Charitable Reminiscences

"Charitable Reminiscences" is a collection of short stories by Bret Harte, a prominent American author of the 19th century known for his depictions of the American West. In this work, Harte explores themes of humanity, kindness, and the complexities of human relationships against the backdrop of frontier life. The stories are infused with his characteristic wit and humor, showcasing a range of characters from various walks of life. Through poignant narratives and vivid settings, Harte captures the spirit of the times while offering keen insights into the moral dilemmas faced by individuals in a rapidly changing society.

• Essay

								
As the new Benevolent Association has had the effect of withdrawing
beggars from the streets, and as Professional Mendicancy bids fair to
be presently ranked with the Lost Arts, to preserve some records of this
noble branch of industry, I have endeavored to recall certain traits and
peculiarities of individual members of the order whom I have known,
and whose forms I now miss from their accustomed haunts. In so doing,
I confess to feeling a certain regret at this decay of Professional
Begging, for I hold the theory that mankind are bettered by the
occasional spectacle of misery, whether simulated or not, on the same
principle that our sympathies are enlarged by the fictitious woes of
the Drama, though we know that the actors are insincere. Perhaps I
am indiscreet in saying that I have rewarded the artfully dressed and
well-acted performance of the begging impostor through the same impulse
that impelled me to expend a dollar in witnessing the counterfeited
sorrows of poor "Triplet," as represented by Charles Wheatleigh. I did
not quarrel with deceit in either case. My coin was given in recognition
of the sentiment; the moral responsibility rested with the performer.

The principal figure that I now mourn over as lost forever is one
that may have been familiar to many of my readers. It was that of a
dark-complexioned, black-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who supported
in her arms a sickly baby. As a pathological phenomenon the baby was
especially interesting, having presented the Hippocratic face and other
symptoms of immediate dissolution, without change, for the past three
years. The woman never verbally solicited alms. Her appearance was
always mute, mysterious, and sudden. She made no other appeal than
that which the dramatic tableau of herself and baby suggested, with an
outstretched hand and deprecating eye sometimes superadded. She usually
stood in my doorway, silent and patient, intimating her presence, if
my attention were preoccupied, by a slight cough from her baby, whom I
shall always believe had its part to play in this little pantomime, and
generally obeyed a secret signal from the maternal hand. It was useless
for me to refuse alms, to plead business, or affect inattention. She
never moved; her position was always taken with an appearance of latent
capabilities of endurance and experience in waiting which never failed
to impress me with awe and the futility of any hope of escape. There was
also something in the reproachful expression of her eye which
plainly said to me, as I bent over my paper, "Go on with your mock
sentimentalities and simulated pathos; portray the imaginary sufferings
of your bodiless creations, spread your thin web of philosophy, but look
you, sir, here is real misery! Here is genuine suffering!" I confess
that this artful suggestion usually brought me down. In three minutes
after she had thus invested the citadel I usually surrendered at
discretion, without a gun having been fired on either side. She received
my offering and retired as mutely and mysteriously as she had appeared.
Perhaps it was well for me that she did not know her strength. I might
have been forced, had this terrible woman been conscious of her real
power, to have borrowed money which I could not pay, or have forged a
check to purchase immunity from her awful presence. I hardly know if I
make myself understood, and yet I am unable to define my meaning
more clearly when I say that there was something in her glance which
suggested to the person appealed to, when in the presence of others,
a certain idea of some individual responsibility for her sufferings,
which, while it never failed to affect him with a mingled sense of
ludicrousness and terror, always made an impression of unqualified
gravity on the minds of the bystanders. As she has disappeared within
the last month, I imagine that she has found a home at the San Francisco
Benevolent Association,--at least, I cannot conceive of any charity,
however guarded by wholesome checks or sharp-eyed almoners, that could
resist that mute apparition. I should like to go there and inquire
about her, and also learn if the baby was convalescent or dead, but I
am satisfied that she would rise up, a mute and reproachful appeal, so
personal in its artful suggestions, that it would end in the Association
instantly transferring her to my hands.

My next familiar mendicant was a vender of printed ballads. These
effusions were so stale, atrocious, and unsalable in their character,
that it was easy to detect that hypocrisy, which--in imitation of more
ambitious beggary--veiled the real eleemosynary appeal under the thin
pretext of offering an equivalent. This beggar--an aged female in
a rusty bonnet--I unconsciously precipitated upon myself in an evil
moment. On our first meeting, while distractedly turning over the
ballads, I came upon a certain production entitled, I think, "The Fire
Zouave," and was struck with the truly patriotic and American manner
in which "Zouave" was made to rhyme in different stanzas with "grave,
brave, save, and glaive." As I purchased it at once, with a gratified
expression of countenance, it soon became evident that the act was
misconstrued by my poor friend, who from that moment never ceased to
haunt me. Perhaps in the whole course of her precarious existence she
had never before sold a ballad. My solitary purchase evidently made
me, in her eyes, a customer, and in a measure exalted her vocation; so
thereafter she regularly used to look in at my door, with a chirping,
confident air, and the question, "Any more songs to-day?" as though it
were some necessary article of daily consumption. I never took any more
of her songs, although that circumstance did not shake her faith in my
literary taste; my abstinence from this exciting mental pabulum being
probably ascribed to charitable motives. She was finally absorbed by the
S. F. B. A., who have probably made a proper disposition of her effects.
She was a little old woman, of Celtic origin, predisposed to melancholy,
and looking as if she had read most of her ballads.

My next reminiscence takes the shape of a very seedy individual, who
had, for three or four years, been vainly attempting to get back to
his relatives in Illinois, where sympathizing friends and a comfortable
almshouse awaited him. Only a few dollars, he informed me,--the
uncontributed remainder of the amount necessary to purchase a steerage
ticket,--stood in his way. These last few dollars seem to have been
most difficult to get, and he had wandered about, a sort of antithetical
Flying Dutchman, forever putting to sea, yet never getting away from
shore. He was a "49-er," and had recently been blown up in a tunnel, or
had fallen down a shaft, I forget which. This sad accident obliged him
to use large quantities of whiskey as a liniment, which, he informed
me, occasioned the mild fragrance which his garments exhaled. Though
belonging to the same class, he was not to be confounded with the

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes