University of Virginia Library

THE BLIND STREET-SELLER OF BOOT-LACES.

The character, thoughts, feelings, regrets, and
even the dreams, of a very interesting class of
street-folk — the blind — are given in the narratives
I now proceed to lay before the reader, from blind
street-folk; but a few words of general introduc-
tion are necessary.

It may be that among the uneducated — among
those whose feelings and whose bodies have been
subjected to what may be called the wear and tear
of poverty and privation — there is a tendency, even
when misfortunes the most pitiable and undeserved
have been encountered, to fall from misery into
mendicancy. Even the educated, or, as the street
people more generally describe them, those "who
have seen better days," sometimes, after the ordeal
of the streets and the low lodging-houses, become
trading mendicants. Among such people there
may be, in one capacity or other, the ability and
sometimes the opportunity to labour, and yet —
whether from irrepressible vagabondism, from
utter repugnance to any settled mode of subsistence
(caused either by the natural disposition of the
individual, or by the utter exhaustion of mind and
body driving him to beg) — yet, I say, men of this
class become beggars and even "lurkers."

As this is the case with men who have the ex-
ercise of their limbs, and of the several senses of
the body, there must be some mitigating plea, if
not a full justification, in the conduct of those who
beg directly or indirectly, because they cannot and
perhaps never could labour for their daily bread —
I allude to those afflicted with blindness, whether
"from their youth up" or from the calamity being
inflicted upon them in maturer years.

By the present law, for a blind man to beg is to
be amenable to punishment, and to be subjected
to perhaps the bitterest punishment which can be
put upon him — imprisonment; to a deprivation of
what may be his chief solace — the enjoyment of
the fresh air; and to a rupture of the feeling,
which cannot but be comforting to such a man,
that under his infirmity he still has the sympathies
of his fellow-creatures.

It appears to me, then, that the blind have a
right to ask charity of those whom God has
spared so terrible an affliction, and who in the
terms best understood by the destitute themselves,
are "well to do;" those whom — in the canting
language of a former generation of blind and other
beggars — "Providence has blessed with affluence."
This right to solicit aid from those to whom such
aid does not even approach to the sacrifice of any
idle indulgence — to say nothing of any necessary
want — is based on their helplessness, but lapses if
it becomes a mere business, and with all the

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trickiness by which a street business is sometimes
characterised.

On this question of moral right, as of political
expediency, I quote an authority which must com-
mand attention, that of Mr. Stuart Mill: —

Apart from any metaphysical considerations
respecting the foundation of morals or of the social
union, he says, "It will be admitted to be right,
that human beings should help one another; and
the more so, in proportion to the urgency of the
need; and none needs help so urgently as one who
is starving. The claim to help, therefore, created
by destitution, is one of the strongest which can
exist; and there is primâ facie the amplest reason
for making the relief of so extreme an exigency as
certain, to those who require it, as, by any arrange-
ments of society, it can be made.

"On the other hand, in all cases of helping,
there are two sets of consequences to be considered;
the consequences of the assistance itself, and the
consequences of relying on the assistance. The
former are generally beneficial, but the latter for
the most part injurious; so much so, in many cases,
as greatly to outweigh the value of the benefit.
And this is never more likely to happen than in
the very cases where the need of help is the most
intense. There are few things for which it is
more mischievous, that people should rely on the
habitual aid of others, than for the means of sub-
sistence, and unhappily there is no lesson which
they more easily learn." I may here mention, in
corroboration of this statement, that I was told by
an experienced parochial officer, that there was
truth in the saying, "Once a pauper, and always
a pauper;" which seems to show that the lesson of
relying on the habitual aid of others may not only
be learned with ease, but is forgotten with diffi-
culty. "The problem to be solved," continues Mr.
Mill, "is, therefore, one of peculiar nicety, as well
as importance; how to give the greatest amount of
needful help, with the smallest encouragement to
undue reliance on it.

"Energy and self-dependence are, however," Mr.
Mill proceeds to argue, and, in this respect, it
seems to me, to argue to demonstration, "liable to
be impaired by the absence of help, as well as by its
excess. It is even more fatal to exertion to have
no hope of succeeding by it, than to be assured of
succeeding without it. When the condition of any
one is so disastrous that his energies are paralyzed
by discouragement, assistance is a tonic, not a
sedative: it braces, instead of relaxing the active
faculties: always provided that the assistance is
not such as to dispense with self-help, by substi-
tuting itself for the person's own labour, skill, and
prudence, but is limited to affording him a better
hope of attaining success by those legitimate
means. This, accordingly, is a test to which all
plans of philanthropy and benevolence should be
brought, whether intended for the benefit of indi-
viduals or of classes, and whether conducted on the
voluntary or on the government principle.

"In so far as the subject admits of any general
doctrine or maxim, it would appear to be this —
that if assistance is given in such a manner that
the condition of the person helped is rendered
as desirable as that of another (in a similar
grade of society) who succeeds in maintaining
himself without help, the assistance, if systematic
and capable of being previously calculated upon,
is MISCHIEVOUS: but if, while available to every-
body, it leaves to all a strong motive to do without
it if they can, it is then for the most part BENE-
CIAL."

That the workhouse should bring less comfort
and even greater irksomeness and restraint to any
able-bodied inmate, than is felt by the poorest
agricultural labourer in the worst-paid parts of the
country, or the most wretched slop tailor, or shoe-
maker, or cabinet maker in London, who supports
himself by his own labour, is, I think, a sound
principle. However wretched the ploughman
may be in his hut, or the tailor in his garret, he is
what I have heard underpaid mechanics call, still
"his own man." He is supported by his labour;
he has escaped the indignity of a reliance on others.

I need not now enter into the question whether
or not the workhouse system has done more harm
than good. Some harm it is assuredly doing, for its
over-discipline drives people to beg rather than
apply for parish relief; and so the public are
twice mulct, by having to pay compulsorily, in the
form of poor's-rate, and by being induced to give
voluntarily, because they feel that the applicant
for their assistance deserves to be helped.

