I NOW give an account of the street-trade, the feelings, and the life of a poor blind woman, who may be seen nearly every fine day, selling what is technically termed "small-ware," in Leatherlane, . The street "small-wares" are now understood to be cotton-tapes, pins, and sewing cotton; sometimes with the addition of boot and stay-laces, and shirt-buttons.

I saw the blind small-ware seller enter her own apartment, which was on the floor of a small house in a court contiguous to her "pitch." The entrance into the court was low and narrow; a tall man would be compelled to stoop as he entered the passage leading into the court. Here were unmistakeable signs of the poverty of the inhabitants. Soapsuds stood in the choked gutter, old clothes were hung out to dry across the court, side being a dead wall, and the windows were patched with paper, sometimes itself patched with other paper. In front of window, however, was a rude gate-work, behind which stood a root of lavender, and a campanula, thriving not at all, but yet, with all their dinginess, presenting a relief to the eye.

The room of the blind woman is reached by a very narrow staircase, on which slim persons could not pass each other, and up old and worn stairs. Her apartment may be about feet square. The window had both small and large panes, with abundance of putty plastering. The furniture consisted of a small round deal table (on which lay the poor woman's stock of black and white tapes, of shirt-buttons, &c.), and of broken or patched chairs. There were a few motley-looking "pot" ornaments on the mantelshelf, in the middle of which stood a doctor's bottle. The bust of a female was also conspicuous, as was a tobacco-pipe. Above the mantel-piece hung some pictureless frames, while a pair of spectacles were suspended above a little looking-glass. Over a cupboard was a picture of the Ethiopian serenaders, and on the uncoloured walls were engravings of animals apparently from some work on natural history. There were thin beds, on of which was stowed a few costermonger's old baskets and old clothes (women's and boys'), as if stowed away there to make room to stir about. All the furniture was dilapidated. An iron rod for a poker, a pair of old tongs, and a sheet-iron shovel, were by the grate, in which glimmered a mere handful of fire. All showed poverty. The rent was a week (it had been ), and the blind woman and a lodger (paying of the rent) slept in bed, while a boy occupied the other. A wiry-haired dog, neither handsome nor fat, received a stranger (for the blind woman, and her guide and lodger, left their street trade at my request for their own room) with a few querulous yelps, which subsided into a sort of whining welcome to me, when the animal saw his mistress was at ease. The pleasure with which this poor woman received and returned the caresses of her dog was expressed in her face. I may add that owing to a change of street names in that neighbourhood, I had some difficulty in finding the small-ware seller, and heard her poor neighbours speak well of him as I inquired her abode; usually a good sign among the poor.

The blind tape-seller is a tall and somewhat strongly-formed woman, with a good-humoured and not a melancholy expression of face, though her manner was exceedingly quiet and subdued and her voice low. Her age is about . She wore, what I understand is called a "half-widow's cap;" this was very clean, as indeed was her attire generally, though worn and old.

I have already given an account of a female small-ware seller (which account formerly appeared in of my letters in the ) strongly illustrating the vicissitudes of a street life. It was the statement, however, of who is no longer in the streets, and the account given by the blind tape and pin seller is further interesting as furnishing other habitudes or idiosyncracies of the blind (or of an individual blind woman), in addition to those before detailed; more especially in its narrative of the feelings of a perhaps not very sensitive woman who became "dark" (as she always called it) in mature age.

It's five years, sir," she said, "since I have been quite dark, but for two years before that I had lost the sight of one eye. Oh, yes, I had doctors but they couldn't save my eyesight. I lost it after illnesses and rheumatics, and from want and being miserable. I felt very miserable when I first found myself quite dark, as if everything was lost to me. I felt as if I'd no more place in the world; but one gets reconciled to most things, thank God, in time; but I'm often low and sad now. Living poorly and having a sickly boy to care about may be one reason, as well as my blindness and being so bad off.

I was brought up to service, and was sent before that to St. Andrew's school. I lost my parents and friends (relatives) when I were young. I was in my first place eighteen months, and was eight or nine years in service altogether, mostly as maid of all work. I saved a little money and married. My husband was a costermonger, and we didn't do well. Oh, dear no, sir, because he was addicted to drinking. We often suffered great pinching. I can't say as he was unkind to me. He died nine years or more since. After that I supported myself, and two sons we had, by going out to wash and 'chair.' I did that when my husband was living. I had tidy work, as I 'chaired' and washed for one family in Clerkenwell for ten years, and might again if I wasn't dark. My eldest son's now a soldier and is with his regiment at Dover. He's only eighteen, but he could get nothing to do as hard as he tried; I couldn't help him; he knew no trade; and so he 'listed. Poor fellow! perhaps I shall never see him again. Oh, see him! That I couldn't if he was sitting as near me as you are, sir; but perhaps I may never hear his voice again. Perhaps he'll have to go abroad and be killed. It's a sad thought that for a blind widow; I think of it both up and in bed. Blind people thinks a great deal, I feel they does. My youngest son—he's now fourteen —is asthmatical; but he's such a good lad, so easily satisfied. He likes to read if he can get hold of a penny book, and his time to read it. He's at a paper-stainer's and works on fancy satin paper, which is very obnicious" (the word she used twice for pernicious or obnoxious) "to such a delicate boy. He has 5s. a week, but, oh dear me, it takes all that for his bit of clothes, and soap for washing, and for shoes, and then he must carry his dinner with him every day, which I makes ready, and as he has to work hard, poor thing, he requires a little meat. I often frets about his being so weakly; often, as I stands with my tapes and pins, and thinks, and thinks. But, thank God, I can still wash for him and myself, and does so regularly. No, I can't clean my room myself, but a poor woman who lives by selling boot-laces in the streets has lodged with me for many years, and she helps me.

