Reprinted Pieces

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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.

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR

THERE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and
thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child
too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day
long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at
the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of
the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of
GOD who made the lovely world.

They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all the
children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water,
and the sky be sorry? They believed they would be sorry. For,
said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little
playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides are the children of
the water; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek
in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars; and
they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of
men, no more.

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was
larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and
every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window.
Whoever saw it first cried out, 'I see the star!' And often they
cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and
where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying
down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it
good night; and when they were turning round to sleep, they used to
say, 'God bless the star!'

But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the
sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer
stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out
by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the
patient pale face on the bed, 'I see the star!' and then a smile
would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, 'God
bless my brother and the star!'

And so the time came all too soon! when the child looked out alone,
and when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little
grave among the graves, not there before; and when the star made
long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a
shining way from earth to Heaven, that when the child went to his
solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying
where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road
by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world of
light, where many more such angels waited to receive them.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon
the people who were carried up into the star; and some came out
from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's
necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down
avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in
his bed he wept for joy.

But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and among
them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed
was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among
all the host.

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said
to the leader among those who had brought the people thither:

'Is my brother come?'

And he said 'No.'

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his
arms, and cried, 'O, sister, I am here! Take me!' and then she
turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star
was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he
saw it through his tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the
home he was to go to, when his time should come; and he thought
that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too,
because of his sister's angel gone before.

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he
was so little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his
tiny form out on his bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of
angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their
beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:

'Is my brother come?'

And he said, 'Not that one, but another.'

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, 'O,
sister, I am here! Take me!' And she turned and smiled upon him,
and the star was shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an old
servant came to him and said:

'Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son!'

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said
his sister's angel to the leader.

'Is my brother come?'

And he said, 'Thy mother!'

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the
mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his
arms and cried, 'O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take
me!' And they answered him, 'Not yet,' and the star was shining.

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning grey, and he was
sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with
his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again.

Said his sister's angel to the leader: 'Is my brother come?'

And he said, 'Nay, but his maiden daughter.'

And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly lost to
him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, 'My
daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my
mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I
can bear the parting from her, GOD be praised!'

And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was
bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing
round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago:

'I see the star!'

They whispered one another, 'He is dying.'

And he said, 'I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and
I move towards the star as a child. And O, my Father, now I thank
thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who
await me!'

And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE

IN the Autumn-time of the year, when the great metropolis is so
much hotter, so much noisier, so much more dusty or so much more
water-carted, so much more crowded, so much more disturbing and
distracting in all respects, than it usually is, a quiet sea-beach
becomes indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, this
idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalk-cliff in
the old-fashioned watering-place to which we are a faithful
resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to sketch its picture.

The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as
still before us as if they were sitting for the picture. It is
dead low-water. A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the
cliff, as if it were faintly trying from recollection to imitate
the sea; and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of
radish-seed are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in
their larger manner when the wind blows. But the ocean lies
winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion - its glassy waters
scarcely curve upon the shore - the fishing-boats in the tiny
harbour are all stranded in the mud - our two colliers (our
watering-place has a maritime trade employing that amount of
shipping) have not an inch of water within a quarter of a mile of
them, and turn, exhausted, on their sides, like faint fish of an
antediluvian species. Rusty cables and chains, ropes and rings,
undermost parts of posts and piles and confused timber-defences
against the waves, lie strewn about, in a brown litter of tangled
sea-weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of giants had
been making tea here for ages, and had observed an untidy custom of
throwing their tea-leaves on the shore.

In truth, our watering-place itself has been left somewhat high and
dry by the tide of years. Concerned as we are for its honour, we
must reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little
semicircular sweep of houses, tapering off at the end of the wooden
pier into a point in the sea, was a gay place, and when the
lighthouse overlooking it shone at daybreak on company dispersing
from public balls, is but dimly traditional now. There is a bleak
chamber in our watering-place which is yet called the Assembly
'Rooms,' and understood to be available on hire for balls or
concerts; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little gentleman
came down and stayed at the hotel, who said that he had danced
there, in bygone ages, with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known
to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of
innumerable duels. But he was so old and shrivelled, and so very
rheumatic in the legs, that it demanded more imagination than our
watering-place can usually muster, to believe him; therefore,
except the Master of the 'Rooms' (who to this hour wears knee-
breeches, and who confirmed the statement with tears in his eyes),
nobody did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even in the
Honourable Miss Peepy, long deceased.

As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our watering-
place now, red-hot cannon balls are less improbable. Sometimes, a
misguided wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, or
a juggler, or somebody with an Orrery that is several stars behind
the time, takes the place for a night, and issues bills with the
name of his last town lined out, and the name of ours ignominiously
written in, but you may be sure this never happens twice to the
same unfortunate person. On such occasions the discoloured old
Billiard Table that is seldom played at (unless the ghost of the
Honourable Miss Peepy plays at pool with other ghosts) is pushed
into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted into front
seats, back seats, and reserved seats - which are much the same
after you have paid - and a few dull candles are lighted - wind
permitting - and the performer and the scanty audience play out a
short match which shall make the other most low-spirited - which is
usually a drawn game. After that, the performer instantly departs
with maledictory expressions, and is never heard of more.

But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that an
annual sale of 'Fancy and other China,' is announced here with
mysterious constancy and perseverance. Where the china comes from,
where it goes to, why it is annually put up to auction when nobody
ever thinks of bidding for it, how it comes to pass that it is
always the same china, whether it would not have been cheaper, with
the sea at hand, to have thrown it away, say in eighteen hundred
and thirty, are standing enigmas. Every year the bills come out,
every year the Master of the Rooms gets into a little pulpit on a
table, and offers it for sale, every year nobody buys it, every
year it is put away somewhere till next year, when it appears again
as if the whole thing were a new idea. We have a faint remembrance
of an unearthly collection of clocks, purporting to be the work of
Parisian and Genevese artists - chiefly bilious-faced clocks,
supported on sickly white crutches, with their pendulums dangling
like lame legs - to which a similar course of events occurred for
several years, until they seemed to lapse away, of mere imbecility.

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