But although the dogma I have cited, respecting
the condition of those in a workhouse, may be
sound in principle as regards the able-bodied, how
does it apply to those who are not able-bodied?
To those who cannot work? And above all how
does it apply to those to whom nature has denied
even the capacity to labour? To the blind, for
instance? Yet the blind man, who dreads the in-
justice of such a creed applied to his misfortune,
is subject to the punishment of the mendacious
beggar, should he ask a passer-by to pity his
afflictions. The law may not often be enforced,
but sometimes it is enforced — perhaps more fre-
quently in country than in town — and surely it is
so enforced against abstract right and political
morality. The blind beggar, "worried by the
police," as I have heard it described, becomes the
mendacious beggar, no longer asking, in honesty,
for a mite to which a calamity that no prudence
could have saved him gave him a fair claim, but
resorting to trick in order to increase his pre-
carious gains.

That the blind resort to deceitful representa-
tions is unquestionable. One blind man, I am
informed, said to Mr. Child the oculist, when he
offered to couch him, "Why, that would ruin me!"
And there are many, I am assured, who live by
the streets who might have their eyesight restored,
but who will not.

The public, however, must be warned to distin-
guish between those determined beggars and the
really deserving and helpless blind. To allow
their sympathies to be blunted against all, because
some are bad, is a creed most consolatory to
worldly successful selfishness, and alien to every
principle of pure morals, as well as to that of more
than morals — the spirit of Christianity.

The feelings of the blind, apart from their mere
sufferings as poor men, are well described in some
of the narratives I give, and the account of a
blind man's dreams is full of interest. Man is
blessed with the power of seeing dreams, it should
be remembered, visionally; but the blind man, to
whose statement I invite attention, dreams, it
will be seen, like the rest of his fraternity, through
the sense of hearing, or of feeling, best known as
"touching;" that is to say, by audible or tactile
representations.

Some of the poor blind, he told me, are polishers'
wheel-turners, but there is not employment for one
in one hundred at this. My informant only knew
two so engaged. People, he says, are glad to do it,
and will work at as low wages as the blind. Some
of the blind, too, blow blacksmiths' forges at foun-
dries; others are engaged as cutlers' wheel-turners.
"There was one talking to me the other day,
and he said he'd get me a job that way." Others
again turn mangles, but at this there is little em-
ployment to be had. Another blind acquaintance
of my informant's chops chaff for horses. Many of
the blind are basket-makers, learning the business
at the blind school, but one-half, I am told, can't
make a living at this, after leaving the school;
they can't do the work so neatly, and waste more
rods than the other workers. Other blind peo-
ple are chair-bottomers, and others make rope
mats with a frame, but all of these can scarcely
make a living. Many blind people play church
organs. Some blind men are shoemakers, but
their work is so inferior, it is almost impossible to
live by it.

The blind people are forced to the streets because,
they say, they can do nothing else to get a living;
at no trade, even if they know one, can they get a
living, for they are not qualified to work against
those who can see; and what's more, labourers'
wages are so low that people can get a man with
his eyesight at the same price as they could live
upon. "There's many a blind basket-weaver
playing music in the streets 'cause he can't get
work. At the trade I know one blind basket-
maker can make 15s. a-week at his trade, but
then he has a good connection and works for his-
self; the work all comes home. He couldn't make
half that working for a shop. At turning wheels
there's nothing to be done; there's so many
seeing men out of employment that's glad to do
the work at the same price as the blind, so that
unless the blind will go into the workhouse, they
must fly to the streets. The police, I am told,
treat the blind very differently: some of the force
are very good to them, and some has no feeling
at all — they shove them about worse than dogs;
but the police is just like other men, good and
bad amongst them. They're very kind to me,"
said my blind informant, "and they have a difficult
duty to perform, and some persons, like Colonel
Cavendish, makes them harsher to us than they
would be." I inquired whether my blind informant
had received one of the Census papers to fill up,
and he told me that he had heard nothing about
them, and that he had certainly made no return
to the government about his blindness; but what
it was to the government whether he was blind
or not, he couldn't tell. His wife was blind as
well as himself, and there was another blind man
living in his room, and none of his blind friends,
that he had heard of, had ever received any of the
papers.

"Some blind people in the streets carry laces.
There are some five men and one woman at the
West-end do this, and three of these have dogs
to lead them; one stands always on Langham-place.
One carries cabbage-nets, he is an old man of
seventy year, with white hair, and is likewise led
by a dog. Another carries matches (he has a
large family), and he is often led by one of his
boys. There is a blind woman who always sits
by the Polytechnic, and has indeed done so since
it was built. She gets her living by sewing,
making caps and things for ladies. Another
blind woman obtains a livelihood by knitting
garters and covers for bread trays and backs of
chairs. She generally walks about in the neigh-
bourhood of Baker-street, and Portman-square.
Many recite a lamentation as they go along, but
in many parts of London the police will not allow
them to do so.

"It's a very jealous place, is London. The
police is so busy; but many recites the lamenta-
tion for all that. It's a feeling thing — Oh,
they're very touching words."

The greater part in the streets are musi-
cians; five to one are, or ten to one. My in-
formant thinks, last Thursday week, there were
seven blind musicians all playing through the
streets together in one band. There are four
living in York-court; two in Grafton-court; two
in Clement's-lane; one in Orchard-place; two in
Gray's-buildings; two in Half-Moon-street, in
the City, and two in a court hard by; one up by
Ball's-pond; two in Rose-court, Whitechapel; three
in Golden-lane; two at Chelsea; three in West-
minster; one up at Paddington; one (woman) in
Marylebone; one in Westminster; one in Gray's-
inn-lane; one in Whitechapel; in all thirty-one;
but my informant was satisfied there must be at
least as many more, or sixty blind musicians
in all.

In the course of a former inquiry into the cha-
racter and condition of street performers, I re-
ceived the following account from a blind mu-
sician: —

"The street blind tried, some years back, to
maintain a burying and sick club of our own;
but we were always too poor. We live in
rooms. I don't know one blind musician who
lives in a lodging-house. I myself know a dozen
blind men now performing in the streets of Lon-
don. The blind musicians are chiefly married
men. I don't know one who lives with a woman
unmarried. The loss of sight changes a man, he
doesn't think of women, and women don't think
of him. We are of a religious turn, too, gene-
rally.

"When we agreed to form the blind club there
was not more than a dozen members. These
consisted of two basket-makers; one mat-maker;
four violin players; myself; and my two mates;

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and this was the number when it dropped for
want of funds; that's now sixteen years ago.
We were to pay 1s. a month, and sick members
were to have 5s. a week when they had paid two
years. Our other rules were the same as other
clubs. There's a good many blind who play at
sailors dances, Wapping and Deptford way. We
seldom hire children to lead us in the streets;
we have plenty of our own generally. I have
five. Our wives are generally women that have
their eyesight; but some blind men marry blind
women."

