“My name is John Wood—that’s my wife. I am sixty-five years of age; she’s seventy-five—ten years older than I am. I kept a shop round this street, sir, four-and-twenty years. I’ve got a settlement in this parish, but we neither of us like to go into the union—they’d separate us, and we like to be together for the little time we shall be here. The reason we went to the bad was, I took a shop at Woolwich, and the very week I opened it, I don’t know how many hundred men were not discharged from the Arsenal and Dockyard. I lost £350 there; after that we tried many things; but everything failed. This is not a living. I stood four hours last night, and took twopence-ha’penny. We lodge in Warde’s Buildings. We pay one and ninepence a-week. We’ve got sticks of our own,—that is a bed, and a table. We are both of us half-starved. It is hard—very hard. I’m as weak as a rat, and so is my wife. We’ve tried to do something better, but we can’t. If I could get some of the folks that once knew me to assist me, I might buy a few things, and make a living out of them. We’ve been round to ’em to ask ’em, but they don’t seem inclined to help us. People don’t, sir, when you’re poor. I used to feel that myself one time, but I know better now. Good night, sir, and thank you.”
In the same neighbourhood I saw an elderly man who looked as if he would beg of me if he dared. I turned round to look at him, and saw that his eyes were red as if with crying, and that he carried a rag in his hand with which he kept dabbing them. I gave him a few pence.
“Thank you, sir,” he said; “God bless you. Excuse me, sir, but my eyes is bad—I suffer from the erysipelas—that is what brought me to this. Kindness rather overcomes me—I’ve not been much used to it of late.”
He made the following statement:
“I have been a gentleman’s servant, sir, but I lost my place through the erysipelas. I was mad with it, and confined in Bedlam for four years. The last place I was in service at was Sir H—— H——’s (he mentioned the name of an eminent banker). Sir H—— was very kind to me. I clean his door-plate now, for which I get a shilling a-week—that’s all the dependence I have now. The servants behave bad to me. Sir H—— said that I was to go into the kitchen now and then; but they never give me anything. I don’t get half enough to eat, and it makes me very weak. I’m weak enough naturally, and going without makes me worse. I lodge over in Westminster. I pay threepence a-night, or eighteenpence a-week. There are three others in the same room as me. I hold horses sometimes, and clean knives and forks when I can get it to do; but people like younger men than me to do odd jobs. I can’t do things quick enough, and I’m so nervous that I ain’t handy. I can go into the workhouse, and I think I shall in the winter; but the confinement of it is terrible to me. I’d like to keep out of it if I can. My shilling a-week don’t pay my rent, and I find it very hard to get on at all. Nobody can tell what I go through. I suppose I must go into the workhouse at last. They’re not over kind to you when you’re in. Every day the first thing I try to get is the threepence for my lodging. I pay nightly, then I don’t have anything to pay on Sundays. I don’t know any trade; gentlemen’s servants never do. I used to have the best of everything when I was in service. God bless you, sir, and thank you. I’m very much obliged to you.”
DISASTER BEGGARS.
This class of street beggars includes shipwrecked mariners, blown-up miners, burnt-out tradesmen, and lucifer droppers. The majority of them are impostors, as is the case with all beggars who pursue begging pertinaciously and systematically. There are no doubt genuine cases to be met with, but they are very few, and they rarely obtrude themselves. Of the shipwrecked mariners I have already given examples under the head of Naval and Military Beggars. Another class of them, to which I have not referred, is familiar to the London public in connection with rudely executed paintings representing either a shipwreck, or more commonly the destruction of a boat by a whale in the North Seas. This painting they spread upon the pavement, fixing it at the corners, if the day be windy, with stones. There are generally two men in attendance, and in most cases one of the two has lost an arm or a leg. Occasionally both of them have the advantage of being deprived of either one or two limbs. Their misfortune so far is not to be questioned. A man who has lost both arms, or even one, is scarcely in a position to earn his living by labour, and is therefore a fit object for charity. It is found, however, that in most instances the stories of their misfortunes printed underneath their pictures are simply inventions, and very often the pretended sailor has never been to sea at all. In one case which I specially investigated, the man had been a bricklayer, and had broken both his arms by falling from a scaffold. He received some little compensation at the time, but when that was spent he went into the streets to beg, carrying a paper on his breast describing the cause of his misfortune. His first efforts were not successful. His appearance (dressed as he was in workman’s clothes) was not sufficiently picturesque to attract attention, and his story was of too ordinary a kind to excite much interest. He had a very hard life of it for some length of time; for, in addition to the drawback arising from the uninteresting nature of his case, he had had no experience in the art of begging, and his takings were barely sufficient to procure bread. From this point I will let him tell his own story:—
A Shipwrecked Mariner.
