THE street classes that are still undescribed are the lower class of street singers, the Street Artists, the Writers without Hands, and the Street Exhibition-keepers. I shall begin with the Street Singers.

Concerning the ordinary street ballad-singers, I received the following account from of the class:—

"I am what may be termed a regular street ballad-singer—either sentimental or comic, sir, for I can take both branches. I have been, as near as I can guess, about fiveand- years at the business. My mother died when I was years old, and in consequence of a step-mother home became too hot to hold me, and I turned into the streets in consequence of the harsh treatment I met with. My father had given me no education, and all I know now I have picked up in the streets. Well, at years, I turned into the streets, houseless, friendless. My father was a picture-frame gilder. I was never taught any business by him—neither his own nor any other. I never received any benefit from him that I know. Well then, sir, there was I, a boy of , friendless, houseless, untaught, and without any means of getting a living— loose in the streets of London. At I slept anywhere: sometimes I passed the night in the old Covent-garden-market; at others, in shutter-boxes; and at others, on door-steps near my father"s house. I lived at this time upon the refuse that I picked up in the streets — cabbage-stumps out of the market, orangepeel, and the like. Well, sir, I was green then, and of the Stamp-office spies got me to sell some of the , (an unstamped paper of that time), so that his fellow-spy might take me up. This he did, and I had a month at Coldbath-fields for the business. After I had been in prison, I got in a measure hardened to the frowns of the world, and didn"t care what company I kept, or what I did for a living. I wouldn"t have you to fancy, though, that I did anything dishonest. I mean, I wasn"t particular as to what I turned my hand to for a living, or where I lodged. I went to live in , St. Giles"s, at a threepenny house; and having a tidy voice of my own, I was there taught to go out balladsinging, and I have stuck to the business ever since. I was going on for when I took to it. The thing I did was to lead at glee-singing; I took the air, and others, old hands, did the and the bass. We used to sing the "Red Cross Knight," "Hail, smiling Morn," and harmonize "The Wolf," and other popular songs. Excepting when we needed money, we rarely went out till the evening. Then our pitches were in quiet streets or squares, where we saw, by the light at the windows, that some party was going on. Wedding-parties was very good, in general quite a harvest. Public-houses we did little at, and then it was always with the parlour company; the tap-room people have no taste for glee-singing. At times we took from to of an evening, the of us. I am speaking of the business as it was about or -and- years ago. Now, gleesinging is seldom practised in the streets of London: it is chiefly confined to the provinces, at present. In London, concerts are so cheap now-a-days, that no will stop to listen to the street glee-singers; so most of the "schools," or sets, have gone to sing at the cheap concerts held at the public-houses. Many of the glee-

He is too independent to rank himself with the beggars. He earns his money, he fancies, and does not ask charity. Some of the ballad-singers may perhaps be called beggars, or rather pensioners—that is the term we give them; but these are of the worst de- scription of singers, and have money given to them neither for their singing nor songs, but in pity for their age and infirmities. Of these there are about in London. Of the regular ballad-singers, sentimental and comic, there are not less than in and about London. Occasionally the number is greatly increased by an influx from the country. I should say that throughout England, Wales, and Scotland, there is not less than who live solely by ballad-singing, and selling ballads and song-books. In London the ballad-singers generally work in couples— especially the comic singers. The sentimental generally go alone; but there are very few in London who are merely sentimental ballad-singers—not more than a dozen at the very outside. The rest sing whatever comes up. The tunes are mostly picked up from the street bands, and sometimes from the cheap concerts, or from the gallery of the theatre, where the street ballad-singers very often go, for the express purpose of learning the airs. They are mostly utterly ignorant of music, and some of them get their money by the noise they make, by being paid to move on. There is a house in the Blackfriars"road where the people has been ill for the last years, and where the street balladsinger always goes, because he is sure of getting there to move on. Some, too, make a point of beginning their songs outside of those houses where the straw is laid down in front; where the knockers are done up in an old glove the ballad-singer is sure to strike up. The comic songs that are popular in the street are never indecent, but are very often political. They are generally sung by persons, repeating the lines of the verse, and the other the last. The street-ballads are printed and published chiefly in the Dials. There are balladpublishers in that quarter, and at the East-end. Many ballads are written expressly for the -Dials press, especially the Newgate and the political ones, as well as those upon any topic of the day. There are known authors for the Dials press, and they are all street ballad-singers. I am of these myself. The little knowledge I have I picked up bit by bit, so that I hardly know how I have come by it. I certainly knew my letters before I left home, and I have got the rest off the dead walls and out of the ballads and papers I have been selling. I write most of the Newgate ballads now for the printers in the Dials, and, indeed, anything that turns up. I get a shilling for a "copy of verses written by the wretched culprit the night previous to his execution." I wrote Courvoisier"s sorrowful lamentation. I called it, "A Woice from the Gaol." I wrote a pathetic ballad on the respite of Annette Meyers. I did the helegy, too, on Rush"s execution. It was supposed, like the rest, to be written by the culprit himself, and was