“You are requested to direct the bearer to the place to which he desires to go, as he cannot speak English!”
The beggar then, with a profusion of bows, points to the larger paper.
“Mais, m’sieu, ayez la bonté de lire. C’est Anglais.”
The larger paper contains a statement in French and English, that the bearer Jean Baptiste Dupont is a native of Troyes, Champagne, and a fan-maker by trade; that paralysis in the hand has deprived him of the power of working; that he came to England to find a daughter, who had married an Englishman and was dwelling in Westminster, but that when he arrived he found they had parted for Australia; that he is fifty-two years of age, and is a deserving object of compassion, having no means of returning to Troyes, being an entire stranger to England, and having no acquaintances or friends to assist him.
This statement is without any signature, but no sooner have you read it than the beggar, who would seem to have a blind credence in the efficacy of documents, draws from his pocket-book a certificate of birth, a register of marriage, a passport, and a permission to embark, which, being all in a state of crumpled greasiness, and printed and written in French, so startles and confounds the reader, that he drops something into the man’s hand and passes on.
I have been often stopped by this sort of beggar. In the last case I met with I held a long talk with the man—of course, in his own language, for he will seldom or never be betrayed into admitting that he has any knowledge of English.
“Parlez Français, m’sieu?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. “What do you want?”
“Deign, monsieur, to have the bounty to read this paper which I have the honour to present to monsieur.”