Part 14

Even in those early days I had made up my mind to write a book, so that it can be imagined what a sacred place the White House became to me. Day after day I thought of the lovely tall lady; and it was not her height, grace, or beauty, nor her wealth and social position that were uppermost in my thoughts--but that she had written a book! Time and again I asked my grandmother the name of it, but she could not tell. Of course I was too young to think of enquiring the author's name, and going to libraries, and trying to trace it that way. Very few grown people would have had sense enough for that.

Thinking of these things has led me to the contrast of literature as it seems to the young, and what it really is to a man of experience. You could never persuade a young man--and very few old men--that he could be one of the best writers of the day and yet starve, had he not the assistance of private means. "True," people say, "men of genius have starved, but the fault was that they were not recognized in their day." But the real truth is that a man may be so much recognized that the world's praise of his work would make a very large book indeed, and yet he may not have a second shirt to his back. It would be impossible to make people believe that a man could be so famous as to be invited to the houses of the great and yet be so shabby in appearance that beggars meet him on the road and, taking him for one of themselves, say, "Hallo! mate; what's yer luck?" And that when he did meet people of consequence, he had to sneak into back slums at night and sleep in a common lodging-house. People could not be made to believe any of these things while a man lives, but after he is dead they will believe anything.

XXXVII

The Sport of Fame

People have professed themselves amazed at my past life, and perhaps I can amaze them a little more by relating what great sport I and Fame have had; how she coaxed me into making several attempts to enrich the English language--some people think the attempts successful--and how she served me afterwards. Other people can be amazed at my past life, but my turn to be amazed comes now. The world has had its revenge for the few years I made it keep me as an idler.

In fact I have found Fame to be the most amusing companion I have ever had. She has placed me in such a position that I am now regarded as a liar, a miser, and a woman-hater. I am considered to be a liar by those who have read so much about my work, and who at last begin to doubt when I say that Fame in England does not pay so good as begging in America, and that a very small income of my own supports me. They cannot believe this to be possible after reading such noble accounts of my work--therefore I am a liar.

Again, I am regarded in the neighbourhood as a miser and a woman-hater because I do my own cooking, washing, and housework, when there are plenty of women around that would be glad of such work. Of course, these things are not done thoroughly and well, or I would have very little time to make attempts to enrich the English language. The truth of the matter is that they are so ill done, that I have had to write and stop several people from coming to interview me, because of spiders that often rope me to the ceiling, Jacky Longlegs that dance on my head, and--fleas. I am quite used to these things now, and take little notice of them, regarding them indeed as peculiar to the house of Fame.

Again, see what fun there must be when a man, grown famous, receives scores of letters, most of which address him as "Esquire"--"Esquire," mark you, and living in a three-shilling-a-week cottage! How his Majesty's proud servant in uniform must be amused at this, knowing that a man who lives in a cottage no larger than his cannot be of much consequence. He knows full well that innocent people far away mistake such a man for a fine gentleman, and he is apt to laugh at times, and in his serious moods to pity him. He has seen inside the cottage of this man, called "Esquire," and he saw nothing but bare walls and a few common things on the floor. If the poor man of genius said that he had enough praise to paper his walls, he would be laughed at for taking more pride in that than in a nice, comfortable home; and the idiot deserves to be laughed at, and to hang his head for shame.

Nothing worse could befall a living writer than to be compared to the mighty dead. It is most certainly a great compliment, and a great help to a man's spirit, but the consequence is apt to be fatal to his flesh. The mistake is that people are likely to think of him as one dead, and, of course, dead men need no food, clothing, or rent. Being regarded as one dead, he is naturally not thought of when there is anything given away; and the vast multitudes of powerful English people who are so eager to reward struggling genius--foreign or native--must, in consequence, overlook a man so highly rated.

All this is quite natural, but it is very amusing. It is very amusing to receive by post a request for one's autograph when one is in the act of washing a dirty pair of stockings, and lucky to have them to wash.

In spite of leading a lonely life, I do not often talk or laugh aloud, but I did on this occasion. It was that merry kind of laugh a man makes when he has just had a letter to say that he is ruined and a beggar, and while he is in the act of reading it his wife comes into the room and says, "George, I want ten pounds for a new dress." He has read the letter, and he has heard his wife's words, and he shrieks with merry laughter--as I did.

I know well that a man of genius has shivered on a winter's night, in a bed with insufficient clothing, in spite of using all his wearing apparel, after having received that day a noble tribute from the press, in which a well-known critic said he was unrivalled by his contemporaries. That he lay all night shivering with the cold, and expected to be poor Cock Robin before morning.

True, a man's first book of poetry may run into a second edition, but people should not write and congratulate him on his success before they know what that means. He may have received a cheque that never mentioned pounds, only shillings and pennies, and perhaps far more pennies than shillings. Of course, these are the impish tricks of Fame, and people can hardly be blamed.