My informant was satisfied that there were
at least 100 blind men and women getting
their living in the streets, and about 500 through-
out the country. There are many who stay con-
tinually in Brighton, Bristol, Liverpool, Birming-
ham, Manchester, Newcastle-on-Tyne, Plymouth,
and indeed all large towns. "There are a great many
blind people, I am told," he said, "in Cornwall.
It's such a humane place for them; the people has
great feeling for the blind; they're very religious
there, and a many lose their sight in the mines,
and that's what makes them have a feeling for
others so." This man heard a calculation made
some time back, that there were 5000 blind people,
including those in schools and asylums, within five
miles round St. Paul's. The most of the blind have
lost their sight by the small-pox — nine out of
every ten of the musicians have done so; since
the vaccination has been discovered, I am told the
cases of blindness from small-pox have been con-
siderably increased. "Oh, that was a very clever
thing — very," said the blind boot-lace seller to me.
Those who have not lost their sight by the small-pox,
have gone blind from accidents, such as substances
thrown or thrust in the eyes, or inflammation
induced from cold and other ailments. My infor-
mant was not acquainted with one blind person in
the streets who had been born blind. One of his
acquaintance who had been blind from birth
caught the small-pox, and obtained his sight after
recovery at eight years old. "The great majority
have lost their sight at an early age — when mere
children, indeed; they have consequently been
trained to no employment; those few who have"
(my informant knew two) "been educated in
the blind schools as basket-makers, are unable
to obtain employment at this like a seeing per-
son. Why, the time that a blind man's feeling
for the hole to have a rod through, a seeing man
will have it through three or four times. The
blind people in the streets mostly know one
another; they say they have all a feeling of
brotherly love for another, owing to their being
similarly afflicted. If I was going along the
street, and had a guide with me that could see,
they would say, `Here's a blind man or blind
woman coming;' I would say, `Put me up to them
so as I'll speak to them;' then I should say, as I
laid my hand upon them, `Holloa, who's this?'
they'd say, `I'm blind.' I should answer, `So am I.'
`What's your name?' would be the next question.
`Oh, I have heard tell of you,' most like, I should
say. `Do you know so and so?' I would say,
`Yes, he's coming to see me,' or perhaps, `I'm
going to see him on Sunday:' then we say, `Do
you belong to any of the Institutions?' that's the
most particular question of all; and if he's not a
traveller, and we never heard tell of one another,
the first thing we should ask would be, `How did
you lose your sight?' You see, the way in which
the blind people in the streets gets to know one
another so well, is by meeting at the houses of
gentlemen when we goes for our pensions."

The boot, shoe, and stay laces, are carried by
the blind, I am told "seldom for sale;" for it's
very few they sell of them. "They have," they
say, "to prevent the police or mendicity from
interfering with them, though the police do not
often show a disposition to obstruct them." "The
officers of the Mendicity Society," they tell me, "are
their worst enemies." These, however, have de-
sisted from molesting them, because the magistrates
object to commit a blind man to prison. The
blind never ask anybody for anything, they tell
me their cry is simply "Bootlace! Bootlace!"
When they do sell, they charge 1½d. per pair for
the leather boot-laces, 1d. per pair the silk boot-
laces, and ½d. per pair for the cotton boot-laces,
and ½d. each for the stay-laces. They generally
carry black laces only, because the white ones are
so difficult to keep clean. For the stay-laces they
pay 2d. a dozen, and for the boot-laces 5d. a
dozen, for the leather or for the silk ones; and
1¼d. for the cotton; each of the boot-laces is
double, so that a dozen makes a dozen pair. They
buy them very frequently at a swag-shop in Comp-
ton-street. My informant carried only the black-
cotton laces, and doesn't sell six-penny worth in a
week. He did not know of a blind boot lace-
seller that sold more than he did.

"Formerly the blind people in the street used to
make a great deal of money; up to the beginning
of the peace, and during all the war, the blind got
money in handfuls. Where there was one blind
man travelling then, there's ten now. If they
didn't take 2l. and 2l. 10s. a day in a large
town, it was reckoned a bad day's work for the
musicianers. Almost all the blind people then
played music. In war time there was only one
traveller (tramp); there are 100 now. There was
scarcely a common lodging-house then in one
town out of the three; and now there's not a
village hardly in the country but what there's one,
and perhaps two or three. Why the lodging-houses
coin money now. Look at a traveller's house
where there's twenty beds (two in each bed), at
3d. each, and that's 10s. you know. There was
very few blind beggars then, and what there was
done well. Certainly, done well; they could get
hatfuls of money almost, but then money was of
no valley scarcely; you could get nothing for it
most; but now if you get a little, you can buy a
plenty with it. What is worth 6d. now fetched
2s. then. I wasn't in the streets then, I wish
I had been, I should have made a fortin, I think
I should. The blind beggars then could get 2l. a
day if they went to look for it." "I myself," said
one, "when I first began, have gone and sat
myself down by the side of the road and got my
1l., all in half-pence. When I went to Brain-

[Description: 915EAF. Page 399.]

tree, I stood beside a public-house, the `Orange
Tree,' just by where the foot-people went on to
the fair ground, and I took 15s. a day for two
days only, standing there a pattering my lamen-
tation from 1 o'clock till the dusk in the evening.
This is what I said: —

"Some say `pity the poor blind,' but the lamen-
tation is better. It's a very feeling thing. Many
people stands still and hears it right through, and
gives a halfpenny. I'd give one myself any day
to hear it well said. I'm sure the first time I
heard it the very flesh crept on my bones. I
larnt it to one blind man myself last summer.

