MENDICANT WANDERERS THROUGH THE
STREETS OF LONDON.
Sailors, according to the old adage, find a port in every storm. The appeal of "My worthy heart, stow a copper in Jack's locker,—for poor Jack has not had a quid to-day," is as piercingly felt by the lowly cottager as the British Admiral.
Who can recollect Bigg's pathetic picture of the "Shipwrecked Sailor-boy," or Mrs Ludlam's charming poem of "The Lost Child," without shedding the tear of sympathy?
The public are not, however, to conclude, that because a fellow sports a jacket and trousers, he must have been a seaman; for there are many fresh-water sailors, who never saw a ship but from London Bridge. Such an impostor was Jack Stuart, Flaxman's model, whose effigy is attached to the capital letter of this page. Jack's latter history is truly curious. After lingering for nearly three months, he died on the 15th of August 1815, aged 35. His funeral was attended by his wife and faithful dog, Tippo, as chief mourners, accompanied by three blind beggars in black cloaks; namely, John Fountain, George Dyball, and John Jewis. Two blind fiddlers, William Worthington and Joseph Symmonds, preceded the coffin, playing the 104th Psalm. The whimsical procession moved on, amidst crowds of spectators, from Jack's house, in Charlton Gardens, Somers Town, to the churchyard of St Pancras, Middlesex. The mourners afterwards returned to the place from whence the funeral had proceeded, where they remained the whole of the night, dancing, drinking, swearing, and fighting, and occasionally chaunting Tabernacle hymns; for it must be understood, that most of the beggars are staunch Methodists. The person from whom these particulars were obtained, and who was one of the party, thought himself extremely happy that he came off with a pair of black eyes only. The conduct of this man's associates in vice was however powerfully contrasted by the extraordinary attachment and fidelity of Jack's cur, Tippo, his long and stedfast guide, who, after remaining three days upon his master's grave, refusing every sort of food, died with intermitting sighs and howling sorrow. The dog of Woollett, the engraver, died nearly a similar death.
The following plate exhibits Stuart's pupil, George Dyball, a fellow of considerable notoriety. He sometimes dresses as a sailor, in nankeen waistcoat and trousers; but George, like his master, never was a seaman. Stuart taught him to maund, by allowing him to kneel at a respectful distance, and repeat his supplications.
Dyball was remarkable for his leader, Nelson, whose tricks displayed in an extraordinary degree the sagacity and docility of the canine race. This dog would, at a word from his master, lead him to any part of the town he wished to traverse, and at so quick a pace, that both animals have been observed to get on much faster than any other streetwalkers. His business was to make a response to his master's "Pray pity the Blind" by an impressive whine, accompanied with uplifted eyes and an importunate turn of the head; and when his eyes have not caught those of the spectators, he has been seen to rub the tin box against their knees, to enforce his solicitations. When money was thrown into the box, he immediately put it down, took out the contents with his mouth, and, joyfully wagging his tail, carried them to his master. After this, for a moment or two, he would venture to smell about the spot; but as soon as his master uttered "Come, Sir," off he would go, to the extent of his string, with his tail between his legs, apprehensive of the effects of his master's corrective switch. This animal was presented to Dyball by Joseph Symmonds, the blind fiddler, who received him of James Garland, another blind beggar, who had taught him his tricks. Unfortunately for Dyball, this treasure has lately been stolen from him, as is supposed by some itinerant player, and he is now obliged to depend on a dog of inferior qualifications, though George has declared him to "Shew very pretty for tricks."
This custom of teaching dogs to beg with cans in their mouths is not new. A few years since, there was such an animal in a booth at Bartholomew Fair, who made his supplications in favour of an Italian rope-dancer. The practice is indeed very ancient, as appears in a truly curious illuminated copy of the Speculum Humanæ Salvationis, written in the early part of the fifteenth century, in the possession of a friend of the author.
