And if this were the end of the story, the good reader, with all his honest British inclination for giving the accused the benefit of a doubt, might be tempted to exclaim, “And, after all, who knows but that the appeal to this known philanthropist might have been genuine? To be sure, the shape it assumed was one that might well excite the suspicion of an individual alive to the surpassing cleverness and cunning of begging impostors; but at the same time there was sufficient of probability in the application to protect it from the stigma of impudent fraud.” Such readers will be glad to hear that all doubts on the matter were set at rest, and in the following singular, and for one party concerned somewhat unpleasant, manner. The portrait in question fell into the hands of a relative of Mr. L—, a gentleman with a hard heart for begging impostors, and sturdy resolution to put them down and punish them whenever he encountered them. He was particularly set against mendicants of the genteel class, and was very severe in his strictures on the abominable cheat attempted by “Adelaide F. T.” One afternoon, while walking along Oxford-street, lo, the original of the pictured culprit appeared before him, artlessly and innocently gazing into a linendraper’s window, and accompanied by another lady. The resemblance between the first lady and the photograph was so striking as to place her identity beyond a doubt; yet in order to make quite sure, our friend withdrew the latter from his pocketbook, and covertly compared it with the original. It was as certain as that he had eyes in his head. There was the hair of golden hue massed behind and raised from the temples; there was the straight nose, the small winning mouth, and the delicately-rounded chin. The stern exposer of imposture, however, was not to be moved to mercy by a pretty face; his course of duty was plain before him, and stepping up to the lady, he addressed with undisguised severity, “Miss Adelaide T., I believe?” “You are mistaken, sir.” “Not at all, madam; a friend of mine was lately favoured with a letter from you enclosing your likeness.” It was scarcely to be wondered at, that an expression of terror took possession of the lady’s face, though it was misinterpreted by the gentleman. Thinking that she was addressed by a drunken man or a maniac, the lady prudently retreated into the shop the window of which she had been regarding. More than ever convinced that he was not mistaken, L—’s friend followed her; and goodness knows what serious consequences might have ensued, had not the lady been a known customer of the draper as the daughter of a gentleman of wealth and station. This, of course, led to an explanation, and to the most earnest and humble apologies on the part of the pursuer of imposture. The photograph was produced, and undoubtedly it was a likeness of the lady. How it had got into the hands of the designing “Adelaide F. T.” no one could tell, but doubtless it was selected on account of its beauty and prepossessing artlessness. An endeavour was made to secure the cheats; but from some cause or another they took alarm, and the decoy letter, addressed “Post-office —,” remained there until it was returned through the Dead-letter Office.
By the bye, the idea of begging “not for myself, but for another,” is a dodge not confined to the epistolary impostor. In the neighbourhood in which I reside, some little time since there made her appearance a very fine specimen of disinterested generosity of the kind in question: a little old lady dressed in black, with kid-gloves on her hands, and a cloak soberly trimmed with black crape. She knocked the knock of a person used to the genteel fingering of a knocker, and might she be permitted to speak with the lady of the house? It happened that, at that moment, the gentleman of the house was going out, and he, hearing the application, suggested that possibly he might do as well. Undoubtedly, though it was a trivial matter with which to occupy the attention of a gentleman. The simple fact was, that the little old lady was bound on a mission of charity for a poor soul recently left destitute with nine small children: her aim being the purchase of a mangle and a few washing-tubs, that the widow might earn an honourable livelihood for her numerous brood. “I am too poor to supply her with all the money out of my own slender little purse,” said the old lady, “but I have plenty of leisure, and I think that you will agree with me, sir, it cannot be employed more worthily. I do not ask for any large sum on the poor creature’s behalf; I only ask one single penny. I will not take more than a penny. I put the pence in this little bag, you see, and by perseverance I trust that I shall soon accomplish my aim.” As the little old lady spoke, she cheerfully produced from the folds of her cloak a stout linen bag heavy with copper money, and containing, I should say, at least twelve shillings. The little old lady’s manner was plausible and smooth, and well calculated to impose on the “lady of the house” nine times out of ten. But unfortunately for her it had been my lot to make the acquaintance of many strange little old ladies as well as of gentlemen, and I had my suspicions. I closed the outer door and confronted her on the mat. “I beg your pardon, but have we not met before?” I asked her. She looked up suddenly and sharply, with no little alarm on her wizened old face. “I—I think not, sir,” she faltered. “Do you happen to know a gentleman named Horsford?” was my next inquiry. The little old lady looked still more embarrassed. “I did not come here to discuss my own affairs, sir,” said she with a sorry affectation of indignation, “nor to answer questions that bear no relation to my charitable object. I wish you a good-morning, sir!” And with that she opened the door, and let herself out; and descending the steps quickly, trotted up the street with guilty speed, and turned the corner, and was out of sight before I could make up my mind what to do with her.