"Now just to show you the difference of things
two year afterwards: I went to the very same
place where I had took 1l. by the road side, as I
told, and all I got was 4s., so you can see how
things was falling. The day I took the 1l., there
was only one blind man in the town beside me;
but when I got the 4s., there was three men
blind there. But things now is much worse —
bless you, a hundred times worse. If I went
now to Braintree fair, I don't think as I should
take 3s. You see there's so many blind men now
about that I should'nt wonder if there'd be eight
or ten at that very fair; they don't know where
to run to now to get a halfpenny; there's so many
blind people that persons makes game of them.
If they see two near one another, they cries out,
there's opposition! See what things is come to.
Twelve year ago I should have thought the town
was completely done, and people quite tired of me,
If I didn't get my shilling going down only one side
of a street, and now I may go up and down and
not get a penny. If I get 3d. I am very well satis-
fied. But mind, I may perhaps sometimes meet a
gentlemen who may give me a shilling, or one who
may give me 2s. 6d.; a person the other day
tapped me on the shoulder, near Brook-street,
and said, `Here's half-a-crown for you.' Why,
even five year ago one gentleman gave me 1l. twice over within three months, and Prince Na-
poleon gave me a sovereign last 23rd June was
two year. I know the date, because that's the
day the blind people goes to the Cloth Hall to get
their quarter's money, 25s., and I thought I was
as good as they." My informant told me he does
better than any of them. "Not one does better
than me," he said, "because I sticks to it night and
day. It's 12 o'clock every night before I leave
the streets. You know I leaves home by ten of a
morning. I will have it to get a living. Many
says they don't know how I stand it to keep so
long on my legs. I only has two meals a day —
my breakfast, a bit of summat about five or six at
a public-house — my dog though has plenty. I
feeds him well, poor fellow. Many times I
sleep as I go, and knock my stick just the
same as if I was awake. I get a comfortable
living — always a little in debt. I've got a
very good kerackter, thank God — indeed all the
blind men has — they can always get credit; and
my dog gets me many a shilling that I wouldn't
get at all. But then it's dreadful slavery. I've
never no amusement — always out excepting on
Sunday. Then I've got 5l. from Cloth Hall,
besides a small pension of 1s., and 2s. 6d., and 5s. a year from different gentlemen, who allows us poor
blind a small pension yearly. There are many
gentleman do this at the West-end. Some will
allow 10s. a year, and some only 1s. a year, to a
stated number; and they all pay on a particular
day that they may appoint. The Earl of Mans-
field allows twenty-four destitute blind people
10s. 6d. a year; and his mother gives two blind
1l., and four 10s. The Baroness Rothschild gives
to between seventy and eighty 5s. a piece once a
year." ("Bless her," said my informant, most
heartily, "she is a good woman.") "The Earl
Stanhope gives to between forty and fifty the
same sum every year, and he's a fine kind-
hearted gentleman. The Earl of Cork's brother
gives eight or nine of us a shilling a piece once
a year. Lady Otway Cave, she is very good to
us; she gives seventy or eighty of us 1s. each
every fust of May; but the butler, like a many
more, I am told, takes advantage of the blind,
and puts them off with 6d., and takes a receipt
from them for 1s. The Earl of Normanton gives
2s. 6d. to ten of us. Mrs. Managan, of May-fair,
gives three 2s. 6d. a piece. The Hon. Miss Brande
1s. a piece to eight. Lady Clements, Grosvenor-
square, 2s. a piece to fifteen. The Marchioness
of Aylesbury, 5s. a piece to about thirty. The
Earl of Harrowby gives twelve 5s. a piece. Lord
Dudley Stuart gives to seven or eight 5s. a piece.

[Description: 915EAF. Page 400.]

Mr. Gurney, 1s. a piece to forty. Mr. Ellis, Arling-
ton-street, 2s. 6d. a piece to fourteen. The Mar-
quis of Bute used to give 5s. a piece to sixty or
seventy; but the Marchioness, since his death,
has discontinued his allowance. The Dean of
Westminster gives 1s. a piece to thirty on Boxing-
day. Mr. Spottiswoode, 1s. a piece to about four-
teen. Archbishop of Oxford, 5s. a piece to twelve.
Rev. Sir Samuel Jarvis, 2s. 6d. a piece to five.
Lady Dundas, 1s. a piece to about fourteen or
fifteen. The Earl of Besborough, 1s. each to ten.
Lord Stafford, 1s. each to about twenty; he used
to give 2s. 6d., but, owing to his servant, I am
told the sum has been reduced to 1s. Lady
Isabella Thynne, 1s. to ten. The Countess of
Carlisle, 2s. 6d. each to sixteen. Earl Fitzwilliam
used to give 5s. to some, and 2s. 6d. to others, to
about twenty. The Countess of Essex, 2s. 6d. each to three. Lord Hatherton, 2s. 6d. each to
twelve. John Ashley Warr, Esq., 5s. each to
twenty-four. Lord Tynemouth, 2s. 6d. each to
forty. Miss Vaughan, 2s. 6d. each to forty (this
is bequeathed for ever). Lord Saltoun, 5s. each
to three. Mr. Hope, 1s. each to fifty. Mr. Warren
(Bryanstone-square), 1s. each to twenty-five. Miss
Howard (York-place), 1s. each to every blind per-
son that calls on Boxing-day. Sir John Curtis, 1s. each to eighty (this is also a bequest). Lady
Beresford, 1s. each to forty. Lord Robert Gros-
venor gives 1l. each to some few. The Countess
of Andover, 2s. 6d. a piece to ten. Lord Stanley
used to give 3s. to about twelve; but two years
ago the allowance was discontinued. The Marquis
of Bristol gives 10s. to eighteen. The Bishop of
London, 5s. to every one that can obtain a minis-
ter's signature. Mr. Mackenzie (Devonshire-place),
2s. 6d. to ten. Mr. Deacon, 2s. 6d. to ten. Miss
Sheriff (Manchester-square), 1s. to twenty. Miss
Morrison (Cadogan-place), 1s. each to ten. Mrs.
Kittoye (Wilton-crescent), 1s. to twenty. Mrs.
Ferguson, 2s. 6d. each to seven. The Earl of
Haddington, 10s. each to twelve." I am assured
that these are only half of the donors to the blind,
and that, with the exception of Lady Liddledam,
there is not one person living eastward of Tottenham
Court-road, who allows the smallest pension to the
blind. My informant told me that he knew of no
attorneys, barristers, surgeons, physicians, soldiers
or sailors, who distributed any money to the blind,
nor one tradesman. I think I get 10s. a week
regular," he said. "While the quality's in town
I'm safe. For other times I can't count above 5s. a week at the outside — if it's the least damp in
the world, the quality will not come out. The
musicians, you see, have got the chance of a damp
day, for then all the best people's at home;
but such as me does well only when they're out.
If it wasn't for the pensions that the quality
gives to the blind during the winter, they
couldn't do at all. The blind people who have
guides pay them no wages, they find them
their victuals and clothes; but the guides are
mostly children, and the blind are very good to
them; many that I know spoils them."