"Lives!" interrupted the poor boot-lace woman, who was present, "starves, you mean; for all yesterday I only took a farthing. But anything's better than the house. I'll live on a day, and pay rent and all, and starve half my time, rather nor the great house" (the Union).

Yes, indeed," resumed the blind woman, "for when I first went dark, I was forced to send to my parish, and had 6d. twice a week, and a halfquartern loaf, and that was only allowed for three weeks, and then there was the house for me. Oh dear, after that I didn't know what I could do to get a bit of bread. At first I was so frightened and nervous, I was afraid of every noise. That was when I was quite dark; and I am often frightened at nothing still, and tremble as I stand in the lane. I was at first greatly distressed, and in pain, and was very down-hearted. I was so put about that I felt as if I was a burden to myself, and to everybody else. If you lose your sight as I did, sir, when you're not young, it's a long time before you learns to be blind. [So she very expressly worded it.] A friend advised me to sell tapes and cottons, and boot-laces, in the street, as better than doing nothing; and so I did. But at first I was sure every minute I should be run on. The poor woman that lodges with me bought some things for me where she buys her own—at Albion-house, in the Borough. O, I does very badly in my trade, very badly. I now clear only 2d., 3d., or 4d. a day; no, I think not more than 1s. 6d. a week; that is all. Why, one day this week I only sold a ha 'porth of pins. But what I make more than pays my rent, and it's a sort of employment; something to do, and make one feel one's not quite idle. I hopes to make more now that nights are getting long, for I can then go into the lane (Leather-lane) of an evening, and make 1d. or 2d. extra. I daren't go out when it's long dark evenings, for the boys teases me, and sometimes comes and snatches my tapes and things out of my hands, and runs away, and leaves me there robbed of my little stock. I'm sure I don't know whether it's young thieves as does it, or for what they calls a lark. I only knows I loses my tapes. Do I complain to the police, do you say, sir? I don't know when a policeman's passing, in such a crowded place. Oh yes, I could get people to complain for me, but perhaps it would be no good; and then I'm afraid of the police; they're so arbitry. [Her word.] It's not very long since one of them—and I was told afterwards he was a sergeant, too—ordered me to move on. 'I can't move on, sir,' said I, 'I wish I could, but I must stand still, for I'm blind.' 'I know that,' says he, 'but you're begging.' 'No, I'm not,' says I, 'I'm only a trying to sell a few little things, to keep me out of the work 'us.' 'Then what's that thing you have tied over your breast?' says he. 'If you give me any more of your nonsense, I'll lock you up;' and then he went away. I'm terrified to think of being taken to the station.

The matter which called forth the officer's wrath, was a large card, tied from the poor woman's shoulders, on which was printed, in large letters, "PLEASE TO BUY OF THE POOR BLIND." "Ay," said the blind woman's companion, with a bitterness not uncommon on the part of street-sellers on such occasions, "and any shopkeeper can put what notice he likes in his window, that he can, if it's ever such a lie, and nothing's said if collects a crowd; oh dear, no. But mus'n't say our lives is our own."

"Yes, sir," said the blind woman, as I questioned her further, "there I stands, and often feels as if I was half asleep, or half dreaming; and I sometimes hardly knows when I dreams, and what I thinks; and I think what it was like when I had my eyesight and was among them, and what it would be like if I had my eyesight again; all those people making all that noise, and trying to earn a penny, seems so queer. And I often thinks if people suffered ever so much, they had something to be thankful for, if they had their eyesight. If I'd been dark from a child, I think I shouldn't have felt it so much. It wouldn't have been like all that lost, and I should be handier, though I'm not bad that way as it is, but I'm afraid to go out by myself. Where I lives there's so many brokers about, I should run against their furniture. I'm sometimes not spoken to for an hour and more. Many a day I've only took Then I thinks and mopes about what will become of me, and thinks

I don't know any other blind woman in the trade besides myself. No, I don't associate with blind people. I wasn't brought up, like, to such a thing, but am in it by accident. I can't say how many blind women there may be in my line in the streets. I haven't the least notion. I took little notice of them, God forgive me, when I had my eyesight, and I haven't been thrown among them since. Whether there's many of them or not, they're all to be pitied.

On a Sunday I never stirs out, except to chapel, with my lodger or my son. No, sir, not a Roman Catholic chapel, but a Protestant. When it's not very fine weather we goes to the nearest, but you hears nothing but what's good in any of them. Oh dear, no.

I lives on tea and bread and butter all the week—yes, I can make it ready myself—except on Sundays, when my son has his dinner here, and we has a bit of cheap meat; not often fish; it's troublesome. If bread and things wasn't cheap I couldn't live at all, and it's hardly living as it is. What can any one do on all that I can earn? There's so many in the streets, I'm told, in my line, and distress drives more and more every week—everybody says so, and wages is so bad, and there's such under-selling, that I don't know whatever things will come to. I've no 'spectation of anything better in the time that has to come, nothing but misery, God help me. But I'm sure I should soon fret to death in a work'us.

The poor woman lodging with the blind streetseller is herself in the same trade, but doing most in boot and stay-laces. She has a sharp and pinched outline of countenance, as if from poverty of diet, and is indeed wretchedly poor, earning only about a day, if so much. She is about the same age as her landlady, or somewhat younger, and has apparently been good-looking, and has still an intelligent expression. She lodged with the blind woman during her husband's lifetime, when he rented rooms, letting her , and she had lived with the present widow in this way about years. She speaks cheerfully and seems an excellent companion for a blind person. On my remarking that they could neither of them be very cross-tempered to have lived so long to gether, the lodger said, laughingly, "O, we have a little tiff now and then, sir, as women will, you know; but it's not often, and we soon are all right again. Poor people like us has something else to think of than tiffs and gossipping."