a bit of something for me to eat with my cup of tea. She’s a good soul,
and keeps me tidy and clean. I helps her all I can; when I come in, I
carries her a pail of water up-stairs, and such-like. Many ladies as
has known me since they was children allows me a trifle. One maiden
lady near Brunswick-square has given me sixpence a week for many a
year, and another allows me eighteenpence a fortnight; so that, one way
and another, I am very comfortable, and I’ve much to be thankful for.”

It was during one of old Sarah’s journeys that an accident occurred,
which ultimately deprived London of the well-known old hurdy-gurdy
woman. In crossing Seymour-street, she and her guide Liza were knocked
down by a cab, as it suddenly turned a corner. They were picked up
and placed in the vehicle (the poor guide dead, and Sarah with her
limbs broken), and carried to the University Hospital. Old Sarah’s
description of that ride is more terrible and tragic than I can hope
to make out to you. The poor blind creature was ignorant of the fate
of her guide, she afterwards told us, and kept begging and praying to
Liza to speak to her as the vehicle conveyed them to the asylum. She
shook her, she said, and intreated her to say if she was hurt, but not
a word was spoken in answer, and then she felt how terrible a privation
was her blindness; and it was not until they reached the hospital,
and they were lifted from the cab, that she knew, as she heard the
people whisper to one another, that her faithful attendant was dead.
In telling us this, the good old soul forgot her own sufferings for
the time, as she lay with both her legs broken beneath the hooped
bed-clothes of the hospital bed; and when, after many long weeks, she
left the medical asylum, she was unable to continue her playing on
the hurdy-gurdy, her hand being now needed for the crutch that was
requisite to bear her on her rounds.

[Illustration: “OLD SARAH,” THE WELL-KNOWN HURDY-GURDY PLAYER.

[_From a Daguerreotype by_ BEARD.]]

The shock, however, had been too much for the poor old creature’s
feeble nature to rally against, and though she continued to hobble
round to the houses of the kind people who had for years allowed
her a few pence per week, and went limping along musicless through the
streets for some months after she left the hospital, yet her little
remaining strength at length failed her, and she took to her bed in a
room in Bell-court, Gray’s-inn-lane, never to rise from it again.

“FARM-YARD” PLAYER.

A quiet-looking man, half-blind, and wrapped in a large, old, faded
black-cotton great-coat, made the following statement, having first
given me some specimens of his art:--

“I imitate all the animals of the farm-yard on my fiddle: I imitate
the bull, the calf, the dog, the cock, the hen when she’s laid an egg,
the peacock, and the ass. I have done this in the streets for nearly
twelve years. I was brought up as a musician at my own desire. When
a young man (I am now 53) I used to go out to play at parties, doing
middling until my sight failed me; I then did the farm-yard on the
fiddle for a living. Though I had never heard of such a thing before,
by constant practice I made myself perfect. I studied from nature, I
never was in a farm-yard in my life, but I went and listened to the
poultry, anywhere in town that I could meet with them, and I then
imitated them on my instrument. The Smithfield cattle gave me the study
for the bull and the calf. My peacock I got at the Belvidere-gardens
in Islington. The ass is common, and so is the dog; and them I studied
anywhere. It took me a month, not more, if so much, to acquire what I
thought a sufficient skill in my undertaking, and then I started it
in the streets. It was liked the very first time I tried it. I never
say what animal I am going to give; I leave that to the judgment of
the listeners. They could always tell what it was. I could make 12_s._
a-week the year through. I play it in public-houses as well as in the
streets. My pitches are all over London, and I don’t know that one
is better than another. Working-people are my best friends. Thursday
and Friday are my worst days; Monday and Saturday my best, when I
reckon 2_s._ 6_d._ a handsome taking. I am the only man who does the
farm-yard.”

BLIND PERFORMER ON THE BELLS.

A hale-looking blind man, with a cheerful look, poorly but not
squalidly dressed, gave me the subjoined narrative. He was led by a
strong, healthy-looking lad of 15, his stepson:--

“I have been blind since within a month of my birth,” he said, “and
have been 23 years a street performer. My parents were poor, but they
managed to have me taught music. I am 55 years old. I was one of a
street-band in my youth, and could make my 15_s._ a-week at it. I
didn’t like the band, for if you are steady yourself you can’t get
others to be steady, and so no good can be done. I next started a piano
in the streets; that was 23 years ago. I bought a chaise big enough
for an invalid, and having had the body removed, my piano was fitted
on the springs and the axle-tree. I carried a seat, and could play
the instrument either sitting or standing, and so I travelled through
London with it. It did pretty well; in the summer I took never less
than 20_s._, and I have taken 40_s._ on rare occasions, in a week;
but the small takings in the winter would reduce my yearly average to
15_s._ a-week at the utmost. I played the piano, more or less, until
within these three or four years. I started the bells that I play now,
as near as I can recollect, some 18 years ago. When I first played
them, I had my 14 bells arranged on a rail, and tapped them with my
two leather hammers held in my hands in the usual way. I thought next
I could introduce some novelty into the performance. The novelty I
speak of was to play the violin with the bells. I had hammers fixed on
a rail, so as each bell had its particular hammer; these hammers were
connected with cords to a pedal acting with a spring to bring itself
up, and so, by playing the pedal with my feet, I had full command of
the bells, and made them accompany the violin, so that I could give
any tune almost with the power of a band. It was always my delight in
my leisure moments, and is a good deal so still, to study improvements
such as I have described. The bells and violin together brought me
in about the same as the piano. I played the violoncello with my
feet also, on a plan of my own, and the violin in my hand. I had the
violoncello on a frame on the ground, so arranged that I could move the
bow with my foot in harmony with the violin in my hand. The last thing
I have introduced is the playing four accordions with my feet. The
accordions are fixed in a frame, and I make them accompany the violin.
Of all my plans, the piano, and the bells and violin, did the best, and
are the best still for a standard. I can only average 12_s._ a-week,
take the year through, which is very little for two.”

BLIND FEMALE VIOLIN PLAYER.

I had the following narrative from a stout blind woman, with a very
grave and even meditative look, fifty-six years old, dressed in a clean
cotton gown, the pattern of which was almost washed out. She was led
by a very fine dog (a Scotch colley, she described it), a chain being
affixed to the dog’s leather collar. A boy, poor and destitute, she
said, barefooted, and wearing a greasy ragged jacket, with his bare
skin showing through the many rents, accompanied her when I saw her.
The boy had been with her a month, she supporting him. She said:--

“I have been blind twelve years. I was a servant in my youth, and
in 1824 married a journeyman cabinet-maker. I went blind from an
inflammation two years before my husband died. We had five children,
all dead now--the last died six years ago; and at my husband’s death I
was left almost destitute. I used to sell a few laces in the street,
but couldn’t clear 2_s._ 6_d._ a-week by it. I had a little help from
the parish, but very rarely; and at last I could get nothing but an
order for the house. A neighbour--a tradesman--then taught me at his
leisure to play the violin, but I’m not a great performer. I wish I
was. I began to play in the streets five years ago. I get halfpennies
in charity, not for my music. Some days I pick up 2_s._, some days only
6_d._, and on wet days nothing. I’ve often had to pledge my fiddle for
2_s._--I could never get more on it, and sometimes not that. When my
fiddle was in pledge, I used to sell matches and laces in the streets,
and have had to borrow 1-1/2_d._ to lay in a stock. I’ve sometimes
taken 4_d._ in eight hours. My chief places, when I’ve only the dog to
lead me, are Regent-street and Portland-place; and, really, people are
very kind and careful in guiding and directing me,--even the cabmen!
may God bless them!”

BLIND SCOTCH VIOLONCELLO PLAYER.

A stout, hale-looking blind man, dressed very decently in coloured
clothes, and scrupulously clean, gave me the following details:--

“I am one of the three blind Scotchmen who go about the streets
in company, playing the violoncello, clarionet, and flute. We are
really Highlanders, and can all speak Gaelic; but a good many London
Highlanders are Irish. I have been thirty years in the streets of
London; one of my mates has been forty years,--he’s sixty-nine;--the
other has been thirty years. I became partially blind, through an
inflammation, when I was fourteen, and was stone-blind when I was
twenty-two. Before I was totally blind I came to London, travelling
up with the help of my bagpipes, guided by a little boy. I settled in
London, finding it a big place, where a man could do well at that time,
and I took a turn every now and then into the country. I could make
14_s._ a-week, winter and summer through, thirty years ago, by playing
in the streets; now I can’t make 6_s._ a-week, take winter and summer.
I met my two mates, who are both blind men,--both came to England for
the same reason as I did,--in my journeyings in London; and at last we
agreed to go together,--that’s twenty years ago. We’ve been together,
on and off, ever since. Sometimes, one of us will take a turn around
the coast of Kent, and another round the coast of Devon; and then join
again in London, or meet by accident. We have always agreed very well,
and never fought. We,--I mean the street-blind,--tried 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
London; these are not all exactly blind, but about as bad; the most
are stone-blind. 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, generally. I am a Roman Catholic; but the
other Scotch blind men here are Presbyterians. The Scotch in London
are our good friends, because they give us a little sum altogether,
perhaps; but the English working-people are our main support: it is
by them we live, and I always found them kind and liberal,--the most
liberal in the world as I know. Through Marylebone is our best round,
and Saturday night our best time. We play all three together. ‘Johnny
Cope’ is our best-liked tune. I think the blind Scotchmen don’t come
to play in London now. I can remember many blind Scotch musicians, or
pipers, in London: they are all dead now! The trade’s dead too,--it is
so! When we thought of forming the blind club, there was never more
than a dozen members. These were two basket-makers, one mat-maker,
four violin-players, myself, and my two mates; which was the number
when it dropped for want of funds; that’s now fifteen years ago. We
were to pay 1_s._ a-month; and sick members were to have 5_s._ a-week,
when they’d paid two years. Our other rules were the same as other
clubs, I believe. The blind musicians now in London are we three;
C----, a Jew, who plays the violin; R----, an Englishman, who plays the
violin elegantly; W----, a harp player; T----, violin again; H----,
violin (but he plays more in public-houses); R----, the flute; M----,
bagpipes; C----, bagpipes; K----, violin: that’s all I know myself.
There’s a good many blind who play at the 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 who have their eyesight; but some blind men,--I know
one couple,--marry blind women.”

BLIND IRISH PIPER.

Of the Irish Pipers, a well-dressed, middle-aged man, of good
appearance, wearing large green spectacles, led by a young girl, his
daughter, gave me the following account:--

“I was eleven years old when I lost my sight from cold, and I was
brought up to the musical profession, and practised it several years
in Ireland, of which country I am a native. I was a man of private
property,--small property--and only played occasionally at the
gentle-people’s places; and then more as a guest--yes, more indeed
than professionally. In 1838 I married, and began to give concerts
regularly; I was the performer, and played only on the union pipes
at my concerts. I’m acknowledged to be the best performer in the
world, even by my own craft,--excuse what seems self-praise. The union
pipes are the old Irish pipes improved. In former times there was no
chromatic scale; now we have eight keys to the chanter, which produce
the chromatic scale as on the flute, and so the pipes are improved in
the melody, and more particularly in the harmony. We have had fine
performers of old. I may mention Caroll O’Daly, who flourished in the
15th century, and was the composer of the air that the Scotch want to
steal from us, ‘Robin Adair,’ which is ‘Alleen ma ruen,’ or ‘Ellen, my
dear.’ My concerts in Ireland answered very well indeed, but the famine
reduced me so much that I was fain to get to England with my family,
wife and four children; and in this visit I have been disappointed,
completely so. Now I’m reduced to play in the streets, and make very
little by it. I may average 15_s._ in the week in summer, and not half
that in winter. There are many of my countrymen now in England playing
the pipes, but I don’t know one respectable enough to associate with;
so I keep to myself, and so I cannot tell how many there are.”

THE ENGLISH STREET BANDS.

Concerning these, a respectable man gave me the following details:--

“I was brought up to the musical profession, and have been a
street-performer 22 years, and I’m now only 26. I sang and played the
guitar in the streets with my mother when I was four years old. We
were greatly patronised by the nobility at that time. It was a good
business when I was a child. A younger brother and I would go out
into the streets for a few hours of an evening, from five to eight,
and make 7_s._ or 8_s._ the two of us. Ours was, and is, the highest
class of street music. For the last ten years I have been a member of
a street band. Our band is now four in number. I have been in bands
of eight, and in some composed of as many as 25; but a small band
answers best for regularity. With eight in the band it’s not easy to
get 3_s._ a-piece on a fine day, and play all day, too. I consider that
there are 1000 musicians now performing in the streets of London; and
as very few play singly, 1000 performers, not reckoning persons who
play with niggers or such-like, will give not quite 250 street bands.
Four in number is a fair average for a street band; but I think the
greater number of bands have more than four in them. All the better
sort of these bands play at concerts, balls, parties, processions,
and water excursions, as well as in the streets. The class of men
in the street bands is, very generally, those who can’t read music,
but play by ear; and their being unable to read music prevents their
obtaining employment in theatres, or places where a musical education
is necessary; and yet numbers of street musicians (playing by ear)
are better instrumentalists than many educated musicians in the
theatres. I only know a few who have left other businesses to become
musicians. The great majority--19-20ths of us, I should say--have been
brought regularly up to be street-performers. Children now are taught
very early, and seldom leave the profession for any other business.
Every year the street musicians increase. The better sort are, I
think, prudent men, and struggle hard for a decent living. All the
street-performers of wind instruments are short-lived. Wind performers
drink more, too, than the others. They must have their mouths wet,
and they need some stimulant or restorative after blowing an hour in
the streets. There are now twice as many wind as stringed instruments
played in the streets; fifteen or sixteen years ago there used to be
more stringed instruments. Within that time new wind instruments have
been used in the streets. Cornopeans, or cornet-à-pistons, came into
vogue about fourteen years ago; opheicleides about ten years ago (I’m
speaking of the streets); and saxhorns about two years since. The
cornopean has now quite superseded the bugle. The worst part of the
street performers, in point of character, are those who play before
or in public-houses. They drink a great deal, but I never heard of
them being charged with dishonesty. In fact, I believe there’s no
honester set of men breathing than street musicians. The better class
of musicians are nearly all married men, and they generally dislike
to teach their wives music; indeed, in my band, and in similar bands,
we wouldn’t employ a man who was teaching his wife music, that she
might play in the streets, and so be exposed to every insult and every
temptation, if she’s young and pretty. Many of the musicians’ wives
have to work very hard with their needles for the slop-shops, and earn
very little in such employ; 3_s._ a-week is reckoned good earnings, but
it all helps. The German bands injure our trade much. They’ll play for
half what we ask. They are very mean, feed dirtily, and the best band
of them, whom I met at Dover, I know slept three in a bed in a common
lodging-house, one of the very lowest. They now block us out of all the
country places to which we used to go in the summer. The German bands
have now possession of the whole coast of Kent and Sussex, and wherever
there are watering-places. I don’t know anything about their morals,
excepting that they don’t drink. An English street-performer in a good
and respectable band will now average 25_s._ a-week the year through.
Fifteen years ago he could have made 3_l._ a-week. Inferior performers
make from 12_s._ to 15_s._ a-week. I consider Regent-street and such
places our best pitches. Our principal patrons in the parties’ line are
tradesmen and professional men, such as attorneys: 10_s._ a-night is
our regular charge.”