The blind people are mostly all of a religious
turn of mind. They all make a point of attending
divine service; and the majority of them are
Catholics. My informant knew only five among
his blind neighbours who were Protestants — and
two of these were Presbyterians, one a Metho-
dist, and two Churchmen; and on the other hand
he numbered up fourteen Catholics, all going to the
same chapel, and living within a short distance of
himself. They are peculiarly distinguished by a
love of music. "It's a sure bit of bread to the
most; besides, it makes them independent, you
see, and that's a great thing to people like us."
There is not one teetotaller, I am told, among the
street blind, but they are not distinguished by a
love of drink. The blind musicians often, when
playing at public-houses, are treated to drink, and,
indeed, when performing in the streets, are taken
by drunken men to play at taverns, and there
supplied with liquor; but they do not any of
them make a habit of drinking. There is, how-
ever, one now in prison who is repeatedly intoxi-
cated; and this, the blind say, is a great injury
to them; for people who see one of them drunk in
the streets, believe that they are all alike; and
there is one peculiarity among them all — being
continually mistaken for one another. However
different they may be in features, still, from the
circumstance of their being blind, and being
mostly accompanied by a dog, or a guide, few
persons can distinguish one from another. They
are mostly very jealous, they tell me, because they
say every one takes advantage of their affliction,
even their own children, and their own wives.
"Some of the wives dress themselves very gaily,
because they know their husbands can't see their
fine clothes, particularly those that have got no
children — then there's none to tell. But, pray mind
I only speaking of some of them — don't blame the
whole. People never took no money out of my
dog's basket — two gals of the town once did try to
steal a shilling out of it, that some gentleman had
dropped in, but the dog barked, and they gave a
scream, and run away. Many of the blind men
have married blind women — they say that they
don't like seeing women. If seeing men find it a
hard job to take care of seeing women, how are
blind men to do it?" My informant knows six
blind men who have married blind wives — the
blind wives, I am told, stick closer to home — and
do not want to go to plays, or dances, or shows,
and have no love of dress — and they are generally
more sober than those who can see. "A blind
person," says one, "has no reason to be as wicked
as those that can see — there's not half the tempta-
tion, you know. The women do all their house-
hold duties as well as if they had their eyesight.
They make puddings and pies, and boil them, or
send them to the oven, as well, as quick, and as
handy as a woman that can see. They sweep the
floor without leaving a speck; and tidy the room,
and black-lead the grate, and whiten the hearth,
and dress the chimney-piece off quite handsome, I
can tell you. They take great pride in their
chimney-piece — they like other people to see it —
and they take great pride in having their house
quite clean and neat. Where I live it's the
remark of all, that they who can't see have their

[Description: 915EAF. Page 401.]

houses the cleanest. I don't know of any blind
person that has a looking-glass over the mantel-
piece, though. I'm sure that many would, if
they had the money, just to please their friends.
And, what's more strange, the blind wives will
wash their husbands' shirts quite clean." "The
blind are very fond of their children, you see, sir,"
said one; "we owe so much to them, they're such
helps to us, even from their very infancy. You'll
see a little thing that can hardly walk, leading
her blind father about, and then, may be, our
affliction makes them loves us the more. The
blind people are more comfortable at home — they
are more together, and more dependent on one
another, and don't like going out into company as
others do. With women a love of company is
mostly of a love of seeing others, and being seen
themselves, so the blind wives is happy and con-
tented at home. No man that could see, unless
he was a profligate, would think of marrying a
blind woman; and the blind women knows this,
and that's why they love their blind husbands the
more — they pity one another, and so can't help
liking each other." Now, it's strange, that with
so many blind couples living together, no one ever
heard of any accident from fire with blind people
— the fact is, their blindness makes them so care-
ful, that there's no chance of it; besides, when
there's two blind people together, they never
hardly light a candle at all, except when a stranger
comes in, and then they always ask him, before
he leaves, to put the light out.

The blind people generally are persons of great
feeling; they are very kind and charitable to per-
sons who are in any way afflicted, or even to poor
persons. Many of those who live on charity
themselves are, I am assured, very generous to
those that want. One told me that "a beggar
had come to his house, and he had made him
cry with his story; my heart" he said, "was
that full I was ashamed." They're not par-
ticularly proud, though they like to be well-
dressed, and they say that no one can get a wife
so soon as a blind man. One assured me that
he'd go into any lodging-house in the country
and get two or three if he wanted — only they'd
fight, he said. "You see in the lodging-houses
there are many woman whose husbands (but they're
not married, you know) have told them to go on
and said they would follow them, which of course
they don't; or there's many in such places as
wants a companion. When a blind man goes into
one of these houses, a woman is sure to say to him,
`Can I fetch you anything, master?' Half an
ounce of tea may be, and when they've got it, of
course, they're invited to have a cup, and that
does the business. She becomes the blind man's
guide after that. The next morning, after telling
one another where to meet — `I'm going such a
road,' they whisper to each other, — away they
starts. I've known many a blind man run away
with a seeing man's wife. The women, I think,
does it for a living, and that's all.

"I can't see the least light in the world
— not the brightest sun that ever shone. I
have pressed my eye-balls — they are quite de
cayed, you see; but I have pushed them in,
and they have merely hurt me, and the water
has run from them faster than ever. I have never
seen any colours when I did so." (This question
was asked to discover whether the illusion called
"peacock's feathers" could still be produced by
pressure on the nerve). "I have been struck on
the eye since I have been blind, and then I
have seen a flash of fire like lightning. I know
it's been like that, because I've seen the
lightning sometimes, when it's been very vivid,
even since I was stone blind. It was terrible
pain when I was struck on the eye. A man one
day was carrying some chairs along the street, and
struck me right in the eye ball with the end of
the leg of one of the chairs; and I fell to the
ground with the pain. I thought my heart was
coming out of my mouth; then I saw the brightest
flash that ever I saw, either before or since I was
blind." (I irritated the ball of the eye with the
object of discovering whether the nerve was de-
cayed, but found it impossible to produce any lu-
minous impression — though I suspect this arose prin-
cipally from the difficulty of getting him to direct
his eye in the proper direction). "I know the differ-
ence of colours, because I remember them; but I
can't distinguish them by my touch, nor do I
think that any blind man in the world ever could.
I have heard of blind people playing at cards, but
it's impossible they can do so any other way than
by having them marked. I know many that
plays cards that way." He was given two similar
substances, but of different colours, to feel, but
could not distinguish between them — both were
the same to him, he said, "with the exception that
one felt stiffer than the other. I know hundreds
of people myself — and they know hundreds more
— and none of us has ever heard of one that could
tell colours by the feel. There's blind people in
the school can tell the colours of their rods; but
they do so by putting their tongue to them, and
so they can distinguish them that's been dipped in
copperas from them that hasn't. I know blind people
can take a clock to pieces, and put it together again,
as well as any person that can see. Blind
people gets angry when they hear people talk of
persons seeing with their fingers. A man has
told me that a blind person in St. James's work-
house could read the newspaper with his fingers,
but that, the blind know, is quite impossible."

