour.
His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never
written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first
time; that shall be the last. Don’t answer it, and let it be understood
that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more
frequently) he _has_ written a few such letters. Then he encloses the
answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him,
and a request that they may be carefully returned. He is fond of
enclosing something—verses, letters, pawnbrokers’ duplicates, anything to
necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon ‘the pampered minion of
fortune,’ who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure
number two—but he knows me better.
He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes
quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits he writes down-hill and
repeats words—these little indications being expressive of the
perturbation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with
me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human nature is,—who
better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it—as many
men have done before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him
now—many men have done that before him too! Shall he tell me why he
writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on
that ground plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human
nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, before
twelve at noon.
Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is
no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at
last. He has enlisted into the Company’s service, and is off
directly—but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it
is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he should take out a
single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight
or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what
has passed; but if he calls at nine, to-morrow morning may he hope to
find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in
Bengal?
Once he wrote me rather a special letter, proposing relief in kind. He
had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up in brown
paper, at people’s houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in
which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he
expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on
a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself
all over), in which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to earn
an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country with a
cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well until the day
before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That
this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the
shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London—a somewhat
exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again
for money; but that if I would have the goodness _to leave him out a
donkey_, he would call for the animal before breakfast!
At another time my friend (I am describing actual experiences) introduced
himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of distress. He
had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre—which was really open; its
representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor—who
was really ill; and he and his were in a state of absolute starvation.
If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it
to me to say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over
that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards he
was in some other strait. I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in
extremity—and we adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards he
had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want of a
water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and did not reply
to that epistle. But a little while afterwards, I had reason to feel
penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken-hearted lines,
informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last
night at nine o’clock!
I despatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his
poor children; but the messenger went so soon, that the play was not
ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a
most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity
Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a
London Police-Office with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was
wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by
the excellence of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his
attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition,
and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A
collection was made for the ‘poor fellow,’ as he was called in the
reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being
universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day comes to me a friend
of mine, the governor of a large prison. ‘Why did you ever go to the
Police-Office against that man,’ says he, ‘without coming to me first? I
know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my
warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you; and then he was
eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence a pound, and early asparagus at I
don’t know how much a bundle!’ On that very same day, and in that very
same hour, my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding
to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed
the night in a ‘loathsome dungeon.’ And next morning an Irish gentleman,
a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very well
persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office again,
positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and,
resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ‘sat down’ before it
for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I remained
within the walls; and he raised the siege at midnight with a prodigious
alarum on the bell.
The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance.
Whole pages of the ‘Court Guide’ are ready to be references for him.
Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for
probity and virtue. They have known him time out of mind, and there is
nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Somehow, they don’t give him that one
pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough—they want to
do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his
trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those
who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or
later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger—man, woman, or
child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an independent
Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling,
and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the
infection of begging-letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What
Sydney Smith so happily called ‘the dangerous luxury of dishonesty’ is
more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in this instance than in
any other.
He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter Writers.
Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to-day in
recognition of a begging-letter,—no matter how unlike a common
begging-letter,—and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such
communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the begging-letters become
Angels’ visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull
way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of
little use inquiring into the Begging-Letter Writer’s circumstances. He
may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned
(though that was not the first inquiry made); but apparent misery is
always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the
intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an
incident of his dissipated and dishonest life.
That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are
gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police Reports of
such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the
extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this is to be
found (as no one knows better than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a
part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit
themselves as having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified
their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of all
virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is
preparing for the press (on the 29th of April, 1850), and never once
taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most
audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever
known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow’s
proceedings; it has been his business to write to all sorts and
conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and
unblemished honour, professing to be in distress—the general admiration
and respect for whom has ensured a ready and generous reply.
Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real person
may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than any
abstract treatise—and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which
the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been
for some time constantly increasing—the writer of this paper entreats the
attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a
type of the experience of many; some on a smaller, some on an infinitely
larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his
conclusions from it.
Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever,
and able to recall but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in
which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good was done by
it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The
begging-letters flying about by every post, made it perfectly manifest
that a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire
to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor
were suffering, and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought
to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of
preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those
wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves
cumbering society. That imagination,—soberly following one of these
knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the
life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the
children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late
lamented Mr. Drouet,—contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be
presented very much longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle
of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of
the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead
to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them.
That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the
thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their
youth—for of flower or blossom such youth has none—the Gospel was NOT
preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all
wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set
right. And that no Post-Office Order to any amount, given to a
Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be
presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it.
The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their
habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support them are
parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within
their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful;
they pervert the lessons of our lives; they change what ought to be our
strength and virtue into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a
plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any
sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade.
There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more
ways than one—sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the subtle
poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases,
distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set
against this miserable imposition. Physical life respected, moral life
comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week,
would educate a score of children for a year. Let us give all we can;
let us give more than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do more than
ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the
scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our
duty.