THE GERMAN STREET BANDS.

Next come the German Bands. I had the following statement from a
young flaxen-haired and fresh-coloured German, who spoke English very
fairly:--

“I am German, and have been six year in zis country. I was nearly
fourteen when I come. I come from Oberfeld, eighteen miles from
Hanover. I come because I would like to see how it was here. I heard
zat London was a goot place for foreign music. London is as goot a
place as I expect to find him. There was other six come over with me,
boys and men. We come to Hull, and play in ze country about half a
year; we do middling. And zen we come to London. I didn’t make money
at first when I come, I had much to learn; but ze band, oh! it did
well. We was seven. I play ze clarionet, and so did two others; two
play French horns, one ze trambone, and one ze saxhorn. Sometime we
make 7_s._ or 8_s._ a-piece in a-day now, but the business is not so
goot. I reckon 6_s._ a-day is goot now. We never play at fairs, nor
for caravans. We play at private parties or public ball-rooms, and are
paid so much a dance--sixpence a dance for ze seven of us. If zare is
many dances, it is goot; if not, it is bad. We play sheaper zan ze
English, and we don’t spent so much. Ze English players insult us, but
we don’t care about that. Zey abuse us for playing sheap. I don’t know
what zair terms for dances are. I have saved money in zis country, but
very little of it. I want to save enough to take me back to Hanover.
We all live togeder, ze seven of us. We have three rooms to sleep
in, and one to eat in. We are all single men, but one; and his wife,
a German woman, lives wis us, and cooks for us. She and her husband
have a bedroom to themselves. Anysing does for us to eat. We all join
in housekeeping and lodging, and pay alike. Our lodging costs 2_s._
a-week each, our board costs us about 15_s._ a-week each; sometime
rather less. But zat include beer; and ze London beer is very goot, and
sometime we drink a goot deal of it. We drink very little gin, but we
live very well, and have goot meals every day. We play in ze streets,
and I zink most places are alike to us. Ladies and gentlemen are our
best friends; ze working people give us very little. We play opera
tunes chiefly. We don’t associate with any Englishmen. Zare are three
public-houses kept by Germans, where we Germans meet. Sugar-bakers and
other trades are of ze number. There are now five German brass-bands,
with thirty-seven performers in zem, reckoning our own, in London.
Our band lives near Whitechapel. I sink zare is one or two more German
bands in ze country. I sink my countrymen, some of them, save money;
but I have not saved much yet.”

OF THE BAGPIPE PLAYERS.

A well-looking young man, dressed in full Highland costume, with modest
manners and of slow speech, as if translating his words from the Gaelic
before he uttered them, gave me these details:--

“I am a native of Inverness, and a Grant. My father was a soldier, and
a player in the 42nd. In my youth I was shepherd in the hills, until my
father was unable to support me any longer. He had 9_d._ a-day pension
for seventeen years’ service, and had been thrice wounded. He taught me
and my brither the pipes; he was too poor to have us taught any trade,
so we started on our own accounts. We travelled up to London, had only
our pipes to depend upon. We came in full Highland dress. The tartan is
cheap there, and we mak it up oursels. My dress as I sit here, without
my pipes, would cost about 4_l._ in London. Our mithers spin the tartan
in Inverness-shire, and the dress comes to maybe 30_s._, and is better
than the London. My pipes cost me three guineas new. It’s between five
and six years since I first came to London, and I was twenty-four last
November. When I started, I thought of making a fortune in London;
there was such great talk of it in Inverness-shire, as a fine place
with plenty of money; but when I came I found the difference. I was
rather a novelty at first, and did pretty well. I could make 1_l._
a-week then, but now I can’t make 2_s._ a-day, not even in summer.
There are so many Irishmen going about London, and dressed as Scotch
Highlanders, that I really think I could do better as a piper even in
Scotland. A Scotch family will sometimes give me a shilling or two when
they find out I am a Scotchman. Chelsea is my best place, where there
are many Scotchmen. There are now only five real Scotch Highlanders
playing the bagpipes in the streets of London, and seven or eight
Irishmen that I know of. The Irishmen do better than I do, because they
have more face. We have our own rooms. I pay 4_s._ a-week for an empty
room, and have my ain furniture. We are all married men, and have no
connexion with any other street musicians. ‘Tullochgorum,’ ‘Moneymusk,’
‘The Campbells are comin’,’ and ‘Lord Macdonald’s Reel,’ are among the
performances best liked in London. I’m very seldom insulted in the
streets, and then mostly by being called an Irishman, which I don’t
like; but I pass it off just as well as I can.”

SCOTCH PIPER AND DANCING-GIRL.

“I was full corporal in the 93rd Southern Highlanders, and I can get
the best of characters from my commanding officers. If I couldn’t get
a good character I wouldn’t be orderly to the colonel; and wherever he
and the lady went, I was sure to be with them. Although I used to wear
the colonel’s livery, yet I had the full corporal’s stripes on my coat.
I was first orderly to Colonel Sparkes of the 93rd. He belonged to
Dublin, and he was the best colonel that ever belonged to a regiment.
After he died I was orderly to Colonel Aynsley. This shows I must
have been a good man, and have a good character. Colonel Aynsley was
a good friend to me, and he always gave me my clothes, like his other
private servants. The orderly’s post is a good one, and much sought
after, for it exempts you from regimental duty. Colonel Aynsley was a
severe man on duty, but he was a good colonel after all. If he wasn’t
to be a severe man he wouldn’t be able to discharge the post he had
to discharge. Off duty he was as kind as anybody could be. There was
no man he hated more than a dirty soldier. He wouldn’t muddle a man
for being drunk, not a quarter so much as for dirty clothing. I was
reckoned the cleanest soldier in the regiment; for if I was out in a
shower of rain, I’d polish up my brass and pipeclay my belt, to make it
look clean again. Besides, I was very supple and active, and many’s the
time Colonel Aynsley has sent me on a message, and I have been there
and back, and when I’ve met him he’s scolded me for not having gone,
for I was back so quick he thought I hadn’t started.

“Whilst I was in the regiment I was attacked with blindness; brought
on, I think, by cold. There was a deserter, that the policemen took up
and brought to our barracks at Weedon, where the 93rd was stationed in
1852. It was very wet weather, and he was brought in without a stitch
on him, in a pair of breeches and a miserable shirt--that’s all. He was
away two years, but he was always much liked. No deserters ever escape.
We made a kit up for this man in less than twenty minutes. One gave him
a kilt, another a coat, and I gave him the shoes off my feet, and then
went to the regiment stores and got me another pair. Soldiers always
help one another; it’s their duty to such a poor, miserable wretch as
he was.

“This deserter was tried by court-martial, and he got thirty-one days
in prison, and hard labour. He’d have had three months, only he gave
himself up. He was so weak with lying out, that the doctor wouldn’t
let him be flogged. He’d have had sixty lashes if he’d been strong.
Ah! sixty is nothing. I’ve seen one hundred and fifty given. When this
man was marched off to Warwick gaol I commanded the escort, and it
was a very severe day’s rain that day, for it kept on from six in the
morning till twelve at night. It was a twenty-one miles’ march; and
we started at six in the morning, and arrived at Warwick by four in
the afternoon. The prisoner was made to march the distance in the same
clothes as when he gave himself up. He had only a shirt and waistcoat
on his back, and that got so wet, I took off my greatcoat and gave
it to him to wear to warm him. They wouldn’t let him have the kit of
clothes made up for him by the regiment till he came out of prison.
From giving him my greatcoat I caught a severe cold. I stood up by a
public-house fire and dried my coat and kilt, and the cold flew to the
small of my back. After we had delivered our prisoner at Warwick we
walked on to Coventry--that’s ten miles more. We did thirty-one miles
that day in the rain. After we got back to barracks I was clapped in
hospital. I was there twenty-one days. The doctor told me I shouldn’t
leave it for twenty-eight days, but I left it in twenty-one, for I
didn’t like to be in that same place. My eyes got very blood-shot, and
I lost the sight of them. I was very much afraid that I’d never see a
sight with my eyes, and I was most miserable. I used to be, too, all
of a tremble with a shiver of cold. I only stopped in the regiment
for thirty-one days after I came out of hospital, and then I had my
discharge. I could just see a little. It was my own fault that I had
my discharge, for I thought I could do better to cure myself by going
to the country doctors. The men subscribed for me all the extra money
of their pay,--that’s about 4_d._ each man,--and it made me up 10_l._
When I told Colonel Aynsley of this, says he, ‘Upon my word, M‘Gregor,
I’m as proud of it as if I had 20,000_l._’ He gave me a sovereign out
of his own pocket. Besides that, I had as many kilts given me as have
lasted me up to this time. My boy is wearing the last of ’em now.

“At Oxford I went to a doctor, and he did me a deal of good; for now I
can read a book, if the thread of it isn’t too small. I can read the
Prayer-book, or Bible, or newspaper, just for four hours, and then I go
dim.

“I’ve served in India, and I was at the battles of Punjaub, 1848, and
Moultan, 1849. Sir Colin Campbell commanded us at both, and says he,
‘Now, my brave 93rd, none of your nonsense here, for it must be death
and glory here to-day;’ and then Serjeant Cameron says, ‘The men are
all right, Sir Colin, but they’re afraid you won’t be in the midst of
them;’ and says he, ‘Not in the midst of them! I’ll be here in ten
minutes.’ Sir Colin will go in anywhere; he’s as brave an officer as
any in the service. He’s the first into the fight and the last out of
it.

“Although I had served ten years, and been in two battles, yet I was
not entitled to a pension. You must serve twenty-one years to be
entitled to 1_s._ 0-1/2_d._ I left the 93rd in 1852, and since that
time I’ve been wandering about the different parts of England and
Scotland, playing on the bagpipes. I take my daughter Maria about with
me, and she dances whilst I play to her. I leave my wife and family in
town. I’ve been in London three weeks this last time I visited it. I’ve
been here plenty of times before. I’ve done duty in Hyde-Park before
the 46th came here.

“I left the army just two years before the war broke out, and I’d
rather than twenty thousand pounds I’d been in my health to have gone
to the Crimea, for I’d have had more glory after that war than ever
any England was in. Directly I found the 93rd was going out, I went
twice to try and get back to my old regiment; but the doctor inspected
me, and said I wouldn’t be fit for service again. I was too old at the
time, and my health wasn’t good, although I could stand the cold far
better than many hundreds of them that were out there, for I never
wear no drawers, only my kilt, and that very thin, for it’s near worn.
Nothing at all gives me cold but the rain.

“The last time I was in London was in May. My daughter dances the
Highland fling and the sword-dance called ‘Killim Callam.’ That’s the
right Highland air to the dance--with two swords laid across each
other. I was a good hand at it before I got stiff. I’ve done it before
all the regiment. We’d take two swords from the officers and lay them
down when they’ve been newly ground. I’ve gone within the eighth of an
inch of them, and never cut my shoe. Can you cut your shoes? aye, and
your toes, too, if you’re not lithe. My brother was the best dancer in
the army: so the Duke of Argyle and his lady said. At one of the prize
meetings at Blair Athol, one Tom Duff, who is as good a dancer as from
this to where he is, says he, ‘There’s ne’er a man of the Macgregor
clan can dance against me to-day!’ and I, knowing my brother Tom--he
was killed at Inkermann in the 93rd--was coming, says I, ‘Don’t be
sure of that, Tom Duff, for there’s one come every inch of the road
here to-day to try it with you.’ He began, and he took an inch off his
shoes, and my brother never cut himself at all; and he won the prize.

“My little girl dances that dance. She does it pretty, but I’d be
rather doubtful about letting her come near the swords, for fear she’d
be cutting herself, though I know she could do it at a pinch, for she
can be dancing across two baccy-pipes without breaking them. When I’m
in the streets, she always does it with two baccy-pipes. She can dance
reels, too, such as the Highland fling and the reel Hoolow. They’re the
most celebrated.