Many blind men can, I am told, distinguish
between the several kinds of wood by touch alone.
Mahogany, oak, ash, elm, deal, they say, have all
a different feel. They declare it is quite ridiculous,
the common report, that blind people can discern
colours by the touch. One of my informants, who
assured me that he was considered to be one of
the cleverest of blind people, told me that he had
made several experiments on this subject, and
never could distinguish the least difference between
black or red, or white, or yellow, or blue, or, in-
deed, any of the mixed colours. "My wife," said
one, "went blind so young, that she doesn't never
remember having seen the light; and I am often
sorry for her that she has no idea of what a beau-
tiful thing light or colours is. We often talk about

[Description: 915EAF. Page 402.]

it together, and then she goes a little but melan-
choly, because I can't make her understand what
the daylight is like, or the great delight that there
is in seeing it. I've often asked whether she
knows that the daylight and the candlelight is of
different colours, and she has told me she thinks
they are the same; but then she has no notion of
colours at all. Now, it's such people as these I
pities." I told the blind man of Sanderson's won-
derful effect of imagination in conceiving that the
art of seeing was similar to that of a series of
threads being drawn from the distant object to
the eye; and he was delighted with the explana-
tion, saying, "he could hardly tell how a born blind
man could come at such an idea." On talking with
this man, he told me he remembered having seen
a looking-glass once — his mother was standing
putting her cap on before it, and he thought he
never saw anything so pretty as the reflection of
the half-mourning gown she had on, and the white
feathery pattern upon it (he was five years old then).
He also remembered having seen his shadow, and
following it across the street; these were the only
two objects he can call to mind. He told me that
he knew many blind men who could not compre-
hend how things could be seen, round or square,
all at once; they are obliged, they say, to pass
their fingers all over them; and how it is that the
shape of a thing can be known in an instant, they
cannot possibly imagine. I found out that this
blind man fancied the looking-glass reflected only
one object at once — only the object that was imme-
diately in front of it; and when I told him that,
looking in the glass, I could see everything in the
room, and even himself, with my back turned to-
wards him, he smiled with agreeable astonishment.
He said, "You see how little I have thought about
the matter." There was a blind woman of his
acquaintance, he informed me, who could thread
the smallest needle with the finest hair in a minute,
and never miss once. "She'll do it in a second.
Many blind women thread their needles with their
tongues; the woman who stitches by the Poly-
technic always does so." My informant was very
fond of music. One of the blind makes his own
teeth, he told me; his front ones have all been
replaced by one long bit of bone which he has
fastened to the stumps of his two eye teeth: he
makes them out of any old bit of bone he can
pick up. He files them and drills a hole through
them to fasten them into his head, and eats his food
with them. He is obliged to have teeth because he
plays the clarionet in the street. "Music," he said,
"is our only enjoyment, we all like to listen to it
and learn it." It affects them greatly, they tell me,
and if a lively tune is played, they can hardly help
dancing. "Many a tune I've danced to so that I
could hardly walk the next day," said one. Almost
all of the blind men are clever at reckoning. It
seems to come natural to them after the loss of their
sight. By counting they say they spend many a dull
hour — it appears to be all mental arithmetic with
them, for they never aid their calculations by their
fingers or any signs whatever. My informant
knew a blind man who could reckon on what day
it was new moon for a hundred years back, or when
it will be new moon a century to come — he had
never had a book read to him on the subject in his
life — he was one of the blind wandering musicians,
My informant told me he often sits for hours and
calculates how many quarters of ounces there are
in a ship-load of tea, and such like things. Many
of the blind are very partial to the smell of
flowers. My informant knew one blind man
about the streets who always would have some
kind of smelling flowers in his room.

"The blind are very ingenious; oh, very!" said
one to me, "they can do anything that they can
feel. One blind man who kept a lodging-house at
Manchester and had a wife fond of drink, made a
little chest of drawers (about two feet high), in
which he used to put his money, and so cleverly
did he arrange it that neither his wife nor any one
else could get at the money without breaking the
drawers all to pieces. Once while her blind hus-
band was on his travels, she opened every drawer
by means of false keys, and though she took each
one out, she could find no means to get at the
money, which she could hear jingling inside when
she shook it. At last she got so excited over it that
she sent for a carpenter, and even he was obliged to
confess that he could not get to it without taking
the drawers to pieces. The same blind man had a
great fancy for white mice, and made a little house
for them out of pieces of wood cut into the shape
of bricks: there were doors, windows, and all," said
my informant. The blind are remarkable for the
quickness of their hearing — one man assured me
he could hear the lamp-posts in the streets, and,
indeed, any substance (any solid thing he said)
that he passed in the street, provided it be as high
as his ear; if it were below that he could not hear it so well.

"Do you know, I can hear any substance in
the street as I pass it by, even the lamp-post or a
dead wall — anything that's the height of my
head, let it be ever so small, just as well, and tell
what it is as well as you as can see. One night
I was coming home — you 'll be surprised to hear
this — along Burlington-gardens, between twelve
and one o'clock, and a gentleman was following
me. I knew he was not a poor man by his walk,
but I didn't consider he was watching me. I just
heerd when I got between Sackville-street and
Burlington-street. Oh, I knows every inch of
the street, and I can go as quick as you can, and
walk four mile an hour; know where I am all the
while. I can tell the difference of the streets by
the sound of my ear — a wide street and a narrow
street — I can't tell a long street till I get to the
bottom of it. I can tell when I come to an open-
ing or a turning just by the click on the ear, with-
out either my touching with hand or stick. Well,
as I was saying, this gentleman was noticing me,
and just as I come to turn up Cork-street, which,
you know, is my road to go into Bond-street, on
my way home; just as I come into Cork-street,
and was going to turn round the corner, the
sergeant of police was coming from Bond-street,
at the opposite corner of Cork-street, I heerd him,
and he just stopped to notice me, but didn't know
the gentleman was noticing me too. I whipped

