Compiled by London swaminathan
Date: 27 September 2016
Time uploaded in London:18-56
Pictures are taken from various sources; thanks.
A certain clergyman in charge of a poor church habitually suffered financial difficulties and was constantly appealing to his bishop for help. The bishop, losing patience, finally chided the man for making so many appeals. Not long after, the bishop received a wire from the clergyman, which said, “ This is not an appeal. It is a report. I have no pants!”
One of the saddest announcements ever seen, was that posted before the Negro church, saying, “Next Saturday night the annual Baptist Strawberry Festival will be held. On account of the depression, runes will be served.”
On August 24, 1770, Chatterton’s landlady, a Mrs.Angel, sack-maker, No.4, Brook Street, Holborn (London) , aware of his desperate condition, offered him a good dinner, which he proudly refused. The following morning, he failed to respond to knock on the door of the garret where he lived. The door was broken down, the room was found strewn with bits of paper, fragments of Chatterton’s manuscripts and letters which he had carefully destroyed, and himself dead, having taken arsenic, aged 17 years, nine months and a few days.
Thackeray tells of an Irishman begging alms from him, who, when he saw him put his hand in his pocket, cried out:
“May the blessing of God follow all your life!”.
But when he only pulled out his snuff box, immediately added “and never overtake ye.”
A beggar, who was daily stationed near the office of a wealthy businessman, had received from him a dime a day over a long period of time. Business took the businessman out of town for a month. When he returned he passed the beggar, who said to him with a slight tone of reproach, “You owe me 3.00 dollars.”
Boswell observing to Johnson that there was no instance of a beggar dying for want in the streets of Scotland.
“I believe, sir, you are very right”, says Johnson; “but this does not arise from the want of beggars, but the impossibility of starving a Scotsman.”
Leigh Richmond when travelling in Ireland, passed a man who was a painful spectacle of squalor and raggedness. His heart smote him, and he turned back and said to him:
“If you are in want, my friend, why don’t you beg?”
“And sure, isn’t it begging I am, your honor?”
“You didn’t say a word”
“Ov coorse not, your honor; but see how the skin is speaking through the holes of my trousers, and the bones crying out through my skin! Look at me sunken cheeks, and the famine that is starin’ in me eyes! Isn’t it begging that I am with a hundred tongues?”