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 5l., and afterwards 1l. 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.”