A Well-Educated Beggar.
J. R. P. F. A man about 45 years of age, the son of a much respected clergyman in Lancashire, who had received a good classical education, and was capable of gaining an excellent livelihood, applied to various persons for aid, in consequence, as he said, of being in great distress through want of a situation. He carefully selected those gentlemen who were well acquainted with, and respected, his father, some of whom, mistrusting his representations, forwarded the letters to the Mendicity Society for inquiry, which proved the applicant to be a most depraved character, who had been a source of great trouble to his parents for many years, they having provided him with situations (as teacher in various respectable establishments) from time to time, and also furnished him with means of clothing himself respectably; but on every occasion he remained in his employment but a very short time, before he gave way to his propensity to drink, and so disgraced himself that his employers were glad to get rid of him; whereupon he made away with his clothing to indulge his vicious propensity.
I will now proceed to give an account of the beggars of London, as they have come under my notice in the course of the present inquiry.
BEGGING-LETTER WRITERS.
Foremost among beggars, by right of pretension to blighted prospects and correct penmanship, stands the Begging-Letter Writer. He is the connecting link between mendicity and the observance of external respectability. He affects white cravats, soft hands, and filbert nails. He oils his hair, cleans his boots, and wears a portentous stick-up collar. The light of other days of gentility and comfort casts a halo of “deportment” over his well-brushed, white-seamed coat, his carefully darned black-cloth gloves, and pudgy gaiters. He invariably carries an umbrella, and wears a hat with an enormous brim. His once raven hair is turning grey, and his well-shaved whiskerless cheeks are blue as with gunpowder tattoo. He uses the plainest and most respectable of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, and keeps his references as to character in the most irreproachable of shabby leather pocket-books. His mouth is heavy, his under-lip thick, sensual, and lowering, and his general expression of pious resignation contradicted by restless, bloodshot eyes, that flash from side to side, quick to perceive the approach of a compassionate-looking clergyman, a female devotee, or a keen-scented member of the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity.
Among the many varieties of mendacious beggars, there is none so detestable as this hypocritical scoundrel, who, with an ostentatiously-submissive air, and false pretence of faded fortunes, tells his plausible tale of undeserved suffering, and extracts from the hearts and pockets of the superficially good-hearted their sympathy and coin. His calling is a special one, and requires study, perseverance, and some personal advantages. The begging-letter writer must write a good hand, speak grammatically, and have that shrewd perception of character peculiar to fortune-tellers, horoscopists, cheap-jacks, and pedlars. He “must read and write, and cast accounts;” have an intuitive knowledge of the “nobility and landed gentry;” be a keen physiognomist, and an adept at imitation of handwritings, old documents, quaint ancient orthography, and the like. He must possess an artistic eye for costume, an unfaltering courage, and have tears and hysterics at immediate command.
His great stock-in-trade is his register. There he carefully notes down the names, addresses, and mental peculiarities of his victims, and the character and pretence under which he robbed them of their bounty. It would not do to tell the same person the same story twice, as once happened to an unusually audacious member of the fraternity, who had obtained money from an old lady for the purpose of burying his wife, for whose loss he, of course, expressed the deepest grief. Confident in the old lady’s kindness of heart and weakness of memory, three months after his bereavement he again posted himself before the lady’s door, and gave vent to violent emotion.
“Dear me!” thought the old lady, “there’s that poor man who lost his wife some time ago.” She opened the window, and, bidding the vagabond draw nearer, asked him what trouble he was in at present.
After repeated questioning the fellow gurgled out, “That the wife of his bosom, the mother of his children, had left him for that bourne from which no traveller returns, and that owing to a series of unprecedented and unexpected misfortunes he had not sufficient money to defray the funeral expenses, and—”
“Oh, nonsense!” interrupted the old lady. “You lost your wife a quarter of a year ago. You couldn’t lose her twice; and as to marrying again, and losing again in that short time, it is quite impossible!”