The Begging- Letter Writer
THE amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful
purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the
Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions
of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable
harm he does to the deserving, - dirtying the stream of true
benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with
inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the
true currency we have always among us, - he is more worthy of
Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who are
sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent
there long ago.
I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen
receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been
made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any
one of the great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence.
I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has
besieged my door at all hours of the day and night; he has fought
my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in;
he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at
provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours;
he has written to me from immense distances, when I have been out
of England. He has fallen sick; he has died and been buried; he
has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory
scene: he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his
idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has
wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in; a pound to set him up in
life for ever; a pair of boots to take him to the coast of China; a
hat to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has
frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence.
He has had such openings at Liverpool - posts of great trust and
confidence in merchants' houses, which nothing but seven-and-
sixpence was wanting to him to secure - that I wonder he is not
Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment.
The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a
most astounding nature. He has had two children who have never
grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who
have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food;
who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose,
has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a
disinfectant); who have never changed in the least degree through
fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering
woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an
interesting situation through the same long period, and has never
been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has
never cared for himself; HE could have perished - he would rather,
in short - but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband,
and a father, - to write begging letters when he looked at her?
(He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an
answer to this question.)
He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his
brother has done to him would have broken anybody else's heart.
His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the
money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum and
left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to
the tune of hundreds a-year, if he would have consented to write
letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible
with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit
his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a
spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don't
know, but he has never taken it out. The broker's man has grown
grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.
He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in
the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with
the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description
and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he
has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote
Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor English
word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better
than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his
afflictions he always reads the newspapers; and rounds off his
appeal with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in my way, to
the popular subject of the hour.
His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has
never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That
is the first time; that shall be the last. Don't answer it, and
let it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly.
Sometimes (and more frequently) he HAS written a few such letters.
Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of
inestimable value to him, and a request that they may be carefully
returned. He is fond of enclosing something - verses, letters,
pawnbrokers' duplicates, anything to necessitate an answer. He is
very severe upon 'the pampered minion of fortune,' who refused him
the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two - but he
knows me better.
He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits;
sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits he writes
down-hill and repeats words - these little indications being
expressive of the perturbation of his mind. When he is more
vivacious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle.
I know what human nature is, - who better? Well! He had a little
money once, and he ran through it - as many men have done before
him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now - many men
have done that before him too! Shall he tell me why he writes to
me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on that
ground plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human
nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks,
before twelve at noon.
Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that
there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got
rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company's service,
and is off directly - but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the
serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that
he should take out a single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve
to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does
not ask for money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine,
to-morrow morning may he hope to find a cheese? And is there
anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal?
Once he wrote me rather a special letter, proposing relief in kind.
He had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up
in brown paper, at people's houses, on pretence of being a Railway-
Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This
sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long
after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter
(having first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to
understand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he
had been travelling about the country with a cart of crockery.
That he had been doing pretty well until the day before, when his
horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had
reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts
himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London - a somewhat
exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask
again for money; but that if I would have the goodness TO LEAVE HIM
OUT A DONKEY, he would call for the animal before breakfast!
At another time my friend (I am describing actual experiences)
introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of
distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre - which
was really open; its representation was delayed by the
indisposition of a leading actor - who was really ill; and he and
his were in a state of absolute starvation. If he made his
necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to
say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over that
difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards
he was in some other strait. I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was
in extremity - and we adjusted that point too. A little while
afterwards he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin
for want of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-
butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But a little while
afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote
me a few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner
of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o'clock!
I despatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and
his poor children; but the messenger went so soon, that the play
was not ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his
wife was in a most delightful state of health. He was taken up by
the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I
presented myself at a London Police-Office with my testimony
against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck by his
educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence of his
letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there,
complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and was quite
charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A
collection was made for the 'poor fellow,' as he was called in the
reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being
universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day comes to me a
friend of mine, the governor of a large prison. 'Why did you ever
go to the Police-Office against that man,' says he, 'without coming
to me first? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in
the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he first
wrote to you; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence
a pound, and early asparagus at I don't know how much a bundle!'
On that very same day, and in that very same hour, my injured
gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to know what
compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed the night
in a 'loathsome dungeon.' And next morning an Irish gentleman, a
member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very
well persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office
again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a
sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally
'sat down' before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well
provisioned, I remained within the walls; and he raised the siege
at midnight with a prodigious alarum on the bell.
The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of
acquaintance. Whole pages of the 'Court Guide' are ready to be
references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there
never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known him
time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn't do for him.
Somehow, they don't give him that one pound ten he stands in need
of; but perhaps it is not enough - they want to do more, and his
modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that
it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those who
are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner
or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger - man,
woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an
independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed
to his calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He
throws off the infection of begging-letter writing, like the
contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called 'the
dangerous luxury of dishonesty' is more tempting, and more
catching, it would seem, in this instance than in any other.
He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter
Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money
to-day in recognition of a begging-letter, - no matter how unlike a
common begging-letter, - and for the next fortnight you will have a
rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the
begging-letters become Angels' visits, until the Society is from
some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try
you as anybody else. It is of little use inquiring into the
Begging-Letter Writer's circumstances. He may be sometimes
accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned (though
that was not the first inquiry made); but apparent misery is always
a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the
intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an
incident of his dissipated and dishonest life.
That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money
are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police
Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence,
relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. The
cause of this is to be found (as no one knows better than the
Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the
aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as having been imposed
upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy,
flimsy substitute for the noblest of all virtues. There is a man
at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press
(on the 29th of April, 1850), and never once taken up yet, who,
within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious and
the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever known.
There has been something singularly base in this fellow's
proceedings; it has been his business to write to all sorts and
conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation
and unblemished honour, professing to be in distress - the general
admiration and respect for whom has ensured a ready and generous
reply.
Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real
person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject
than any abstract treatise - and with a personal knowledge of the
extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for
some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing - the
writer of this paper entreats the attention of his readers to a few
concluding words. His experience is a type of the experience of
many; some on a smaller, some on an infinitely larger scale. All
may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his conclusions from
it.
Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case
whatever, and able to recall but one, within his whole individual
knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that
any good was done by it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious
considerations. The begging-letters flying about by every post,
made it perfectly manifest that a set of lazy vagabonds were
interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve
the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering, and
the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some
little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of
preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening
those wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent
knaves cumbering society. That imagination, - soberly following
one of these knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and
comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera-
stricken alley, or one of the children of one of these poor,
soothed in its dying hour by the late lamented Mr. Drouet, -
contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much
longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle of all the
miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the
blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead
to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to
them. That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut
off by the thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the
rottenness of their youth - for of flower or blossom such youth has
none - the Gospel was NOT preached to them, saving in hollow and
unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty
wrong the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-
Office Order to any amount, given to a Begging-Letter Writer for
the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last
Great Day as anything towards it.
The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike
their habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support
them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every
circumstance within their knowledge that affects us, public or
private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our
lives; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue into
weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, and
it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of
feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade.
There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in
more ways than one - sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon,
or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from
preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is the first
great end we have to set against this miserable imposition.
Physical life respected, moral life comes next. What will not
content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score
of children for a year. Let us give all we can; let us give more
than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do more than ever. But
let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of
the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our
duty.
-THE END-
Charles Dickens' short story: The Begging- Letter Writer
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