“Whenever I go about the country I leave my wife and family in London,
and go off with my girl. I send them up money every week, according
to what I earn. Every farthing that I can spare I always send up. I
always, when I’m travelling, make the first part of my journey down
to Hull in Yorkshire. On my road I always stop at garrison towns, and
they always behave very well to me. If they’ve a penny they’ll give
it to me, either English, Scotch, or Irish regiments; or I’d as soon
meet the 23d Welsh Fusiliers as any, for they’ve all been out with me
on service. At Hull there is a large garrison, and I always reckon
on getting 3_s._ or 4_s._ from the barracks. When I’m travelling, it
generally comes to 15_s._ a-week, and out of that I manage to send the
wife 10_s._ and live on 5_s._ myself. I have to walk all the way, for
I wouldn’t sit on a rail or a cart for fear I should lose the little
villages off the road. I can do better in many of them than I can in
many of the large towns. I tell them I am an old soldier. I don’t go
to the cottages, but to the gentlemen’s houses. Many of the gentlemen
have been in the army, and then they soon tell whether I have been
in service. Some have asked me the stations I have been at, and who
commanded us; and then they’ll say, ‘This man is true enough, and every
word of it is truth.’

“I’ve been in Balmoral many a dozen of times. Many a time I’ve passed
by it when it was an old ruin, and fit for nothing but the ravens and
the owls. Balmoral is the fourth oldest place in Scotland. It was built
before any parts of Christianity came into the country at all. I’ve
an old book that gives an account of all the old buildings entirely,
and a very old book it is. Edinbro’ Castle is the oldest building, and
then Stirling Castle, and then Perth Castle, and then Balmoral. I’ve
been there twice since the Queen was there. If I’d see any of the old
officers that I knew at Balmoral, I’d play then, and they might give me
something. I went there more for curiosity, and I went to see the Queen
come out. She was always very fond of the 93rd. They’d fight for her in
any place, for there isn’t a man discharged after this war but they’re
provided for.

“I do pretty well in London, taking my 4_s._ a-day, but out of that
I must pay 1_s._ 9_d._ a-week lodging-money, for I can’t go into
apartments, for if I did it would be but poorly furnished, for I’ve no
beds, or furniture, or linen.

“I can live in Scotland much cheaper than here. I can give the children
a good breakfast of oatmeal-porridge every morning, and that will in
seven weeks make them as fat as seven years of tea and coffee will do
here. Besides, in Scotland, I can buy a very pretty little stand-up
bedstead for 2_s._, which here would come to 4_s._ I’m thinking of
sending my family down to Scotland, and sending them the money I earn
in London. They’ll have to walk to Hull and then take the boat. They
can get to Aberdeen from there. We shall have to work the money on the
road.

“When I go out working with the little girl, I get out about nine in
the summer and ten in the winter. I can’t work much more than four
hours a-day on the pipes, for the blowing knocks me up and leaves me
very weak. No, it don’t hurt my chest, but I’ll be just quite weak.
That’s from my bad health. I’ve never had a day’s health ever since I
left the regiment. I have pains in my back and stitches in the side. My
girl can’t dance without my playing, so that when I give over she must
give over too. I sometimes go out with two of my daughters. Lizzy don’t
dance, only Maria. I never ax anybody for money. Anybody that don’t
like to give we never ax them.

“I can’t eat meat, for it won’t rest on my stomach, and there’s nothing
I take that goes so well with me as soup. I live principally on bread,
for coffee or tea won’t do for me at all. If I could get a bit of meat
that I like, such as a small fowl, or the like of that, it would do
with me very well; but either bacon or beef, or the like of that, is
too strong for me. I’m obliged to be very careful entirely with what
I eat, for I’m sick. A lady gave me a bottle of good old foreign port
about three months ago, and I thought it did me more good than all the
meat in the world.

“When I’m in London I make about 4_s._ a-day, and when I’m in the
country about 15_s._ a-week. My old lady couldn’t live when I travel
if it wasn’t for my boy, who goes out and gets about 1_s._ a-day.
Lord Panmure is very good to him, and gives him something whenever he
meets him. I wouldn’t get such good health if I stopped in London. Now
there’s Barnet, only eleven miles from St. Giles’s, and yet I can get
better health in London than I can there, on account of it’s being on
rising ground and fresh air coming into it every minute.

“I never be a bit bad with the cold. It never makes me bad. I’ve been
in Canada with the 93d in the winter. In the year ’43 was a very
fearful winter indeed, and we were there, and the men didn’t seem to
suffer anything from the cold, but were just as well as in any other
climate or in England. They wore the kilt and the same dress as in
summer. Some of them wore the tartan trowsers when they were not on
duty or parade, but the most of them didn’t--not one in a dozen, for
they looked upon it as like a woman. There’s nothing so good for the
cold as cold water. The men used to bathe their knees and legs in the
cold water, and it would make them ache for the time, but a minute
or two afterwards they were all right and sweating. I’ve many a time
gone into the water up to my neck in the coldest days of the year, and
then when I came out and dried myself, and put on my clothes, I’d be
sweating afterwards. There can’t be a better thing for keeping away
the rheumatism. It’s a fine thing for rheumatism and aches to rub the
part with cold frosty water or snow. It makes it leave him and knocks
the pains out of his limbs. Now, in London, when my hands are so cold
I can’t play on my pipes, I go to a pump and wash them in the frosty
water, and then dry them and rub them together, and then they’re as
warm as ever. The more a man leans to the fire the worse he is after.
It was leaning to a fire that gave me my illness.

“The chanter of the pipes I play on has been in my family very near 450
years. It’s the oldest in Scotland, and is a heir-loom in our family,
and they wouldn’t part with it for any money. Many’s a time the Museum
in Edinburgh has wanted me to give it to them, but I won’t give it to
any one till I find myself near death, and then I’ll obligate them to
keep it. Most likely my youngest son will have it, for he’s as steady
as a man. You see, the holes for the fingers is worn as big round as
sixpences, and they’re quite sharp at the edges. The ivory at the end
is the same original piece as when the pipe was made. It’s breaking
and splitting with age, and so is the stick. I’ll have my name and
the age of the stick engraved on the sole of the ivory, and then, if
my boy seems neglectful of the chanter, I’ll give it to the Museum at
Edinburgh. I’ll have German silver rings put round the stick, to keep
it together, and then, with nice waxed thread bound round it, it will
last for centuries yet.

“This chanter was made by old William McDonnall, who’s been dead these
many hundred years. He was one of the best pipe-makers that’s in all
Scotland. There’s a brother of mine has a set of drones made by him,
and he wouldn’t give them for any sit of money. Everybody in Scotland
knows William McDonnall. Ask any lad, and he’ll tell you who was the
best pipe-maker that ever lived in Scotland--aye, and ever will live.
There’s many a farmer in Scotland would give 30_l._ for a set of pipes
by old William McDonnall, sooner than they’d give 30_s._ for a set
of pipes made now. This chanter has been in our family ever since
McDonnall made it. It’s been handed down from father to son from that
day to this. They always give it to the eldest. William McDonnall
lived to be 143 years old, and this is the last chanter he made. A
gentleman in London, who makes chanters, once gave me a new one, merely
for letting him take a model of my old one, with the size of the bore
and the place for the holes. You tell a good chanter by the tone, and
some is as sweet as a piano. My old chanter has got rather too sharp
by old age, and it’s lost its tone; for when a stick gets too sharp a
sound, it’s never no good. This chanter was played by my family in the
battles of Wallace and Bruce, and at the battle of Bannockburn, and
every place whenever any of the Macgregor clan fought. These are the
traditions given from family to family. I heard it from my father, and
now I tell my lads, and they know it as well as I do myself. My great
grandfather played on this stick when Charley Stuart, the Pretender,
came over to Scotland from France, and he played on it before the
Prince himself, at Stirling and the Island of Skye, and at Preston Pans
and Culloden. It was at Preston Pans that the clans were first formed,
and could be told by their tartans--the Macgregors, and the Stuart, and
the Macbeths, and the Camerons, and all of them. I had three brothers
older than me, but I’ve got this chanter, for I begged it of them. It’s
getting too old to play on, and I’ll have a copper box made for it, and
just carry it at my side, if God is good to me, and gives me health to
live three weeks.

“About my best friends in London are the French people,--they are
the best I can meet, they come next to the Highlanders. When I meet
a Highlander he will, if he’s only just a labouring man, give me a
few coppers. A Highlander will never close his eye upon me. It’s the
Lowlander that is the worst to me. They never takes no notice of me
when I’m passing: they’ll smile and cast an eye as I pass by. Many
a time I’ll say to them when they pass, ‘Well, old chap, you don’t
like the half-naked men, I know you don’t!’ and many will say, ‘No, I
don’t!’ I never play the pipes when I go through the Lowlands,--I’d as
soon play poison to them. They never give anything. It’s the Lowlanders
that get the Scotch a bad name for being miserable, and keeping their
money, and using small provision. They’re a disgrace to their country.

“The Highlander spends his money as free as a duke. If a man in the
93rd had a shilling in his pocket, it was gone before he could turn
it twice. All the Lowlanders would like to be Highlanders if they
could, and they learn Gaelic, and then marry Highland lassies, so as
to become Highlanders. They have some clever regiments composed out of
the Lowlanders, but they have only three regiments and the Highlanders
have seven; yet there’s nearly three to one more inhabitants in the
Lowlands. It’s a strange thing, they’d sooner take an Irishman into a
Highland regiment than a Lowlander. They owe them such a spleen, they
don’t like them. Bruce was a Lowlander, and he betrayed Wallace; and
the Duke of Buccleuch, who was a Lowlander, betrayed Stuart.

“I never go playing at public-houses, for I don’t like such places. I
am not a drinker, for as much whisky as will fill a teaspoon will lay
me up for a day. If I take anything, it’s a sup of porter. I went once
into a public-house, and there was a woman drinking in it, and she was
drunk. It was the landlord told me to come inside. She told me to leave
the house, and I said the master told me to come: then she took up one
of these pewter pots and hit me in the forehead. It was very sore for
three weeks afterwards, and made a hole. I wouldn’t prosecute her.

“My little boy that goes about is fourteen years old, and he’s as
straight and well-formed as if he was made of wax-work. He’s the one
that shall have the chanter, if anybody does; but I’m rather doubtful
about it, for he’s not steady enough, and I think I’ll leave it to a
museum.

“If I had a good set of pipes, there’s not many going about the streets
could play better; but my pipes are not in good order. I’ve got three
tunes for one that the Queen’s piper plays; and I can play in a far
superior style, for he plays in the military style. McKay, the former
piper to her majesty, he was reckoned as good a player as there is
in Scotland. I knew him very well, and many and many a time I’ve
played with him. He was took bad in the head and obliged to go back to
Scotland. He is in the Isle of Skye now. I belong to Peterhead. If I
had a good set of pipes I wouldn’t be much afraid of playing with any
of the pipers.

“In the country towns I would sometimes be called into Highland
gentlemen’s houses, to play to them, but never in London.

“I make all my reeds myself to put in the stick. I make them of Spanish
cane. It’s the outer glazed bark of it. The nearer you go to the shiny
part, the harder the reed is, and the longer it lasts. In Scotland they
use the Spanish cane. I have seen a man, at one time, who made a reed
out of a piece of white thorn, and it sounded as well as ever a reed I
saw sound; but I never see a man who could make them, only one.”

ANOTHER BAGPIPE PLAYER.

“My father is a Highlander, and was born in Argyllshire, and there,
when he was 14 or 15, he enlisted for a piper into the 92nd. They wear
the national costume in that regiment--the Campbell tartan. Father
married whilst he was in Scotland. We are six in family now, and my big
brother is 17, and I’m getting on for 15--a little better than 14. We
and another brother of 10, all of us, go about the streets playing the
bagpipes.

“Father served in India. It was after I was born (and so was my other
brother of 10) that the regiment was ordered over there. Mother came up
to England to see him off, and she has stopped in London ever since.
Father lost a leg in the Punjaub war, and now he receives a pension
of 1_s._ a-day. Mother had a very bad time of it whilst father was
away; I don’t know the reason why, but father didn’t send her any
money. All her time was taken up looking after us at home, so she
couldn’t do any work. The parish allowed her some money. She used to
go for some food every week. I can remember when we were so hard up.
We lived principally on bread and potatoes. At last mother told Jim he
had better go out in the streets and play the bagpipes, to see what
he could pick up. Father had left some pipes behind him, small ones,
what he learnt to play upon. Jim wasn’t dressed up in the Highland
costume as he is now. He did very well the first time he went out; he
took about 10_s._ or so. When mother saw that she was very pleased,
and thought she had the Bank of England tumbled into her lap. Jim
continued going out every day until father came home. After father lost
his leg he came home again. He had been absent about eighteen months.
The pipers always go into action with the regiment. When they are
going into the field they play in front of the regiment, but when the
fighting begins they go to the side. He never talks about his wound.
I never heard him talk about it beyond just what I’ve said; as to how
they go into war and play the regiment into the field. I never felt
much curiosity to ask him about it, for I’m out all day long and until
about 10 o’clock at night, and when I get home I’m too tired to talk; I
never think about asking him how he was wounded.

“When father came home from India he brought 10_l._ with him. He
didn’t get his pension not till he got his medal, and that was a good
while after--about a year after, I should say. This war they gave
the pension directly they got home, but the other war they didn’t.
Jim still continued playing in the streets. Then father made him a
Highland suit out of his old regimentals. He did better then; indeed
he one day brought home a pound, and never less than five, or nine
or ten, shillings. Next, father made me a suit, and I used to go out
with Jim and dance the fling to his bagpipes. I usen’t to take no
carpet with me, but dance in the middle of the road. I wear father’s
regimental-belt to this day, only he cut it down smaller for me.
Here’s his number at the end of it, 62, and the date, 1834--so it’s
twenty-two years old, and it’s strong and good now, only it’s been
white buff leather, and my father’s blacked it. We didn’t take much
more money going out together, but we took it quicker and got home
sooner. Besides, it was a help to mother to get rid of me. We still
took about 10_s._ a-day, but it got lesser and lesser after a time. It
was a couple of years after we come out that it got lesser. People got
stingier, or perhaps they was accustomed to see us, and was tired of
the dancing. Whilst I was doing the dancing, father, when I got home
of a night, used to teach me the bagpipes. It took me more than twelve
months to learn to play. Now I’m reckoned a middling player.