“I had only taken a penny all day, and I had had no breakfast, and I spent the penny in a loaf. I was three nights behind for my lodging, and I knew the door would be shut in my face if I did not take home sixpence. I thought I would go to the workhouse, and perhaps I might get a supper and a lodging for that night. I was in Tottenham Court-road by the chapel, and it was past ten o’clock. The people were thinning away, and there seemed no chance of anything. So says I to myself I’ll start down the New Road to the work’ouse. I knew there was a work’ouse down that way, for I worked at a ’ouse next it once, and I used to think the old paupers looked comfortable like. It came across me all at once, that I one time said to one of my mates, as we was sitting on the scaffold, smoking our pipes, and looking over the work’ouse wall, ‘Jem, them old chaps there seems to do it pretty tidy; they have their soup and bread, and a bed to lie on, and their bit o’ baccy, and they comes out o’ a arternoon and baskes in the sun, and has their chat, and don’t seem to do no work to hurt ’em.’ And Jem he says, ‘it’s a great hinstitooshin, Enery,’ says he, for you see Jem was a bit of a scollard, and could talk just like a book. ‘I don’t know about a hinstitooshin, Jem,’ says I, ‘but what I does know is that a man might do wuss nor goe in there and have his grub and his baccy regular, without nought to stress him, like them old chaps.’ Somehow or other that ’ere conversation came across me, and off I started to the work’ouse. When I came to the gate I saw a lot of poor women and children sitting on the pavement round it. They couldn’t have been hungrier than me, but they were awful ragged, and their case looked wuss. I didn’t like to go in among them, and I watched a while a little way off. One woman kep on ringing the bell for a long time, and nobody came, and then she got desperate, and kep a-pulling and ringing like she was mad, and at last a fat man came out and swore at her and drove them all away. I didn’t think there was much chance for me if they druv away women and kids, and such as them, but I thought I would try as I was a cripple, and had lost both my arms. So I stepped across the road, and was just agoing to try and pull the bell with my two poor stumps when some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round and saw it was a sailor-like man, without ne’er an arm like myself, only his were cut off short at the shoulder. ‘What are you agoing to do?’ says he. ‘I was agoing to try and ring the work’ouse bell,’ says I. ‘What for?’ says he. ‘To ask to be took in,’ says I. And then the sailor man looks at me in a steady kind of way, and says, ‘Want to get into the work’ouse, and you got ne’er an arm? You’re a infant,’ says he. ‘If you had only lost one on ’em now, I could forgive you, but—’ ‘But surely,’ says I, ‘it’s a greater misfortune to lose two nor one; half a loaf’s better nor no bread, they say.’ ‘You’re a infant,’ says he again. ‘One off aint no good; both on ’em’s the thing. Have you a mind to earn a honest living,’ says he, quite sharp. ‘I have,’ says I; ‘anything for a honest crust.’ ‘Then,’ says he, ‘come along o’ me.’ So I went with the sailor man to his lodging in Whitechapel, and a very tidy place it was, and we had beefsteaks and half a gallon o’ beer, and a pipe, and then he told me what he wanted me to do. I was to dress like him in a sailor’s jacket and trousers and a straw ’at, and stand o’ one side of a picture of a shipwreck, vile he stood on the ’tother. And I consented, and he learned me some sailors’ patter, and at the end of the week he got me the togs, and then I went out with him. We did only middlin the first day, but after a bit the coppers tumbled in like winkin’. It was so affectin’ to see two mariners without ne’er an arm between them, and we had crowds round us. At the end of the week we shared two pound and seven shillings, which was more nor a pound than my mate ever did by his self. He always said it was pilin’ the hagony to have two without ne’er an arm. My mate used to say to me, ‘Enery, if your stumps had only been a trifle shorter, we might ha’ made a fortun by this time; but you waggle them, you see, and that frightens the old ladies.’ I did well when Trafalgar Jack was alive. That was my mate, sir; but he died of the cholera, and I joined another pal who had a wooden leg; but he was rough to the kids, and got us both into trouble. How do I mean rough to the kids? Why, you see, the kids used to swarm round us to look at the pictur just like flies round a sugar-cask, and that crabbed the business. My mate got savage with them sometimes, and clouted their heads, and one day the mother o’ one o’ the brats came up a-screaming awful and give Timber Bill, as we called him, into custody, and he was committed for a rogue and vagabond. Timber Bill went into the nigger line arterwards and did well. You may have seen him, sir. He plays the tambourine, and dances, and the folks laugh at his wooden leg, and the coppers come in in style. Yes, I’m still in the old line, but it’s a bad business now.”