Of advertising beggars there is a large variety. A great many of them breathe a pious spirit, or rather gasp;—for it is seldom that these distressed ones muster courage to cry out until they have endured their distress even to death’s-door. Not unfrequently the headings or “catch-lines” of these printed appeals are culled from the Bible. Here is one, for example:
“‘Help, or I perish!’—The advertiser (in his sixty-seventh birthday) was once blessed with a handsome fortune. Drink—he confesses it—has been the cause of his ruin. He still drinks; not now for pleasure and in luxury, but to benumb the gnawing of an aroused conscience. Unless this horrid propensity is checked, the advertiser feels that he must perish body and soul! Who will save him? He has two sons in Canada, who are striving men and total abstainers, and who would receive him with open arms, could he but raise money enough to purchase some poor outfit, and to pay for the voyage.—Address, X., Prescott-street, Whitechapel.”
One cannot help reflecting, that, before contributing towards a fund to assist the emigration of the aged toper—who appears only to have awoke to a sense of his abasement now that he is stinted of his gin—he would like to have the opinion of those striving men, his sons, the total abstainers in Canada. Possibly they would prefer to honour him at a distance. According to the ingenious old gentleman’s own showing, he only regards his sons as possible props to keep him out of a drunkard’s grave; and if, fettered under the weight imposed on them, they sank with their father into the same dishonourable sepulchre, it would turn out to be money decidedly ill invested. All this, supposing the appeal to be genuine, which in all probability it is not. Were it investigated, the only truthful hit in the appeal would very likely he found to consist in the three words, “he still drinks.”
Here is another of more recent date, in the emigration line:
“A lady has an opportunity of going to America, where she could obtain a good situation as governess, but has not the means of procuring an outfit. She would be very thankful to anyone who would lend her 10l., which she would promise to return with interest at the end of the year.”
This is cool, but almost feverish compared with the annexed:
“‘Money without Security!’—Doubtless these mocking words have struck many readers besides the advertiser. In his desperate situation he has often put to himself the question, Is there to be found in this cruel world a good Samaritan who would confer on a fellow-creature a boon so precious? Is there one who, blessed with means, can find delight in raising from the slough of despond a poor wretch stranded on the bank of the black river of despair? Is there one who will account it cheap by lending ten pounds, for three months, at twenty-five per cent interest, to elevate to manly altitude a human creature who, for want of such a sum, is groaning in the dust? If so, let him send a Beam of Sunshine to G. S. R., No. 17 Model Lodging Houses, —.”
One cannot but ask the question, is G. S. R. a madman, or simply an idiot, who can regard it as a “joke” to waste five shillings for the privilege of seeing so many lines of empty rubbish in print? Or, again, are there really any grounds of five shillingsworth for supposing that amongst the fifty thousand readers of a daily newspaper one may be met with silly or eccentric or whimsical enough to entertain G. S. R.’s proposition? It is hard to believe in such a possibility. Still, there are strange people in the world; every day furnishes evidence of this fact. Not more than a month ago it came to light that an old lady residing at Clapham has for years past been in the habit of paying an organ-grinder thirty shillings a-week—a half-sovereign on the evening of every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday—to come and play for half-an-hour under her window. Supposing a rupture between the lady and her musician, and she had put an advertisement in the Times—“A lady, a resident in a quiet suburb, is desirous of engaging with an organ-grinder. Terms of service, three half-hours per week, 75l. a-year”—who would have regarded it but as a silly joke?