“When I could play I went out with my big brother, and we played
together; we did the tunes both together. No, I didn’t do a bass, or
anything of that; we only played louder when we was together, and so
made more noise, and so got more attention. In the day-time we walked
along the streets playing. We did better the two playing together than
when I danced. Sometimes gentlemen would tell us to come to their
houses and play to ’em. We’ve often been to General Campbell’s and
played to him, whilst he was at dinner sometimes, or sometimes after.
We had 5_s._ or half-a-sovereign, according to the time we stopped
there. There was about six or seven gentlemen like this, and we go to
their houses and play for them. We get from one shilling to five for
each visit. When we go inside and play to them it’s never less than
5_s._ They are all Scotch gentlemen that we go to see, but we have done
it for one Englishman, but he’s the only one.

“When my little brother John was old enough to go out, father made him
a Highland suit, and then he went out along with my big brother and
danced to his playing, and I went out by myself. I did pretty well, but
not so well as when I was with Jim. We neither did so well as when we
were together, but putting both our earnings together we did better,
for the two separated took more than the two joined.

“My little sister Mary has been out with me for the last month. Father
made her a suit. It’s a boy’s, and not a girl’s costume, and she goes
along with me. Whilst I play, she goes up to ladies and gentlemen
and asks for the money. They generally give her something. She never
says anything, only makes a bow and holds out her little hand. It was
father’s notion to send her out. He said, ‘She may as well go out with
one of you as be stopping at home.’ She stops out as long as I do. She
doesn’t get tired, at least she never tells me she is. I always carry
her home at night on my back. She is eight years old, and very fond of
me. I buy her cakes as we go along. We dine anywhere we can. We have
bread and cheese, and sometimes bread and meat. Besides, she’s very
often called over and given something to eat. I’ve got regular houses
where they always give me dinner. There’s one in Eaton-place where
the servants are Scotch, and at the Duke of Argyle’s, out Kensington
way, and another at York-terrace, Camden-town. It’s generally from
Scotch servants I get the food, except at the Duke’s, and he orders me
a dinner whenever I come that way. It ain’t the Lowland Scotch give
me the food, only the Highland Scotch. Highlanders don’t talk with a
drawl, only Lowlanders. I can tell a Highlander in a minute. I speak a
few words of Gaelic to him.

“So you see I never have occasion to buy my dinner, unless I’m out at
a place where I am too far to go, but I generally work up to my eating
places.

“It’s about three years now since I’ve been out playing the pipe. Jim
and Johnny go together, and I go with Mary. Between the two we take
about 5_s._ a-day, excepting on Saturdays. I get home by ten, and have
supper and then go to bed; but Jim he sometimes doesn’t come till very
late, about one in the morning. At night we generally go down to the
Haymarket, and play before the public-houses. The ladies and gentlemen
both give us money. We pick up more at night-time than in the day. Some
of the girls then make the gentlemen give us money. They’ll say, ‘Give
the little fellow a penny.’ The highest I ever had given me at one
time was a Scotch lady at a hotel in Jermyn-street, and she gave me a
sovereign. I’ve often had half-a-crown give me in the Haymarket. It’s
always from Scotch gentlemen. English have given me a shilling, but
never more; and nearly all we take is from Scotch people. Jim says the
same thing, and I always found it so.

“I’ve had a whole mob round me listening. Some of them will ask for
this tune, and some for that. I play all Scotch tunes. ‘The Campbells
are coming’ is the chief air they like. Some ask for the ‘Loch Harbour
no more.’ That’s a sentimental air. ‘The Highland Fling,’ that is very
popular; ‘Money Musk,’ and the ‘Miss Drummond of Perth’ is another they
like very much. Another great favourite is ‘Maggie Lauder.’ That’s a
song. When I play in a gentleman’s room I don’t put the drone on, but
only play on the chanter, or what you would call the flute part of it.
I cut off the drone, by putting the finger in the tall pipe that stands
up against the shoulder, which we call the drone pipe. The wind goes
up there; and if you stop it up, it don’t sound. A bagpipes has got
five pipes--the chanter, the drone pipe, the two tenor pipes, and the
blow-stick, through which you send the wind into the bag, which is of
sheep-skin, covered with green baize. Every set of pipes is all alike.
That’s the true Highland pipe. When I’m playing in the streets I put
the drone on, and I can be heard miles off. I’ve very often had a horse
shy at me. He won’t pass me sometimes, or if they do, they shy at me.

“I get the reeds which go inside my pipes, and which make the noise,
from the Duke of Argyle’s piper. He’s a good friend to me, and very
fond of me. They’re made of thin pieces of split cane, and it’s the
wind going through them that makes them jar and give the music. Before
I play, I have to wet them. They last me six or seven months, if I take
care of them. The Duke of Argyle’s piper never grumbles when I go for
new ones. When I go to him he makes me play to him, to see how I’ve
got on with my music. He’s a splendid player, and plays from books.
I play by ear. His pipes are of ebony, and with a silver chanter or
flute-pipe. He plays every day to the Duke while he’s at dinner. My
pipes are made out of cocoa-nut wood.

“I know the Duke very well. He’s very kind to his clan. He’s Campbell
clan, and so am I. He never spoke to me; but he told the servants to
give me dinner every time I came that way. The servants told me the
Duke had promised me my dinner every time I came. When I touch my
bonnet, he always nods to me. He never gave me only a shilling once,
but always my dinner. That’s better for me.

“I wear the regular Highland costume, but I don’t wear the Campbell
plaid, only the Stuart, because it’s cheaper. My kilt ain’t a regular
one, because it’s too dear for me. In a soldier’s kilt it’s reckoned
there’s thirty-two yards; mine has only got two and a half. My philibeg
ought by rights to be of badgers’ skin, with a badger’s head on the
top, and with tassels set in brass caps; but my philibeg is only
sheep-skin. The centre is made up to look like the real one. Father
makes all our clothes. He makes the jackets, and the belts even, down
to the German silver buckles, with the slide and the tip. He cuts them
out of sheet metal. He casts our buttons, too, in pewter. They are
square ones, you see, with a Highlander on them. He makes our shoes,
too, with the little buckle in front. Mother knits the stockings. They
are mixed--red and blue mixed. I wear out about three a-year. She
makes about twelve pairs a-year for us all. We buy our tartan and our
bonnets, but make the pewter thistles at the side and the brooch which
fastens the scarf on one shoulder. A suit of clothes lasts about twelve
months, so that father has to make four suits a-year for us all; that
is for Jim, myself, Johnny, and Mary. The shoes last, with repairing,
twelve months. There’s twenty buttons on each coat. Father has always
got something to do, repairing our clothes. He’s not able to go out for
his leg, or else he’d go out himself; and he’d do well playing, for
he’s a first-rate piper, but not so good as the Duke’s.

“We go about with our bare legs, and no drawers on. I never feel cold
of my legs; only of my fingers, with playing. I never go cold in the
legs. None of the Highlanders ever wear drawers; and none but the rich
in Scotland wear stockings and shoes, so that their legs are altogether
bare.

“When I’m marching through the streets, and playing on the pipes, I
always carry my head high up in the air, and throw my legs out well.
The boys will follow for miles--some of them. The children very often
lose theirselves from following me such a way. Even when I haven’t
my pipes with me the boys will follow me in a mob. I’ve never been
ill-treated by boys, but a drunken man, often on a Saturday night,
gives me a push or a knock. You see, they’ll begin dancing around me,
and then a mob will collect, and that sets the police unto me; so I
always play a slow tune when drunken men come up, and then they can’t
dance. They’ll ask for a quick tune, and as I won’t play one, they’ll
hit me or push me about. The police never interfere unless a mob
collects, and then they are obliged, by their regulations, to interfere.

“I never carried a dirk, or a sword, or any thing of that. My brother
used to have one in his stocking; but one day he was called up into a
public house, where there was a lot of French butlers and footmen, and
they would have him to play; and when he had for some time they begun
to pull him about, and they broke his pipes and snapped the chanter in
two; so Jim pulled out his dirk, and they got frightened. They tried
to take it from him, but they couldn’t. He’s a bold fellow, and would
do anything when he’s in a passion. He’d have stuck one of the French
fellows if he could. When father heard of it he took the dirk away, for
fear Jim should get into mischief.

“When I’ve been playing the pipes for long I get very thirsty. It’s
continually blowing into the bag. I very seldom go and get any beer;
only at dinner half-a-pint. I go to a pump and have a drink of water.
At first it made me feel sick, blowing so much; but I very soon got
used to it. It always made me feel very hungry, blowing all day long; I
could eat every two or three hours. It makes your eyes very weak, from
the strain on them. When I first went out with my brother, playing, I
used to have to leave off every now and then and have a rest, for it
made my head ache. The noise doesn’t affect the hearing, nor has it
Jim: but my father’s quite deaf of the left ear, where the drones goes.
I never have the drones on, only very seldom. When I have them on I
can’t hear anything for a few seconds after I leave off playing.

“Sometimes, of wet nights, I go into public-houses and play. Some
publicans won’t let you, for the instrument is almost too loud for a
room. If there’s a Scotchman in the tap-room he’ll give me something. I
do well when there’s good company. I only go there when it rains, for
my usual stand of an evening is in the Haymarket.

“The bagpipes I play on were sent from Edinburgh. Father wrote for
them, and they cost 30_s._ They are the cheapest made. There are some
sets go as high as a 100_l._ They are mounted with gold and silver. The
Duke of Argyle’s piper must have paid 100_l._ for his, I should say,
for they are in silver. The bag is covered with velvet and silk fringe.
There’s eight notes in a long pipes. You can’t play them softly, and
they must go their own force.

“I know all those pipers who regular goes about playing the pipes in
London. There’s only four, with me and my brother--two men and us two.
Occasionally one may pass through London, but they don’t stop here more
than a day or two. I know lots of them who are travelling about the
country. There’s about twenty in all. I take about 15_s._ a-week, and
Jim does the same. That’s clear of all expenses, such as for dinner,
and so on. We sometimes take more, but it’s very odd that we seldom has
a good week both of us together. If he has a good week, most likely
I don’t. It comes, taking all the year round, to about 15_s._ a-week
each. We both of us give whatever we may earn to father. We never go
out on a Sunday. Whenever I can get home by eight o’clock I go to a
night-school, and I am getting on pretty well with my reading and
writing. Sometimes I don’t go to school for a week together. It’s
generally on the Wednesday and Thursday nights that I can get to
school, for they are the worst nights for working in the streets. Our
best nights are Saturday and Monday, and then I always take about 5_s._
Tuesday it comes to about 3_s._; but on Wednesday, and Thursday, and
Friday, it don’t come to more than 2_s._ 6_d._; that’s if I am pretty
lucky; but some nights I don’t take above 6_d._; and that’s how I put
it down at 15_s._ a-week, taking the year round. Father never says
anything if I don’t take any money home, for he knows I’ve been looking
out for it: but if he thought I’d been larking and amusing myself, most
likely he’d be savage.”

FRENCH HURDY-GURDY PLAYER, WITH DANCING CHILDREN.

“I play on the same instrument as the Savoyards play, only, you
understand, you can have good and bad instruments; and to have a good
one you must put the price. The one I play on cost me 60 francs in
Paris. There are many more handsome, but none better. This is all that
there is of the best. The man who made it has been dead sixty years. It
is the time that makes the value of it.

“My wife plays on the violin. She is a very good player. I am her
second husband. She is an Italian by birth. She played on the violin
when she was with her first husband. He used to accompany her on the
organ, and that produced a very fine effect.

“The hurdy-gurdy is like the violin--it improves with age. My wife
told me that she once played on a very old violin, and the difference
between that and her own was curious for sound. She was playing, with
her husband accompanying her on the organ, near the château of an old
marquis; and when he heard the sound of the violin he asked them in.
Then he said, ‘Here, try my violin,’ and handed her the old violin. My
wife said that when she touched it with the bow, she cried, ‘Ah, how
fine it is!’ It was the greatest enjoyment she had known for years. You
understand, the good violins all bridge where the bridge is placed, but
the new violins sink there, and the tune is altered by it. They call
the violins that sink ‘consumptive’ ones.

“I am Dijon. The vineyard of Clos Nangent is near to Dijon. You have
heard of that wine. Oh, yes, of course you have! That clos belongs to a
young man of twenty-two, and he could sell it for 2,500,000 francs if
he liked. At Dijon the bottles sell for 7 francs.

“My mother and father did not live happily together. My father died
when I had three years, and then my mother, who had only twenty years
of age, married again, and you know how it often happens, the second
father does not love the first family of his wife. Some Savoyards
passed through our village, and I was sold to them. I was their slave
for ten years. I learnt to play the hurdy-gurdy with them. I used to
accompany an organ. I picked out note for note with the organ. When I
heard an air, too, which I liked, I used to go to my room and follow
the air from my memory upon the instrument. I went to Paris afterwards.

“You see I play on only one string in my hurdy-gurdy. Those which
the Savoyards play have several strings, and that is what makes them
drone. The hurdy-gurdy is the same as the violin in principle. You see
the wheel of wood which I turn with the handle is like its bow, for
it grates on the string, and the keys press on the string like the
fingers, and produce the notes. I used to play on a droning hurdy-gurdy
at first, but one night I went into a café at Paris, and the gentlemen
there cried out, ‘Ah! the noise!’ Then I thought to myself--I had
fifteen years--if I play on one string it will not produce so much
noise as on two. Then I removed one string, and when I went the next
night the gentlemen said, ‘Ah, that is much better!’ and that is why I
play on one string.