But the innocence of this world has often annoyed and surprised me. A man, who knew my circumstances thoroughly, was so little astonished to know how I could buy provisions, coal, oil, wood, clothes, boots, etc. etc. etc., and to also answer a kind world's forced correspondence--he, I say, was so little amazed to know how all these things could be done on a paltry few shillings a week, that he suggested it would save me much time and trouble to hire a woman once a week to clean the place; and that it would only cost two or three shillings; I did not answer him, for I was very much afraid of having one of those merry laughing fits that have come on me so often since I have been the companion of Fame.

I shall never forget the day when I was compared to the great Daniel Defoe. At that time I could not spare money for a pair of stockings, so I tore an old shirt in strips and wound them round my feet, as tramps often do. Several times I noticed that people glanced down at the feet of the second Daniel Defoe, but I could not think how they could possibly know of my self-made stockings. In fact Fame was having such sport with me on this occasion that I had forgotten all about them. The name of Daniel Defoe had had a wonderful effect on me; it had put fire under my feet, and a steel rod in my back.

While I was marching along in this stiff frame of pride, a little girl came running forward, and said, "Please, sir, you've dropped something." Looking on the ground I saw, to my amazement, that one of the toe-rags, which had unwound itself, was lying in sight, but still attached to my boot. But what amused me more was to think that it had been trailing on the ground for a considerable time, and that I had passed several ladies; and one of them I was beginning to be interested in, for she had often looked at me as if she knew I was famous. This is only one of the many funny little things that have happened since I have been compared in England to the mighty dead, and you can imagine my laughter.

The following day a great literary paper praised my work, and said that it deserved its success, and that no man would envy such a writer a four-storey mansion in the West End. Alas! a few days after this I received a letter to congratulate me on my success, which made special mention of my four-storey mansion; whereas at the same time I was living in a small cottage with no more furniture than a little boy could lift, and a friend was paying my rent.

Of course, we know very well that nothing can be done for genius. Unfortunately, Nature does not mark him at birth, or we could soon put an end to him; and not only save the State worry, but, better still, save him from the cruel sport of Fame. If we give him twenty pounds, what will he do with it? Will he open a fish shop or buy a milk round? Not he; he has not the sense to do anything of the kind. The idiot will buy books, and idle his time away at writing, and his twenty pounds is soon gone, and the money is wasted. "But if he enriches the English language?" one suggests. Ha! ha! tell that nonsense to an Organized Charity, and hear their opinion. No, he had his chance to open a fish shop and make a living, but he sat down and idled his time away at writing.

For all that we cannot allow this poor wretch to suffer; but what, in the name of goodness, can we do? I suggest this: no sooner is a man acclaimed as a genius, and compared to the mightiest dead, than the State should at once supply him with a distinguishing uniform; so that he would not only be sure of clothes, but would also be able to command the respect of strangers, however humble his circumstances are. Not only that, but the vast multitudes of powerful English people who are so eager to reward genius would then have an opportunity to recognize him in the street, and assist him with cheques, bank-notes, etc.; which the man of genius--poet, painter, musician, no matter what--could take with dignity, as his due, and not be expected to demean himself by a great show of thanks. All he would then have to do would be to walk abroad, and give his address to such rich people as accosted him, so that they could send to his house food ready cooked, clean bed-clothes, money for rent, and other things.

XXXVIII

Beggars in the Making

I often feel upset to think that these articles on begging may rob honest men of charity; that people will become under the impression that beggars are born instead of made; aye, even born full-fledged, without having had childhood or youth. I would not like people to think that every man that knocks at their door is a professional tramp; or every voice they hear singing in the street is that of an impostor. It must be confessed that the latter is very probably one, seeing that a man either has to be on the road a long time before he takes courage to sing in public, or must be under the influence of drink. I have seen in provincial towns as many as four men singing together. In a case of this kind, they are almost sure to be real out-of-works, and the reason they sing instead of beg houses is that they cannot all four go to one house, and individually they lack courage; but they can sing all together, each one getting courage from the presence of his companions.

People never give it a thought how difficult it is for a stranger to get work, even where there is work in abundance. In new countries things are different; a man is hired at once, without a question of name and address. But in our old countries masters will not hire strange tramps, until they are at the last extremity. I have seen, this last summer, almost within a stone's throw of me, a farmer let his hay be spoilt by the rain, through having insufficient labour, and refusing to employ one or two of the many poor fellows that came looking for work. He, and the few men he had, worked day and night, rather than he would hire a stranger. No doubt he expected Providence to withhold the rain for his sake, and she, kind soul, gave him more than two weeks happy sunshine, quite sufficient if he had not been too greedy to do as much work as possible himself, and pay away little to others. So the rain came, and he suffered in consequence. If people knew the number of men of this kind there are in the land, they would not be so hasty in telling tramps that the farmers are busy with their harvest, and are in sad need of men.

Although I have met several men and women that could claim to being born beggars, having been born of beggars on the road, yet for all that, people must not think that this is quite common. One time I met one of these in Bedfordshire, and he recommended me to a good row of houses, which he advised me to call at that evening. What this man did not know about begging was not much. After doing business in several streets, and finding trade very quiet indeed, I made up my mind to call at that row of small cottages on my way back to the lodging-house. It was then almost dark, being winter, and I could not well make out my surroundings. However, I went the whole length of the row, and was only refused at one cottage. Two of them gave pennies, one gave a halfpenny, one gave three farthings, and two gave food. This was certainly not bad, in so short a time, and from such humble dwellings, and considering the ill-luck I had had at rows and rows of fine villas. That night, when I was in the lodging-house kitchen, my born beggar asked me if I had called at the cottages, and, if so, how they had treated me. "Splendid," I answered, with a smile of gratitude, for it is not often that a beggar will give information of this kind to a stranger. "The almshouses are always good," he said, in a whisper. "Almshouses!" I ejaculated, with astonishment, and a good deal of annoyance. "Yes; you will always find them good," he continued, with the utmost unconcern, and beginning to whistle a popular tune. This man was a born beggar, without the least shame.

But men of this kind are rare, and people must not forget that the man who stands before them has gone through the various stages--from a respectable working man with a home, to a man without employment, who is looking for work; one that must either beg or starve, who has wandered from his native town, where his friends are, to places where cruel Rumour has said abundant work is to be had. For three or four months he is an honest seeker of work, but after that despair makes him indifferent. He gets disappointed so many times, running here and there, at the recommendation of people that would do him a kindness, and others that tell him lies to get rid of him--he gets disappointed so often that in a short while he will not go out of his way at all, although he says that he will do so. He soon begins to see that there is not very great difficulty in getting enough to eat and a few coppers for his lodging, and, of course, the consequence is that he soon becomes contented with a beggar's lot. It will not be long after this change of feeling that he will be heard to say in a lodging-house kitchen, while he is drinking hot tea and eating fresh toast--"Who's looking for work, eh? Not me!" But people must remember that this man may come to beg them when he is in the first stage, and desirous of work, and is therefore a well-deserving man.

The fact of the matter is that no outsider can tell a beggar from an honest seeker of work. A woman gives a man charity because he talks nice and approaches her in a respectable manner; and she believes him at once when he says that he has only been out of work six weeks. The dear lady cannot see that he has not a thing on his body that was bought by himself. His boots are two sizes too large, and have turned up at the toes; his coat is too short, and his waistcoat is too long; his trousers were made for a fat man; not to mention a shirt that either cannot be buttoned at the collar, or could be buttoned around two necks like his. Even if the lady or gentleman noted these things, they could not read any tales in them, and it would never occur to them to try to do so. Now, seeing that this man is so ill-fitted, it plainly shows that all his things are begged; and seeing that clothes last a man a considerable time, and that this beggar has nothing of his own, is sufficient proof that he must have been on the road six months at the least.

Of course, there have been cases of men starting on the road with good clothes and boots, which they had to sell almost at once for food and lodging at a second-hand shop. The dealer that buys must give these men substitutes to cover their nakedness, and these old things would be hardly likely to fit well. This would account for the strange appearance of a few men, but very few; for when men start on the road they are so full of confidence in getting work soon that they do not dress in clothes good enough to sell, but leave them at home, or in their lodgings, to be sent for when they are settled.

One way to tell a beggar who has been on the road a long time is to employ the slang of the road, which few people can do. When a beggar came to my door the other day, he first asked for a drink of water. I gave him this, and had a penny ready in my hand to give him when he returned the glass. I may as well say here that I never refuse these men a penny, poor as I am, and whatever he is to my judgment. If I think he is a working man, he gets the penny out of pity and sympathy; and, if I judge him to be a real beggar, I give it to him out of admiration. However, this man drank the water and then--not to my surprise--asked for a mouthful of something to eat. With a smile I gave him the penny and prepared to shut the door. But this man was a true beggar, for getting a penny so easy, without having to talk for it, emboldened him; so he began in a ready voice to lament his old clothes, and to ask me if I could assist him with others. "Look here," I said, with deliberation, and looking him straight in the face--"Look here, matey; if I could patter as good as you I'd go on the toe-be to-morrow." For a moment he seemed taken by surprise, and then he drew his hand down over his face, in an attempt to wipe out a smile; but it was of no use, for the next moment he stood grinning from ear to ear. "I see you know the biz, gov'nor," he said, going away; "but you know very well that sixteen farthings for the feather takes some getting."

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Transcriber's note:

Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.