[Description: 915EAF. Page 403.]

round the corner as quick as any man that had
his sight, and said, `Good night, policeman.' I
can tell a policeman's foot anywhere, when he
comes straight along in his regular way while on
his beat, and they all know it too. I can't tell
it where there's a noise, but in the stillness of the
night nothing would beat me. I can't hear the
lamp-posts when there's a noise. When I said,
`Good night, policeman,' the gentleman whipped
across to him, and says, `Is that man really blind?"
and by this time I was half way up Cork-street,
when the gentleman hallooed to me to stop; and
he comes up, and says, says he, `Are you really
blind?' The sergeant of police was with him, and
he says, `Yes, he is really blind, sir;' and then he
says, `How is it that you go so cleverly along the
street if you're blind?' Well, I didn't want to
stop bothering with him, so I merely says, `I
do far cleverer things than that. I can hear the
lamp-post as well as you that can see it.' He
says, `Yes, because you know the distance from one
to another.' The sergeant stood there all the time,
and he says, `No, that can't be, for they're not a
regular distance one from another.' Then the
gentleman says, `Now, could you tell if I was
standing in the street when you passed me by?'
I said, `Yes; but you mustn't stand behind the
lamp-post to deceive me with the sound of the
substance.' Then he went away to try me, and a
fine try we had. He will laugh when he sees
that they're all put down. When he went away I
recollected that if he didn't stand as near to the
pavement as the lamp-post is, and remain still,
he'd deceive me. Oh, certainly, I couldn't hear
him if he was far off, and I shouldn't hear him in
the same way as I can hear the lamp-posts if he
didn't stand still. The policeman hallooed after
him, and told him that he mustn't deceive me;
but he wouldn't make no answer, for fear I should
catch the sound of his voice and know where he
was. I had agreed to touch every substance as I
went along and round the street to look for him;
we always call it looking though we are blind.
Well, when he had stood still the sergeant told me
to go; he's the sergeant of St. James' station-
house, and has been often speaking to me since
about it; and on I went at the rate of about three
mile an hour, and touched every lamp-post with-
out feeling for them, but just struck them with my
stick as I went by, without stopping, and cried
out, `There's a substance.' At last I come to him.
There's a mews, you know, just by the hotel in
Cork-street, and the gentleman stood between the
mews and Clifford-street, in Cork-street; and when
I come up to him, I stopped quite snddenly, and
cried out `There's a substance.' As I was offering
to touch him with my stick, he drew back very
softly, just to deceive me. Then he would have
another try, but I picked him out again, but that
wouldn't satisfy him, and he would try me a third
time; and then, when I come up to him, he kept
drawing back, right into the middle of the road.
I could hear the stones scrunch under his feet; so
I says, `Oh, that's not fair;' and he says, `Well,
I'm bet.' Then he made me a present, and said
that he would like to spend an hour some night
with me again. I don't think he was a doc-
tor, 'cause he never took no notice of my eyes,
but he was a real gentleman — the sergeant
said so.

"When I dream, it's just the as I am
now, I dream of hearing and touching. The last
dream that I had was about a blind man — that's
in prison just now. I went into his wife's house,
I knew it was her house by the sound of my foot
in it. I can tell whether a place is clean or dirty
by the sound. Then I heard her say, `Well, how
do you get on?' and I said `Very well;' and she
said `Sit down,' and after sitting there a little
while, I heard a voice at the door, and I said to
her, `Bless me, wouldn't you think that was John;'
she said, `Yes, I would,' but she took no farther
notice, and I heard his voice repeatedly. I
thought he was speaking to a child, and I got up
and went to the door, and says, `Halloa! is this
you;' I was quite surprised and took him by the
arm (laying his hand on his own) and he was in
his shirt sleeves. I knew that by the feel. Then
I was kind of afeard of him, though I am not
afeard of anything. I was rather surprised that
he should come out three weeks before his time.
Then I dreamt that he tried to frighten and
pushed me down on the floor, that way (making
the motion sideways), to make me believe he was
a ghost. I felt it as plain as I should if you
were to do the same to me now. I says to him
`Don't be so foolish, sit down', and I pushed him
away and got up. When I got up, his wife says
to him, `Sit down, John, and don't be so foolish;
sit down, and behave yourself;' and then we set
down the two of us, just on the edge of the bed
(here he moved his hand along the edge of the
table). I thought it was turned down. He's a
very resolute man and a wicked one, this blind
man is, so I would like to have been out from
him, but I was afeard to go, for he'd got a hold of
me; after that I waked and I heerd no more.
But it's my real opinion that he's dead now, it is
indeed, through having such dreams of him I
think so; and the same night his wife dreamt
that I was killed and all knocked into about a
hundred pieces; and those two dreams convince
me something's come to him. Oh, I do firmly be-
lieve in dreams, that I do; they're sent for people
to foresee things, I'm certain of it, if people will
only take notice of 'em. I have been many times
in prison myself, while I've been travelling the
country. You know in many towns they comes
and takes you up without given you never no
warning if they catches you begging. I was took
up once in Liverpool, once in Hull, once in Exeter,
and once in Biddeford, in Devonshire. Most of
the times I had a month, and one of them only
seven days. I think that's very unjust — never
to say you mustn't do it; but to drag you off
without never no warning. Every time before I
was put in quod I had always dreamt that my
father was starving to death for want of victuals,
and at last I got to know whenever I dreamt
that, I was sure of going to prison. I never
dreamt about my mother; she died, you see, when
I was very young, and I never remember hearing

[Description: 915EAF. Page 404.]

her speak but once or twice. My father never
did the thing that was right to me, and I didn't
care much about him. When I was at home I
was very fond of pigeons, and my mind went
so much upon them, that I used to dream of it
the night before, always when they had eggs,
and when my rabbits had young ones too. I
know when I wake in the morning that I am
awake by my thoughts. Sometimes I dream
I've got a lot of money in my hand, and when
I wake and put my hand to feel it, it's gone,
there's none there, and so I know it's been only a
dream. I'm much surprised at my disappointment
though."