“I used to sing in Paris. I learnt all that of new in the style of
romances, and I accompanied myself on my hurdy-gurdy. At Paris I met
my wife. She was a widow then. I told her that I would marry her when
her mourning was over, which lasted nine months. I was not twenty
then. I went about playing at the cafés, and put by money. But when we
went to be married, the priests would not marry us unless we had our
parents’ consents. I did not know whether my mother was dead. I hunted
everywhere. As I could not find out, I lived with my wife the same as
if we had been married. I am married to her now, but my children were
all born before marriage. At last I went to the Catholic priest at
Dover, and told him my life, and that I had four children, and wished
to marry my wife, and he consented to marry us if I would get the
consent of the priest of the place where I had lived last. That was
Calais, and I wrote to the priest there, and he gave his consent, and
now my children are legitimate. By the law of France, a marriage makes
legitimate all the children born by the woman with whom you are united.
My children were present at my marriage, and that produced a very droll
effect. I have always been faithful to my wife, and she to me, though
we were not married.

“When my wife is well, she goes out with me, and plays on the violin.
It produces a very good effect. She plays the seconds. But she has so
much to do at home with the children, that she does not come out with
me much.

“My age is twenty-five, and I have voyaged for seventeen years. There
are three months since I came in England. I was at Calais and at
Boulogne, and it is there that I had the idea to come to England. Many
persons who counselled us, told us that in England we should gain a
great deal of money. That is why I came. It took three weeks before
I could get the permission to be married, and during that time I
worked at the different towns. I did pretty well at Dover; and after
that I went to Ramsgate, and I did very well there. Yes, I took a
great deal of money on the sands of a morning. I have been married a
month now--for I left Ramsgate to go to be married. At Ramsgate they
understood my playing. Unless I have educated people to play to, I do
not make much success with my instrument. I play before a public-house,
or before a cottage, and they say, ‘That’s all very well;’ but they
do not know that to make a hurdy-gurdy sound like a violin requires
great art and patience. Besides, I play airs from operas, and they do
not know the Italian music. Now if I was alone with my hurdy-gurdy, I
should only gain a few pence; but it is by my children that I do pretty
well.

“We came to London when the season was over in the country, and now
we go everywhere in the town. I cannot speak English; but I have my
address in my pocket, if I lose myself. _Je m’elance dans la ville._
To day I went by a big park, where there is a château of the Queen.
If I lose my way, I show my written address, and they go on speaking
English, and show me the way to go. I don’t understand the English, but
I do the pointed finger; and when I get near home, then I recognise the
quarter.

“My little girl will have six years next February, and the little boy
is only four years and a-half. She is a very clever little girl, and
she notices everything. Before I was married, she heard me speaking to
my wife about when we were to be married; and she’d say, constantly,
‘Ah, papa, when are you going to be married to mamma?’ We had a pudding
on our marriage-day, and she liked it so much that now she very often
says, ‘Oh, papa, I should like a pudding like that I had when you
married mamma.’ That is compromising, but she doesn’t know any better.

“It was my little girl Eugénie who taught her brother Paul to dance. He
liked it very much; but he is young yet, and heavy in his movements;
but she is graceful, and very clever. At Boulogne she was much beloved,
and the English ladies would give her packets of sugar-plums and cakes.
When they dance, they first of all polk together, and then they do
the Varsovienne together, and after that she does the Cachuca and the
Mazurka alone. I first of all taught my girl to do the Polka, for in my
time I liked the dance pretty well. As soon as the girl had learnt it,
she taught her brother. They like dancing above all, when I encourage
them, for I say, ‘Now, my children, dance well; and, above all, dance
gracefully, and then I will buy you some cakes.’ Then, if they take
a fancy to anything, if it is not too dear, I buy it for them, and
that encourages them. Besides, when she says ‘Papa, when shall we go
to France, and see my little brother who is out at nurse?’ then I
say, ‘When we have earned enough money; so you must dance well, and,
above all, gracefully, and when we have taken plenty of money we will
be off.’ That encourages them, for they like to see me take plenty
of money. The little girl accompanies the music on the castanets in
the Cachuca. It is astonishing how well she plays them. I have heard
grown-up artists in the cafés chantants, who don’t play them so well
as she does. It is wonderful in so young a child. You will say she has
learnt my style of playing on the hurdy-gurdy, and my movements; but it
is the same thing, for she is as clever to other music. Sometimes, when
she has danced, ladies come up and kiss her, and even carry her off
into their houses, and I have to wait hours for her. When she sees that
I gain money, she has much more courage. When the little girl has done
dancing with my Paul, then he, when she is dancing alone, takes the
plate and asks for money. He is very laughable, for he can already say,
‘If you please, misses.’ Sometimes the ladies begin to speak to him, he
says, ‘Yes! yes!’ three or four times, and then he runs up to me and
says, ‘Papa, that lady speaks English;’ and then I have to say, ‘No
speak English.’ But he is contented if he hears anybody speak French.
Then he runs up to me, and says, ‘Papa, papa, Monsieur speaks French.’

“My little girl has embroidered trowsers and petticoats. You won’t
believe it, but I worked all that. The ends of the trowsers, the
trimmings to her petticoats, her collars and sleeves, all I have
worked. I do it at night, when we get home. The evenings are long and
I do a little, and at the end of the week it becomes much. If I had to
buy that it would cost too much. It was my wife who taught me to do it.
She said the children must be well dressed, and we have no money to buy
these things. Then she taught me: at first it seemed droll to me, and
I was ashamed, but then I thought, I do it for my living and not for
my pleasure, it is for my business; and now I am accustomed to do it.
You would fancy, too, that the children are cold, going about in the
streets dressed as they are, but they have flannel round the body, and
then the jumping warms them. They would tell me directly if they were
cold. I always ask them.

“The day I was married a very singular circumstance happened. I had
bought my wife a new dress, and she, poor thing, sat up all night to
make it. All night! It cost me five shillings, the stuff did. I had a
very bad coat, and she kept saying, ‘I shall be gay, but you, my poor
friend, how will you look?’ My coat was very old. I said, ‘I shall do
as I am;’ but it made her sad that I had no coat to appear in style
at our marriage. Our landlord offered to lend me his coat, but he was
twice as stout as I am, and I looked worse than in my own coat. Just
as we were going to start for the church, a man came to the house with
a coat to sell--the same I have on now. The landlord sent him to me.
It is nearly new, and had not been on more than three or four times.
He asked 12_s._, and I offered 8_s._; at last he took 9_s._ My wife,
who is very religious, said, ‘It is the good God who sent that man, to
reward us for always trying to get married.’

“Since I have been here, my affairs have gone on pretty well. I have
taken some days 5_s._, others 6_s._, and even 8_s._; but then some days
rain has fallen, and on others it has been wet under foot, and I have
only taken 4_s._ My general sum is 5_s._ 6_d._ the day, or 6_s._ Every
night when I get home I give my wife what I have taken, and I say,
‘Here, my girl, is 3_s._ for to-morrow’s food,’ and then we put the
remainder on one side to save up. We pay 5_s._ a-week for our room, and
that is dear, for we are there very bad! very bad! for we sleep almost
on the boards. It is lonely for her to be by herself in the day, but
she is near her confinement, and she cannot go out.

“It makes me laugh, when I think of our first coming to this country.
She only wore linen caps, but I was obliged to buy her a bonnet. It
was a very good straw one, and cost 1_s._ It made her laugh to see
everybody wearing a bonnet.

“When I first got to London, I did not know where to go to get
lodgings. I speak Italian very well, for my wife taught me. I spoke to
an Italian at Ramsgate, and he told me to go to Woolwich, and there I
found an Italian lodging-house. There the landlord gave me a letter to
a friend in London, and I went and paid 2_s._ 6_d._ in advance, and
took the room, and when we went there to live I gave another 2_s._
6_d._, so as to pay the 5_s._ in advance. It seems strange to us to
have to pay rent in advance--but it is a custom.

“It costs me something to clothe my children. My girl has six different
skirts, all of silk, of different colours, grey, blue, red, and yellow.
They last the year. The artificial flowers on her head are arranged
by her mamma. The boots cost the most money. She has a pair every
month. Here they are 3_s._, but in France they are dearer. It is about
the same for the little boy; only as he does not work so much as his
sister, he is not dressed in so distinguished a style. He is clean, but
not so elegant, for we give the best to the girl.

“My children are very good at home. Their mother adores them, and lets
them do as they like. They are very good, indeed.

“On Sunday, they are dressed like other children. In the morning we go
to mass, and then we go and walk a little, and see London. I have, as
yet, made no friends in London. I know no French people. I have met
some, but they don’t speak to me. We confine ourselves to our family.

“When I am in the streets with good houses in them, and see anybody
looking at the windows, then if I see them listening, I play pieces
from the operas on my hurdy-gurdy. I do this between the dances.
Those who go to the opera and frequent the theatres, like to hear
distinguished music.”

POOR HARP PLAYER.

A poor, feeble, half-witted looking man, with the appearance of far
greater age than he represented himself, (a common case with the very
poor), told me of his sufferings in the streets. He was wretchedly
clad, his clothes being old, patched, and greasy. He is well-known in
London, being frequently seen with a crowd of boys at his heels, who
amuse themselves in playing all kinds of tricks upon him.

“I play the harp in the streets,” he said, “and have done so for the
last two years, and should be very glad to give it up. My brother lives
with me; we’re both bachelors, and he’s so dreadful lame, he can do
nothing. He is a coach-body maker by business. I was born blind, and
was brought up to music; but my sight was restored by Dr. Ware, the old
gentleman in Bridge-street, Blackfriars, when I was nine years old, but
it’s a near sight now. I’m forty-nine in August. When I was young I
taught the harp and the pianoforte, but that very soon fell off, and I
have been teaching on or off these many years--I don’t know how many. I
had three guineas a-quarter for teaching the harp at one time, and two
guineas for the piano. My brother and I have 1_s._ and a loaf a-piece
from the parish, and the 2_s._ pays the rent. Mine’s not a bad trade
now, but it’s bad in the streets. I’ve been torn to pieces; I’m torn to
pieces every day I go out in the streets, and I would be glad to get
rid of the streets for 5_s._ a-week. The streets are full of ruffians.
The boys are ruffians. The men in the streets too are ruffians, and
encourage the boys. The police protect me as much as they can. I should
be killed every week but for them; they’re very good people. I’ve
known poor women of the town drive the boys away from me, or try to
drive them. It’s terrible persecution I suffer--terrible persecution.
The boys push me down and hurt me badly, and my harp too. They yell
and make noises so that I can’t be heard, nor my harp. The boys have
cut off my harp-strings, three of them, the other day, which cost me
6-1/2_d._ or 7_d._ I tell them it’s a shame, but I might as well speak
to the stones. I never go out that they miss me. I don’t make more than
3_s._ a-week in the streets, if I make that.”

ORGAN MAN, WITH FLUTE HARMONICON ORGAN.

“When I am come in this country I had nine or ten year old, so I know
the English language better than mine. At that time there was no organ
about but the old-fashioned one made in Bristol, with gold organ-pipe
in front. Then come the one with figure-dolls in front; and then next
come the piano one, made at Bristol too; and now the flute one, which
come from Paris, where they make them. He is an Italian man that make
them, and he is the only man dat can make them, because he paid for
them to the government (patented them), and now he is the only one.

“I belong to Parma,--to the small village in the duchy. My father keep
a farm, but I had three year old, I think, when he died. There was ten
of us altogeder; but one of us he was died, and one he drown in the
water. I was very poor, and I was go out begging there; and my uncle
said I should go to Paris to get my living. I was so poor I was afraid
to die, for I get nothing to eat. My uncle say, I will take one of them
to try to keep him. So I go along with him. Mother was crying when I
went away. She was very poor. I went with my uncle to Paris, and we
walk all the way. I had some white mice there, and he had a organ. I
did middling. The French people is more kind to the charity than the
English. There are not so many beggar there as in England. The first
time the Italian come over here we was took a good bit of money, but
now----!

“When I was in Paris my uncle had to go home again on business. He ask
me too if I would go with him. But I was afraid to be hungry again, for
you see I was feel hungry again, and I wouldn’t, for I got a piece of
bread in France.

“My uncle was along with another man, who was a master like, you know;
for he had a few instrument, but common thing. I don’t know if he have
some word wid my uncle, but they part. Den dis man say ‘Come to England
with me,’ and he said ‘you shall have five franc the month, and your
victual.’ We walk as far as Calais, and then we come in the boat. I was
very sick, and I thought that I die then. I say to him plenty times ‘I
wish I never come,’ for I never thought to get over.

“When we got to London, we go to a little court there, in Saffron-hill;
and I was live there in the little public-house. I go out, sometime
white mice, sometime monkey, sometime with organ--small one. I dare say
I make 10_s._ a-week for him; but he wor very kind to me, and give me
to eat what I like. He was take care of me, of course. I was very young
at dat time.

“After I was in London a-year, I go back to Paris with my master. There
I could have made my fortune, but I was so young I did not know what I
do. There was an old lady who ask me to come as her servant. My master
did not like very well to let me go. She say to me, ‘You shall not
have no hard work, only to go behind the carriage, or follow with the
umbrella.’ But I was so young I did not know my chance. I tell her I
have my parent in Italy; and she say she go to Italy all the years, and
I shall have two months to visit my mother. I did not go with this old
lady, and I lose the chance; but I had only thirteen years, and I was
foolish.

“Then I come to England again, and stop here three years. Where my
master go, I was obliged to go too. Then I go to Italy, and I saw my
moder. The most part of my family never know me when I went home, for I
was grown much, and older. I stop there six weeks, and then I come back
to England with anoder man. He give me 12 franc a-month, and very kind
indeed he was. He had some broder in this country, so he take me along
wid him. There was only me and him. My other master have two beside me.

“The master of organs send to Italy for boys to come here. Suppose I
have a broder in Italy, I write to him to send me two boys, and he look
out for them. They send money for the boy to come. Sometimes he send
3_l._, sometimes 3_l._ 10_s._ or 4_l._ Then they walk, and live on
the pear or the grape, or what is cheap; and if they put by any, then
they keep what they put by. They generally tell them they shall have
12 francs a-month. But sometime they was cheap; but now they are dear,
and it is sometime a pound a-month. They’d sooner have one who have
been here before, because den they know the way to take care of the
instrument, you know.

“I stop in England two year and six month, when I come over with my
second master. He paid me like a bank, and I saved it up, and I take
it over to Italy with me. When I had a bit of money I was obliged to
send it home to my broder in Italy, for to keep him, you know. When I
go home again I had a bit of money with me. I give it to the gentleman
what support my mother and sister; but it was not enough, you know, not
three part, so I was obliged to give him a good bit more.

“Then I came back to England again, to the same master. It take about
a month to make the voyage. I was walk it all the way. I was cross
the Alps. You must to come over here. I dare say I walk thirty miles
a-day, sometime more dan that. I sleep at the public-house; but when
you not get to the public-house, then when it begins dark, then I go
to the farm-house and ask for a bit of straw to lodge. But I generally
goes to the public-house when I get one. They charge 3_d._ or 2_d._,
or sometimes 1_d._ I never play anything on the road, or take de white
mice. I never take nothing.

“After that time I have been to Italy and back three or four times;
but I never been with no master, not after the second one. I bought an
organ of my master. I think I give him 13_l._ No, sir, I not give the
money down, but so much the week, and he trust me. It was according
what I took, I paid him. I was trying to make up 1_l._ and bring him
down. It take me about eighteen months to pay him, because I was
obliged to keep me and one things and another. It was a middling organ.
It was one was a piano, you know. I take about 1_s._ 3_d._ or 1_s._
6_d._ a-day regularly with it.

“I have now an organ--a flute organ they call it--and it is my own. It
cost me 20_l._ A man make it come from France. He knows an organ-maker
in France, and he write for me, and make it come over for me. I suppose
he had a pound profit for to make it come for me; for I think it cost
less than 20_l._ in Paris.

“I have this organ this twelve months. It has worn out a little, but
not much. It is not so good as when it come from France. An organ will
wear twenty year, but some of them break. Then you must have it always
repaired and tuned. You see, the music of it must be tuned every five
or six months. Mine has never been tuned yet, the time I have it. It is
the trumpet part that get out of tune sooner. I know a man who goes out
with de big organ on the wheels, and he tune the organ for me. I go to
him, and I say, ‘My organ wants de repair;’ and he come, and he never
charge me anything. He make the base and tenor agree. He tune the first
one to the base, you know, and then the second one to the second base.
When the organ out of tune the pipe rattle.

“The organ fills with dust a good deal in the summer time, and then
you must take it all to pieces. In London they can tune and repair it.
They charge 10_s._ to clean and tune it. Sometime he have something to
do with the pipes, and then it come to more. In winter the smoke get
inside, and make it come all black. I am obliged to keep it all covered
up when I am playing.

“My organ play eight tunes. Two are from opera, one is a song, one a
waltz, one is hornpipe, one is a polka, and the other two is dancing
tunes. One is from ‘Il Lombardi,’ of Verdi. All the organs play that
piece. I have sold that music to gentlemens. They say to me, ‘What is
that you play?’ and I say, ‘From Il Lombardi.’ Then they ask me if I
have the music; and I say ‘Yes;’ and I sell it to them for 4_s._ I did
not do this with my little organ; but when I went out with a big organ
on two wheels. My little flute organ play the same piece. The other
opera piece is ‘Il Trovatore.’ I have heard ‘Il Lombardi’ in Italy.
It is very nice music; but never hear ‘Il Trovatore.’ It is very nice
music, too. It go very low. My gentlemens like it very much. I don’t
understand music at all. The other piece is English piece, which we
call the ‘Liverpool Hornpipe.’ There is two Liverpool Hornpipe. I
know one these twenty years. Then come ‘The Ratcatcher’s Daughter;’
he is a English song. It’s get a little old; but when it’s first come
out the poor people do like it, but the gentlemens they like more the
opera, you know. After that is what you call ‘Minnie,’ another English
song. He is middling popular. He is not one of the new tune, but they
do like it. The next one is a Scotch contre-danse. It is good tunes,
but I don’t know the name of it. The next one is, I think, a polka;
but I think he’s made from part of ‘Scotische.’ There is two or three
tunes belongs to the ‘Scotische.’ The next one is, I think, a valtz of
Vienna. I don’t know which one, but I say to the organ-man, ‘I want a
valtz of Vienna;’ and he say, ‘Which one? because there is plenty of
valtz of Vienna.’ Of course, there is nine of them. After the opera
music, the valtz and the polka is the best music in the organ.

“For doing a barrel of eight tune it come very near 14_l._, one thing
and another. You can have a fresh tune put into an old barrel. But then
he charge 10_s._ He’s more trouble than to put only one. I have my
tune changed once a-year. You see most of the people gets very tired
of one tune, and I’m obliged to change them. You can have the new tune
in three or four days, or a week’s time, if he has nothing to do; but
sometime it is three or four weeks, if he has plenty to do. It is a
man who is called John Hicks who does the new tunes. He was born in
Bristol. He has a father in Bristol. He live in Crockenwell, just at
the back of the House of Correction. You know the prison? then it is
just at the back, on the other side.

“It won’t do to have all opera music in my organ. You must have some
opera tunes for the gentlemen, and some for the poor people, and they
like the dancing tune. Dere is some for the gentlemens, and some for
the poor peoples.

“I have often been into the houses of gentlemens to play tunes for
dancing. I have been to a gentleman’s near Golden-square, where he
have a shop for to make the things for the horse--a saddler, you call
it. He have plenty customers; them what gets the things for the horse.
There was carriage outside. It was large room, where you could dance
thirty-two altogether. I think it’s the boxing-day I go there. I have
10_s._ for that night. He have a farm in the country, and I go there
too. He have the little children there--like a school, and there was
two policemen at the door, and you couldn’t get in without the paper to
show. He had Punch and Judy. He has a English band as well.

“I have some two or three place where I go regular at Christmas-time,
to play all night to the children. Sometime I go for an hour or two.
When they are tired of dancing they sit down and have a rest, and
I play the opera tune. I go to schools, too, and play to the little
children. They come and fetch me, and say, ‘You come such a time and
play to the little children,’ and I say, ‘Very well,’ and that’s all
right.

“My organ is like the organ, but he’s got another part, and that is
like a flute. Some organ is called de trompet, and that one he’s called
the flute-organ, because he’s got de flute in it. When they first come
out they make a great deal of money. I take 2_s._ 6_d._ or 3_s._,
and sometimes 1_s._ 6_d._ You see, in our business, some has got his
regular customer, and some they go up the street and down the street,
and they don’t take nothing. I have not got any regular customers much,
sir.

“On the Monday when I goes out, I goes over the water up the
Clapham-road. I have two or three regular there, and they give me
plenty of beer and to eat. I know that family those twenty year. If I
say to that lady, ‘I am very ill,’ he give me his card and say, ‘Go to
the doctor,’ and I have nothing to pay. There was three sister, but
one he died. They is very old, and one he can only come to the window.
I dare say I have six houses in that neighbourhood where they give me
some 1_d._ and some 2_d._ every time I go there. In the summer-time,
when it is hot, I walk to Greenwich on the Monday. I have, I dare say,
fifteen houses there where I go regular. I can make up 1_s._ I pay
4_d._ sometime to ride home in the boat. My organ weight more than
fifty pounds, and that tire me. The first time when I’m not used to it,
you know, I feel it more tired than when I’m used to it.

“On the Tuesday I go to Greenwich, now that it is cold, instead of the
Monday. On Wednesday I ain’t got no way to go. I try sometime down at
Whitechapel, or some other way. On Thursday I goes out Islington way,
and I go as far as Highbury Barn, but not further. There is a bill
of the railway and a station there. I’ve got three or four regular
customers there. The most I get at once is 2_d._ I never get 6_d._ One
gentleman at Greenwich give me 6_d._, but only once. On the Friday I’ve
got no way to go; I go where I like. On Saturday I go to Regent-street.
I go to Leicester-square and the foreign hotels, where the foreign
gentlemen is. Sometime I get the chance to get a few shilling; sometime
not a halfpenny. The most I make is sometime at the fair-time. Sometime
at Greenwich-fair I make 5_s._ all in copper, and that is the most I
ever make; and the lowest is sometime 6_d._ When I see I can’t make
nothing, I go home. It is very bad in wet weather. I must sit at home,
for the rain spoil the instrument. There is nothing like summer-times,
for the regular money that I make for the year it come to between 9_s._
and 10_s._ the week. Sometimes it is 6_d._, sometimes 1_s._, or 1_s._
6_d._ or 2_s._ the day. For 12_s._ the week it must be 2_s._ the day,
and that is more than I take. I wish somebody pay me 12_s._; there is
no such chance.

“I live in a room by myself with three others, and we pay 1_s._ each,
and there is two bed. If I go to lodging-house I pay 1_s._ 6_d._ the
week. In the Italian lodging-house they give you clean shirt on the
Sunday for the 1_s._ 6_d._ It is my own shirt, but they clean it. This
is only in Italian house. In English house it is 1_s._ 6_d._ and no
shirt. I have breakfast of coffee or what I like, and we club together.
We have bread and butter, sometime herring, sometime bacon, what we
likes. In the day I buy a pen’orth of bread and a pen’orth of cheese,
and some beer, and at night I have supper. I make maccarone--what you
call it?--or rice and cabbage, or I make soup or bile some taters; with
all four together it come to about 9_d._ or 10_d._ a-day for living.

“In the house where I live they are all Italians. They are nearly all
Italians that live about Leather-lane and Saffron-hill. There is a good
bit of them live there. I should say 200: I dare say there is. The
house where I live is my own. I let empty room; they bring their own
things, you know. It is my lease, and I pay the rent.

“It is only the people say that the Italian boys are badly used: they
are not so, the masters are very kind to them. If he make 1_s._ he
bring it home; if 3_s._ or 4_s._ or 6_d._ he bring it home. He is not
commandé to bring home so much; that is what the people say. I was with
the magistrate of police in Marlborough-street four days ago, about a
little Italian boy that the policemen take for asking money. Some one
ask to buy his monkey and talk with him, and then he ask for a penny,
and the police take him. A gentleman ask me about the boys. I tell him
it is all nonsense what the people say. There is no more boys sent here
now. If a boy comes over, and he is bad boys, he goes and play in the
street instead of working; then, after paying so much for his coming to
England, it is a loss. It does not pay the boys. If I was a master I
would not have the boys, if they come here for nothing.

“Suppose I have two organs, then one is in the house doing nothing.
Then some one come and say, ‘Lend me the organ for to-day.’ Then I say,
‘Yes,’ and charge him, some 4_d._, some 6_d._; or if somebody ill and
he cannot go out, then he’s organ doing nothing, and he lend it out for
4_d._ or 6_d._ There is two or three in London who sends out men with
organs, but I don’t know who has got the most of us. Then they pay the
men 1_l._ a-month and their keep, or some 15_s._ Then, some goes half
and keep him: then, it’s more profits to the man than the master.

“Christmas-time is nothing like the summer-time. Sometimes they give
you a Christmas-box, but it’s not the time for Christmas-box now.
Sometimes it’s a glass of beer: ‘Here’s a Christmas-box for you.’
Sometimes it’s a glass of gin, or rum, or a piece of pudding: ‘Here’s
a Christmas-box for you.’ I have had 6_d._, but never 1_s._ for a
Christmas-box. Sometimes on a boxing-day it is 3_s._, or 2_s._ 6_d._
for the day.

“I have never travelled in the country with my organ, only once when
I was young, as far as Liverpool, but no further. Many has got his
regular time out in the country. When I go out with the organ I should
say it make altogether that I walk ten miles. I want two new pairs
of boots every year. I start off in the morning, sometimes eight,
sometimes nine or ten, whether I have far to go. I never stop out after
seven o’clock at night. Some do, but I don’t.

“I don’t know music at all. I am middling fond of it. There is none of
the Italians that I know that sings. The French is very fond of singing.

“When first you begins, it tries the wrist, turning the handle of the
organ; but you soon gets accustomed to it. At first, the arm was sore
with the work all day. When I am playing I turn the handle regularly.
Sometimes there are people who say, ‘Go a little quick,’ but not often.

“If the silk in front of the organ is bad, I get new and put it in
myself; the rain spoil it very much. It depend upon what sort of organ
he is, as to the sort of silk he gets: sometimes 2_s._ 6_d._ a-yard,
and he take about a yard and a half. Some like to do this once a-year;
but some when he see it get a little dirty, like fresh things, you
know, and then it is twice a-year.

“The police are very quiet to us. When anybody throw up a window and
say, ‘Go on,’ I go. Sometime they say there is sick in the house, when
there is none, but I go just the same. If I did not, then the policeman
come, and I get into trouble. I have heard of the noise in the papers
about the organs in the street, but we never talk of it in our quarter.
They pay no attention to the subject, for they know if anybody say,
‘Go,’ then we must depart. That is what we do.”

ITALIAN PIPERS AND CLARIONET PLAYERS.