Many of the blind are very fond of keeping
birds and animals; some of them keep pigeons in
one of their rooms, others have cocks and hens,
and others white mice and rabbits, and almost all
have dogs, though all are not led about by them.
Some blind men take delight in having nothing
but bull-dogs, not to lead them, but solely for
fancy. Nobody likes a dog so much as a blind
man, I am told — "they can't — the blind man is
so much beholden to his dog, he does him such
favours and sarvices." "With my dog I can go to
any part of London as independent as any one
who has got his sight. Yesterday afternoon when
I left your house, sir, I was ashamed of going
through the street. People was a saying, `Look'ee
there, that's the man as says he's blind.' I
was going so quick, it was so late you know,
they couldn't make it out, but without my dog
I must have crawled along, and always be in
great fear. The name of my present dog is
`Keeper;' he is a mongrel breed; I have had
him nine years, and he is with me night and
day, goes to church with me and all. If I
go out without him, he misses me, and then he
scampers all through the streets where I am in the
habit of going, crying and howling after me, just as
if he was fairly out of his mind. It's astonishing.
Often, before my first blind wife died (for I've
been married twice to blind women, and once to a
seeing woman), I used to say I'd sooner lose my
wife than my dog; but when I did lose her I was
sorry that ever I did say so. I didn't know what
it was. I'm sorry for it yet, and ever will be
sorry for it; she was a very good woman, and had
fine principles. I shall never get another that I
liked so much as the first. My dog knows every
word I say to him. Tell him to turn right or left,
or cross over, and whip! round he goes in a mo-
ment. Where I go for my tobacco, at the shop in
Piccadilly, close to the Arcade — it's down six or
seven steps, straight down — and when I tells
Keeper to go to the baccy shop, off he is, and drags
me down the steps, with the people after me, think-
ing he's going to break my neck down the place,
and the people stands on top the steps making all
kinds of remarks, while I'm below. If he was to
lose me to-night or to-morrow, he'd come back here
and rise the whole neighbourhood. He knows
any public-house, no matter whether he was there
before or not; just whisper to him, go to the
public-house, and away he scampers and drags me
right into the first he comes to. Directly I whis-
per to him, go to the public-house, he begins play-
ing away with the basket he has in his mouth,
throwing it up and laying it down — throwing it
and laying it down for pleasure; he gets his rest
there, and that's why he's so pleased. It's the
only place I can go to in my rounds to sit down.
Oh, he's a dear clever fellow. Now, only to show
you how faithful he is, one night last week I was
coming along Burlington-gardens, and I stopped to
light my pipe as I was coming home, and I let
him loose to play a bit and get a drink; and after
I had lit my pipe I walked on, for I knew the
street very well without any guide. I didn't take
notice of the dog, for I thought he was following
me. I was just turning into Clifford-street when
I heard the cries of him in Burlington-gardens.
I know his cry, let him be ever so far away; the
screech that he set up was really quite dreadful;
it would grieve anybody to hear him. So I puts
my fingers in my mouth and gives a loud whistle;
and at last he heard me, and then up he comes
tearing along and panting away as if his heart was
in his mouth; and when he gets up to me he
jumped up to me right upon my back, and screams
like — as if really he wanted to speak — you can't
call it panting, because it's louder than that, and
he does pant when he a'n't tired at all; all I can
say is, it's for all the world like his speaking, and
I understands it as such. If I say a cross word
to him after he's lost — such as, ah, you rascal, you
— he'll just stand of one side, and give a cry just
like a Christian. I've known him break the
windows up two story high when I've left him
behind, and down he would have been after me
only he durstn't jump out. I've had Keeper nine
year. The dog I had before him was Blucher;
he was a mongrel too; he had a tail like a wolf,
an ear like a fox, and a face black like a monkey.
I had him thirteen year. He was as clever as
Keeper, but not so much loved as he is. At last
he went blind; he was about two year losing his
sight. When I found his eyes was getting bad I
got Keeper. The way I first noticed him going
blind was when I would come to cross a street on
my way home; at nightfall the shade of the house
on the opposite side, as we was crossing, would
frighten him and drive him in the middle of the
road; and he wouldn't draw to the pavement till
he found he was wrong; and then after that he
began to run again the lamp-posts in the dark;
when he did this he'd cry out just like a Chris-
tian. I was sorry for him, and he knowed that,
for I used to fret. I was sorry for him on ac-
count of my own affliction. At last I was obli-
gated to take to Keeper. I got him of another
blind man, but he had no larning in him when he
come to me. I was a long time teaching him, for I
didn't do it all at once. I could have teached him
in a week, but I used to let the old dog have a
run, while I put Keeper into the collar for a bit"
(here the blind man was some time before he could
proceed for his tears), "and so he larnt all he knows,
little by little. Now Keeper and Blucher used to
agree pretty well; but I've got another dog now,
named Dash, and Keeper's as jealous of him as a
woman is of a man. If I say, `Come Keeper,

[Description: 915EAF. Page 405.]

come and have the collar on,' I may call twenty
times before he'll come; but if I say, `Dash,
come and have the collar on,' Keeper's there the first
word, jumping up agin me, and doing anything
but speak. At last my old Blucher went stone
blind, as bad as his master; it was, poor thing;
and then he used to fret so when I went out
without him that I couldn't bear it, and so
got at length to take him always with me,
and then he used to follow the knock of my
stick. He done so for about six months, and
then I was one night going along Piccadilly and
I stops speaking to a policeman, and Blucher
misses me; he couldn't hear where I was for the
noise of the carriages. He didn't catch the sound
of my stick, and couldn't hear my voice for the
carriages, so he went seeking me into the middle
of the road, and there a buss run over him, poor
thing. I heerd him scream out and I whistled
to him, and he came howling dreadful on to the
pavement again. I didn't think he was so much
hurt then, for I puts the collar on him to take
him safe back, and he led me home blind as he
was. The next morning he couldn't rise up at
all, his hind parts was useless to him. I took
him in my arms and found he couldn't move.
Well, he never eat nor drink nothing for a week,
and got to be in such dreadful pain that I was
forced to have him killed. I got a man to drown
him in a bag. I could'nt have done it myself
for all the world. It would have been as bad to
me as killing a Christian. I used to grieve terri-
bly after I'd lost him. I couldn't get him off
my mind. I had had him so many years, and he
had been with me night and day, my constant
companion, and the most faithful friend I ever
had, except Keeper: there's nothing in the world
can beat Keeper for faithfulness — nothing."