“The companion I got about with me, is with me from Naples, not the
city, but in the country. His is of my family; no, not my cousin, but
my mother was the sister of his cousin. Yes! yes! yes! my cousin. Some
one told me he was my nephew, but it’s cousin. Naples is a pretty city.
It is more pretty than Paris, but not so big. I worked on the ground at
Naples, in the country, and I guarded sheep. I never was a domestic;
but it was for my father. It was ground of his. It was not much. He
worked the earth for yellow corn. He had not much of sheep, only
fifteen. When I go out with the sheep I carry my bagpipes always with
me. I play on them when I was sixteen years of age. I play them when I
guard my sheep. In my country they call my instrument de ‘zampogna.’
All the boys in my country play on it, for there are many masters there
who teach it. I taught myself to play it. I bought my own instrument.
I gave the money myself for that affair. It cost me seven francs. The
bag is made of a skin of goat. There are four clarionets to it. There
is one for the high and one for the bass. I play them with different
hands. The other two clarionets make a noise to make the accord; one
makes high and the other the low. They drone to make harmony. The airs
I play are the airs of my country. I did not invent them. One is ‘La
Tarentule Italien,’ and another is what we call ‘La Badend,’ but I not
know what you call it in French. Another is the ‘Death of the Roi de
France.’ I know ten of these airs. The ‘Pastorelle Naopolitan’ is very
pretty, and so is the ‘Pastorelle Romaine.’

“When I go out to guard my sheep I play my zampogna, and I walk along
and the sheep follow me. Sometimes I sit down and the sheep eat about
me, and I play on my instrument. Sometimes I go into the mountains.
There are plenty of mountains in my country, and with snow on them. I
can hear the guardians of sheep playing all around me in the mountains.
Yes, many at once,--six, ten, twelve, or fifteen, on every side. No,
I did not play my instrument to keep my sheep together, only to learn
the airs. I was a good player, but there were others who played much
better than me. Every night in my village there are four or six who
play together instruments like mine, and all the people dance. They
prefer to dance to the ‘Tarentule Italien.’ It is a pretty dance in our
costume. The English do not dance like nous autres. We are not paid
for playing in the village, only at fêtes, when gentlemen say, ‘Play;’
and then they give 20 sous or 40 sous, like that. There is another
air, which is played only for singing. There is one only for singing
chansons, and another for singing ‘La Prière de la Vierge.’ Those that
play the zampogna go to the houses, and the candles are lighted on the
altar, and we play while the bourgeois sing the prière.

“I am aged 23 years next March. I was sixteen when I learnt my
instrument. The twelfth of this month I shall have left my country
nine months. I have traversed the states of Rome and of France to come
to England. I marched all the distance, playing my zampogna. I gain
ten sous French whilst I voyage in the states of France. I march from
Marseilles to Paris. To reach Marseilles by the boat it cost 15 frs. by
head.

“The reason why we left our native land is this:--One of our comrades
had been to Paris, and he had said he gained much money by painters by
posing for his form. Then I had envy to go to Paris and gain money. In
my country they pay 20 sous for each year for each sheep. I had 200 to
guard for a monsieur, who was very rich. There were four of us left
our village at the same time. We all four played de zampogna. My father
was not content that I voyage the world. He was very sorry. We got
our passport arranged tout de suite, two passport for us four. We all
began to play our instruments together, as soon as we were out of the
village. Four of our friends accompanied us on our road, to say adieu.
We took bread of corn with us to eat for the first day. When we had
finished that we played at the next village, and they give us some more
bread.

“At Paris I posed to the artists, and they pay me 20 sous for the
hour. The most I pose is four hours for the day. We could not play
our instruments in the street, because the serjeant-de-ville catch
us, and take us directly to prison. I go to play in the courts before
the houses. I asked the concierge at the door if he would give me
permission to play in the court. I gain 15 sous or 1 franc par jour.
For all the time I rest in Paris I gain 2 francs for the day. This is
with posing to artists to paint, and for playing. I also play at the
barrière outside Paris, where the wine is cheap. They gave us more
there than in the courts; they are more generous where they drink the
wine.

“When I arrive at Paris my comrades have leave me. I was alone in
Paris. There an Italian proposed to me to go to America as his servant.
He had two organs, and he had two servants to play them, and they gave
him the half of that which they gained. He said to me, that he would
search for a piano organ for me, and I said I would give him the half
of that which I gained in the streets. He made us sign a card before a
notary. He told us it would cost 150 francs to go to America. I gave
him the money to pay from Paris to Folkestone. From there we voyaged on
foot to Londres. I only worked for him for eight days, because I said I
would not go to Amérique. He is here now, for he has no money to go in
Amérique.

“I met my cousin here in Londres. I was here fifteen days before I met
him. We neither of us speak Anglais, and not French either, only a
little very bad; but we understand it. We go out together now, and I
play the zampogna, and he the ‘biforc Italien,’ or what the French call
flageolet, and the English pipes. It is like a flageolet. He knows all
the airs that I play. He play well the airs--that he does. He wears
a cloak on his shoulders, and I have one, too; but I left it at home
to-day. It is a very large cloak, with three yards of étoffe in it. He
carry in his hat a feather of what you call here peacock, and a French
lady give him the bright ribbon which is round his hat. I have also
plume de peacock and flowers of stuff, like at the shops, round my hat.
In my country we always put round our hat white and red flowers.

“Sometimes we go to pose to the artists, but it is not always. There
are plenty of artists near Newman-street, but in other quarters there
are none at all. It is for our costume they paint us. The colours
they put on the pictures are those of our costume. I have been three
times to a gentleman in a large street, where they took our portraits
photographique. They give a shilling. I know the houses where I go to
be done for a portrait, but I don’t know the names of the messieurs,
or the streets where they reside. At the artists’ they pay 1_s._ par
heure, and we pose two or three heures, and the most is four heures.
When we go together we have 1_s._ each for the hour. My cousin is at
an artist’s to-day. They paint him more than me, because he carries a
sash of silk round his waist, with ornaments on it. I haven’t got one,
because I want the money to buy one.

“We gain 1_s._ each the day. Ah! pardon, monsieur, not more than that.
The artists are not for every day, perhaps one time for the week. When
we first come here, we take 5_s._ between the two, but now it makes
cold, and we cannot often play. Yesterday we play in the ville, and
we take 7_d._ each. Plenty of persons look at us, but when my comrade
touch his hat they give nothing. There is one month we take 2_s._ each
the day, but now it is 1_s._ For the three months that we have been
here, we have gained 12_s._ the week each, that is, if we count what we
took when first we were arrived. For two months we took always a crown
every day--always, always; but now it is only 1_s._, or 2_s._, or 7_d._
I had saved 72_s._, and I had it in my bourse, which I place under my
head when I sleep. We sleep three in a bed--myself, my cousin, and
another Italian. In the night this other take my bourse and run away.
Now I have only 8_s._ in my bourse. It nearly broke the heart when I
was robbed.

“We pay 2_d._ for each for our bed every night. We live in a house held
by a Mossieu Italian. There are three who sleep in one bed--me, and
my comrade, and another. We are not large. This mossieu let us lodge
cheaper than others, because we are miserable, and have not much money.
For breakfast we have a half-loaf each one. It is a loaf that you must
pay 4_d._ or 4-1/2_d._ We pay 2-1/2_d._ each for that, and 1/2_d._
each for a cup of tea or coffee. In the day we eat 2_d._ or 3_d._
between both for some bread, and we come home the night at half-past
eight, and we eat supper. It is of maccaroni, or potatoes boiled, and
we pay 2-1/2_d._ each. It costs us 9_d._ each the day to live. There
are twenty-four Italian in the house where we live, and they have
three kitchens. When one is more miserable than the others, then he is
helped; and at another time he assists in his turn. We pay 2_d._ a-week
to wash our shirt. I always share with my cousin what he makes in the
day. If he goes to work and I stop at home, it is the same thing, and
the same with me. He carries the money always, and pays for what we
have want to eat; and then, if I wish to go back to my own country,
then we share the money when we separate.

“The gentlemen give us more money than the ladies. We have never had
anything to eat given to us. They have asked us to sing, but we don’t
know how. Only one we have sung to, an Italian mossieu, who make our
portraits. We sang the ‘Prayer of the Sainte Vierge.’ They have also
asked us to dance, but we did not, because the serjeant-de-ville, if we
assemble a great mob, come and defend us to play.

“We have been once before the magistrate, to force the mossieu who
brought us over to render the passport of my native village. He has not
rendered to me my card. We shall go before a magistrate again some day.

“I can write and read Italian. I did not go much to the school of my
native village, but the master taught me what I know. I can read better
than I write, for I write very bad and slow. My cousin cannot read and
write. I also know my numbers. I can count quickly. When we write a
letter, we go to an Italian mossieu, and we tell him to say this and
that, and he puts it down on the paper. We pay 1_s._ for the letter,
and then at the post they make us pay 2_s._ 2_d._ When my parents get a
letter from me, they take it to a mossieu, or the schoolmaster of the
village, to read for them, because they cannot read. They have sent me
a letter. It was well written by a gentleman who wrote it for them. I
have sent my mother five pieces of five francs from Paris. I gave the
money, and they gave me a letter; and then my mother went to the consul
at Naples, and they gave her the money. Since I have been here I could
send no money, because it was stolen. If I had got it, I should have
sent some to my parents. When I have some more, I shall send it.

“I love my mother very much, and she is good, but my father is not
good. If he gain a piece of 20 sous, he goes on the morrow to the
marchand of wine, and play the cards, and spend it to drink. I never
send my money to my father, but to my mother.”

ITALIAN WITH MONKEY.

An Italian, who went about with trained monkeys, furnished me with the
following account.

He had a peculiar boorish, and yet good-tempered expression, especially
when he laughed, which he did continually.

He was dressed in a brown, ragged, cloth jacket, which was buttoned
over a long, loose, dirty, drab waistcoat, and his trowsers were
of broad-ribbed corduroy, discoloured with long wearing. Round his
neck was a plaid handkerchief, and his shoes were of the extreme
“strong-men’s” kind, and grey with dust and want of blacking. He wore
the Savoy and broad-brimmed felt hat, and with it on his head had a
very picturesque appearance, and the shadow of the brim falling on the
upper part of his brown face gave him almost a Murillo-like look. There
was, however, an odour about him,--half monkey, half dirt,--that was
far from agreeable, and which pervaded the apartment in which he sat.

“I have got monkey,” he said, “but I mustn’t call in London. I goes out
in countree. I was frightened to come here. I was frightened you give
me months in prison. Some of my countrymen is very frightened what you
do. No, sir, I never play de monkey in de town. I have been out vare
dere is so many donkey, up a top at dat village--vat you call--I can’t
tell de name. Dey goes dere for pastime,--pleasure,--when it makes fine
weather. Dere is two church, and two large hotel,--yes, I tink it is
Blackheath! I goes dere sometime vid my monkey. I have got only one
monkey now,--sometime I have got two;--he is dressed comme un soldat
rouge, like one soldier, vid a red jacket and a Bonaparte’s hat. My
monkey only pull off his hat and take a de money. He used to ride a de
dog; but dey stole a de dog,--some of de tinkare, a man vid de umbrella
going by, stole a him. Dere is only tree months dat I have got my
monkey. It is my own. I gave dirty-five shilling for dis one I got. He
did not know no tricks when he come to me first. I did teach a him all
he know. I teach a him vid de kindness, do you see. I must look rough
for tree or four times, but not to beat him. He can hardly stir about;
he is afraid dat you go to hit him, you see. I mustn’t feed him ven I
am teaching him. Sometimes I buy a happorth of nuts to give him, after
he has done what I want him to do. Dis one has not de force behind; he
is weak in de back. Some monkey is like de children at de school, some
is very hard to teash, and some learn de more quick, you see. De one
I had before dis one could do many tings. He had not much esprit pas
grande chose; but he could play de drum,--de fiddle, too,--Ah! but he
don’t play de fiddle like de Christian, you know; but like de monkey.
He used to fight wid de sword,--not exactly like de Christian, but like
de monkey too,--much better. I beg your pardon to laugh, sir! He used
to move his leg and jomp,--I call it danse,--but he could not do polka
like de Christian.--I have seen the Christian though what can’t danse
more dan de monkey! I beg your pardon to laugh. I did play valtz to
him on de organ. Non! he had not moosh ear for de musick, but I force
him to keep de time by de jerk of de string. He commence to valtz vell
when he die. He is dead the vinter dat is passed, at Sheltenham. He
eat some red-ee paint. I give him some castor-oil, but no good: he die
in great deal pain, poor fellow! I rather lose six pounds than lose my
monkey. I did cry!--I cry because I have no money to go and buy anoder
monkey! Yes! I did love my monkey! I did love him for the sake of my
life! I give de raisins, and bile dem for him. He have every ting he
like. I am come here from Parma about fourteen or fifteen year ago. I
used to work in my countree. I used to go and look at de ship in de
montagnes: non! non! pas des vaisseaux, mais des moutons! I beg your
pardon to laugh. De master did bring me up here,--dat master is gone
to America now,--he is come to me and tell me to come to Angleterre.
He has tell me I make plenty of money in dis country. Ah! I could get
plenty of money in dat time in London, but now I get not moosh. I vork
for myself at present. My master give me nine--ten shilling each veek,
and my foot, and my lodging--yes! everyting ven I am first come here. I
used to go out vid de organ,--a good one,--and I did get two, tree, and
more shillan for my master each day. It was chance-work: sometimes I
did get noting at all. De organ was my master’s. He had no one else but
me wid him. We used to travel about togeder, and he took all de money.
He had one German piano, and play de moosick. I can’t tell how moosh he
did make,--he never tell to me,--but I did sheat him sometimes myself.
Sometime when I take de two shillan I did give him de eighteen-pence!
I beg your pardon to laugh! De man did bring up many Italians to dis
country, but now it is difficult to get de passports for my countrymen.
I was eighteen months with my master; after dat I vent to farm-house.
I run away from my master. He gave me a slap of de face, you know, von
time, so I don’t like it, you know, and run away! I beg your pardon
to laugh! I used to do good many tings at de farm-house. It was in
Yorkshire. I used to look at de beasts, and take a de vater. I don’t
get noting for my vork, only for de sake of de belly I do it. I was
dere about tree year. Dey behave to me very well. Dey give me de
clothes and all I want. After dat I go to Liverpool, and I meet some
of my countrymen dere, and dey lend me de monkey, and I teash him to
danse, fight, and jomp, mush as I could, and I go wid my monkey about
de country.

“Some day I make tree shillan wid my monkey, sometime only sixpence,
and sometime noting at all. When it rain or snow I can get noting. I
gain peut-être a dozen shillan a week wid my monkey, sometime more, but
not often. Dere is long time I have been in de environs of London; but
I don’t like to go in de streets here. I don’t like to go to prison.
Monkey is defended,--_defendu_,--what you call it, London. But dere
is many monkey in London still. Oh, non! not a dozen. Dere is not one
dozen monkey wot play in Angleterre. I know dere is two monkey at
Saffron hill, and one go in London; but he do no harm. I don’t know
dat de monkey was train to go down de area and steal a de silver spoons
out of de kitchen. Dey would be great fool to tell dat; but every one
must get a living de best dey can. Wot I tell you about de monkey I’m
frightened vill hurt me!

“I tell you dey is defended in de streets, and dey take me up. I hope
not. My monkey is very honest monkey, and get me de bread. I never was
in prison, and I would not like to be. I play de moosick, and please
de people, and never steal noting. Non! non! me no steal, nor my
monkey too. Dey policemen never say noting to me. I am not beggar, but
artiste!--every body know dat--and my monkey is artiste too! I beg your
pardon to laugh.”

THE DANCING DOGS.

I received the following narrative from the old man who has been so
long known about the streets of London with a troop of performing dogs.
He was especially picturesque in his appearance. His hair, which was
grizzled rather than grey, was parted down the middle, and hung long
and straight over his shoulders. He was dressed in a coachman’s blue
greatcoat with many capes. His left hand was in a sling made out of a
dirty pocket-handkerchief, and in his other he held a stick, by means
of which he could just manage to hobble along. He was very ill, and
very poor, not having been out with his dogs for nearly two months. He
appeared to speak in great pain. The civility, if not politeness of
his manner, threw an air of refinement about him, that struck me more
forcibly from its contrast with the manners of the English belonging to
the same class. He began:--

“I have de dancing dogs for de street--now I have nothing else. I
have tree dogs--One is called Finette, anoder von Favorite, that is
her nomme, an de oder von Ozor. Ah!” he said, with a shrug of the
shoulders, in answer to my inquiry as to what the dogs did, “un danse,
un valse, un jomp a de stick and troo de hoop--non, noting else.
Sometime I had de four dogs--I did lose de von. Ah! she had beaucoup
d’esprit--plenty of vit, you say--she did jomp a de hoop better dan
all. Her nomme was Taborine!--she is dead dare is long time. All ma
dogs have des habillements--the dress and de leetle hat. Dey have a
leetel jackette in divers colours en étoffe--some de red, and some
de green, and some de bleu. Deir hats is de rouge et noir--red and
black, wit a leetle plume-fedder, you say. Dere is some 10 or 11 year
I have been in dis country. I come from Italie--Italie--Oui, Monsieur,
oui. I did live in a leetle ville, trento miglia, dirty mile, de
Parma. Je travaille dans le campagne, I vork out in de countrie--je
ne sais comment vous appellez la campagne. There is no commerce in
de montagne. I am come in dis country here. I have leetel business
to come. I thought to gagner ma vie--to gain my life wid my leetel
dogs in dis countrie. I have dem déjà when I have come here from
Parma--j’eu avait dix. I did have de ten dogs--je les apporte. I
have carried all de ten from Italie. I did learn--yes--yes--de dogs
to danse in ma own countrie. It did make de cold in de montagne in
winter, and I had not no vork dere, and I must look for to gain my
life some oder place. Après ça, I have instruct my dogs to danse.
Yes, ils learn to danse; I play de music, and dey do jomp. Non,
non--pas du tout! I did not never beat ma dogs; dare is a way to
learn de dogs without no vip. Premièrement, ven I am come here I have
gained a leetel monnaie--plus que now--beaucoup d’avantage--plenty
more. I am left ma logement--my lodging, you say, at 9 hours in de
morning, and am stay away vid ma dogs till 7 or 8 hours in de evening.
Oh! I cannot count how many times de leetel dogs have danse in de
day--twenty--dirty--forty peut-être--all depends: sometimes I would
gain de tree shilling--sometime de couple--sometime not nothing--all
depend. Ven it did make bad time, I could not vork; I could not danse.
I could not gain my life den. If it make cold de dogs are ill--like
tout de monde. I did pay plenty for de nouriture of de dogs. Sometime
dey did get du pain de leetel dogs (de bread) in de street--sometime
I give dem de meat, and make de soup for dem. Ma dogs danse comme les
chiens, mais dey valtz comme les dames, and dey stand on dare back-legs
like les gentilhommes. After I am come here to dis countrie two day,
am terrible malade. I am gone to hospital, to St. Bartolomé, de veek
before de Jour de Noël (Christmas-day). In dat moment I have de fevre.
I have rested in l’hospital quatre semaine--four veek. Ma dogs vere at
libertie all de time. Von compagnon of mine have promised me to take de
care of ma dogs, and he have lose dem all--tout les dix. After dat I
have bought tree oder dogs--one espanol, anoder von appellé ‘Grifon,’
and de oder vas de dog ordinaire,--non! non! not one ‘pull dog.’ He no
good. I must have one month, or six semaine, to instruite ma dogs. I
have rested in a logement Italien at Saffron-hill, ven I am come here
to London. Dare vas plenty of Italiens dare. It was tout plein--quite
full of strangers. All come dare--dey come from France, from Germany,
from Italie. I have paid two shillings per semaine each veek--only
pour le lit, for de bed. Every von make de kitchen for himself. Vot
number vas dare, you say? Sometime dare is 20 person dere, and sometime
dere is dirty person in de logement, sometime more dan dat. It is
very petite maison. Dare is von dozen beds--dat is all--and two sleep
demselves in each bed. Sometimes, ven dere arrive plenty, dey sleep
demselves tree in von bed--but ordinairement dere is only two. Dey is
all musicians dere--one play de organ, de piano, de guitar, de flute,
yes, dare vos some vot played it, and de viol too. De great part vas
Italiens. Some of dem have des monkeys, de oders des mice white, and
des pigs d’Indes, (guinea-pigs) and encore oders have des dolls vid
two heads, and des puppets vot danse vid de foot on de boards. Des
animals are in an appartement apart vid de moosick. Dare vos sometime
tree dancing dogs, one dozen of mice, five or six pigs d’Indes, and ma
monkey, altogether vid de moosick, by demselves.

“Dare is all de actors vot vas dare. Ma tree dogs gained me sometime
two shillan, sometime von shillan, and sometime I would rest on my
feet all day, and not gain two sous. Sometimes de boys would ensault
ma dogs vid de stones. Dare is long time I have rested in London. Dare
is short time I vas in de campagne de countree here not much. London
is better dan de campagne for ma dogs--dare is always de vorld in
London--de city is large--yes! I am always rested at Saffron-hill for
10, 11 years. I am malade at present, since the 15th of Mars; in ma
arms, ma legs, ma tighs have de douleure--I have plenty of pains to
march. Ma dogs are in de logement now. It is since the 15th of Mars dat
I have not vent out vid ma dogs--yes, since de 15th of Mars I have done
no vork. Since dat time I have not paid no money for ma logement--it
is due encore. Non! non! I have not gained my life since the 15th of
Mars. Plenty of time I have been vitout noting to eat. Des Italiens at
de logement dey have given me pieces of bread and bouilli. Ah! it is
very miserable to be poor, like me. I have sixty and tirteen years. I
cannot march now but vith plenty of pains. Von doctor have give to me
a letter for to present to de poor-house. He did give me my medicine
for nothing--gratis. He is obliged, he is de doctor of de paroisse. He
is a very brave and honest man, dat doctor dare. At de poor-house day
have give to me a bread and six sous on Friday of de veek dat is past,
and told me to come de Vednesday next. But I am arrive dere too late,
and dey give me noting, and tell me to come de Vednesday next encore.
Ma dogs dey march now in de street, and eat something dare. Oh! ma God,
non! dey eat noting but what dey find in de street ven it makes good
times; but ven it makes bad times dey have noting at all, poor dogs!
ven I have it, dey have it,--but ven dere is noting for me to eat,
dare is noting for dem, and dey must go out in de streets and get de
nouriture for themselves. Des enfans vot know ma dogs vill give to dem
to eat sometimes. Oh! yes, if I had de means, I would return to Italie,
ma countree. But I have not no silver, and not no legs to walk. Vot
can I do? Oh! yes, I am very sick at present. All my limbs have great
douleur--Oh, yes! plenty of pain.”

CONCERTINA PLAYER ON THE STEAMBOATS.

“I was always very fond of music, and if ever I heard any in the
streets, I always followed it about. I’m nearly fifteen now; but I can
remember when I was seven, being particularly taken with music. I had
an uncle who was captain of a steamer that run to Richmond, and I was
always on board with him; and they used to have a band on board. It
wasn’t in particular a passage-boat, but an excursion one, and let to
private parties, and a band always went along with them. I was taken
along to run after orders for the steward; and when I had nothing to
do, I used to go and listen to them. I learn all their tunes by heart.
They mostly played dances, and very seldom any sentimental songs,
unless anybody asked them. For myself, I prefer lively tunes. I don’t
know much operatic music, only one or two airs; but they’re easier to
play on the concertina than lively music, because it’s difficult to
move the fingers very quickly. You can’t hardly play a hornpipe. It
makes the arm ache before you can play it all through, and it makes
such a row with the valve working the bellows up and down, that it
spoils the music.

“I had not got my instrument when I was in this steamboat. When I heard
a tune, I used to whistle it. I asked my father to buy me a instrument,
but he wouldn’t. I was always on the steamboat, helping uncle; and
I could have had lots of time to learn music there. When they, the
musicians, put the harp down in the cabin, I’d get playing on it. There
was a hole in the green baize cover of the harp, and I used to put my
hand in and work away at it. I learnt myself several tunes, such as the
‘Sultan Polka.’ I must have been eight years old then. I didn’t play it
with both hands: I couldn’t do the bass.

“I never had any lessons in music. I’ve done it all out of my own head.
Before I had a concertina, I used to go about amusing myself with a
penny tin whistle. I could play it pretty well, not to say all tunes,
but all such as I knew I could play very well on it. The ‘Red, White,
and Blue’ was my favourite tune.

“I have a brother, who is younger than I am, and he, before he was ten,
was put out to a master to learn the violin. Father’s a labourer, and
does something of anything he can get to do; but bricklaying generally.
He paid so much a quarter for having my brother Henry taught. I think
it was about 16_s._ a-quarter. It was a great expense for father at
first; but afterwards, when we was hard up, Henry could always fly to
the fiddle to earn a crust. Henry never took to music, not to say well.
I can play more out of my own head than he can by notes. He’s a very
good player now.

“I was about getting on for twelve when father first bought me a
concertina. That instrument was very fashionable then, and everybody
had it nearly. I had an accordion before; but it was only a 1_s._ 6_d._
one, and I didn’t take a fancy to it somehow, although I could play
a few tunes on it. I used to see boys about my own height carrying
concertinas about the streets, and humming them. I always wanted one.
There was a little boy I knew, he got one, and then I wanted one
worse. He used to come to our house, and play all sorts of tunes, for
he played very well. I liked the concertina, because it’s like a full
band. It’s like having the fiddle and the harp together. I used to ask
this little boy to lend me his instrument, and I’d work the keys about
a little, but I couldn’t do any airs.

“I play entirely out of my own head, for I never had any lessons at
all. I learn the tunes from hearing other people playing of them. If I
hear a street band, such as a fiddle and harp and cornopean playing a
tune, I follow them and catch the air; and if it’s any sort of a easy
tune at all, I can pick it up after them, for I never want to hear it
more than twice played on an instrument.

“At last, after bothering father a long time, he bought me a half-crown
concertina. I was in bed when he brought it into my room, and he put
it on the bed; when I woke up I see it. I instantly set to work, and
before I had got up I had learnt ‘Pop goes the Weasel.’ I was just
pleased. I was up and dressed, and playing it all day long. I never
used to let anybody touch, not even my own father hardly, for fear he
should break it. I did break it once, and then I was regular dull, for
fear I should lose my tunes.

“It took me six months before I could play it well, and then I could
play a’most any tune I heard. The fingers had learnt the keys, and knew
where the notes was, so that I could play in the dark. My brother could
play the fiddle well, long before I could do any tunes. We used to
play together duets, such as ‘A Boat, a Boat unto the Ferry.’ We never
hardly went out together in the streets and play together, only once
or twice, because a fiddle and a concertina don’t sound well together
unless a harp’s with it, and then it’s beautiful.

“How I came to get on the steamboats was this: father went to take a
trip up to Kew one day, so I wanted to go, and he said if I could earn
my fare I might go. So I thought I’d take my concertina and try. So I
went, and I earned that day about 9_s._, all in halfpence and 4_d._
bits. That was only by going up to Kew and coming back again. It was on
a Whitsun-Monday. Then I thought I’d do it again the next day, and I
think I took about the same. Then I kept on them all together. I didn’t
keep to the Kew boats, because they had got their regular musicians,
and they complained to the superintendent, and he forbid me going. Then
I went to the Woolwich boats, and I used to earn a heap of money, as
much as 10_s._ every day, and I was at it all the week for the season.

“I usen’t to pay any fare, but I got a free pass. It was mostly
the crew. When I got out at the pier, I used to tell them I’d been
playing, and they would let me pass. Now I know near every man that
is on the river, and they let me go on any boat I like. They consider
I draw customers, and amuse them during the trip. They won’t let some