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

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

As this is the case with men who have the exercise of their limbs, and of the several senses of the body, there must be some mitigating plea, if not a full justification, in the conduct of those who beg directly or indirectly, because they and perhaps labour for their daily bread— I allude to those afflicted with blindness, whether "from their youth up" or from the calamity being inflicted upon them in maturer years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The greater part in the streets are musicians; to are, or to . My informant thinks, last Thursday week, there were blind musicians all playing through the streets together in band. There are living in York-court; in Grafton-court; in Clement's-lane; in Orchard-place; in Gray's-buildings; in Half-Moon-street, in the City, and in a court hard by; up by Ball's-pond; in Rose-court, Whitechapel; in ; at ; in ; up at Paddington; (woman) in Marylebone; in ; in Gray'sinn-lane; in Whitechapel: in all ; but my informant was satisfied there must be at least as many more, or blind musicians in all.

In the course of a former inquiry into the character and condition of street performers, I received the following account from a blind musician:—

The street blind tried, some years back, to maintain a burying and sick club of our own; but we were always too poor. We live in rooms. I don't know one blind musician who lives in a lodging-house. I myself know a dozen blind men now performing in the streets of London. 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.

When we agreed to form the blind club there was not more than a dozen members. These consisted of two basket-makers; one mat-maker; four violin players; myself; and my two mates; and this was the number when it dropped for want of funds; that's now sixteen years ago. We were to pay 1s. a month, and sick members were to have 5s. a week when they had paid two years. Our other rules were the same as other clubs. There's a good many blind who play at sailors dances, Wapping and Deptford way. We seldom hire children to lead us in the streets; we have plenty of our own generally. I have five. Our wives are generally women that have their eyesight; but some blind men marry blind women.

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

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

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

You feeling Christians look with pity,

Unto my grief relate—

Pity my misfortune,

For my sufferings are great. 'I'm bound in dismal darkness—

A prisoner I am led;

Poor and blind, just in prime,

Brought to beg my bread. 'When in my pleasant youthful days

In learning took delight,

(and when I was in the country I used to say)

I lost my precious sight.

(some says by an inflammation)

I've lost all earthly comforts,

But since it is God's will,

The more I cannot see the day,

He'll be my comfort still. 'In vain I have sought doctors,

Their learned skill did try,

But they could not relieve me,

Nor spare one single eye. 'So now in dismal darkness

For ever more must be,

To spend my days in silent tears,

Till death doth set me free. 'But had I all the treasures

That decks an Indian shore,

Was all in my possession,

I'd part with that wealthy store, 'If I once more could gain my sight,

And when could gladly view

That glorious light to get my bread,

And work once more like you. 'Return you, tender Christians dear,

And pity my distress;

Relieve a helpless prisoner,

That's blind and comfortless. 'I hope that Christ, our great Redeemer,

Your kindness will repay,

And reward you with a blessing

On the judgment day.

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

Now just to show you the difference of things two year afterwards: I went to the very same place where I had took 1l. by the road side, as I told, and all I got was 4s., so you can see how things was falling. The day I took the 1l., there was only one blind man in the town beside me; but when I got the 4s., there was three men blind there. But things now is much worse— bless you, a hundred times worse. If I went now to Braintree fair, I don't think as I should take 3s. You see there's so many blind men now about that I should'nt wonder if there'd be eight or ten at that very fair; they don't know where to run to now to get a halfpenny; there's so many blind people that persons makes game of them. If they see two near one another, they cries out, there's opposition! See what things is come to. Twelve year ago I should have thought the town was completely done, and people quite tired of me, If I didn't get my shilling going down only one side of a street, and now I may go up and down and not get a penny. If I get 3d. I am very well satisfied. But mind, I may perhaps sometimes meet a gentlemen who may give me a shilling, or one who may give me 2s. 6d.; a person the other day tapped me on the shoulder, near Brook-street, and said, 'Here's half-a-crown for you.' Why, even five year ago one gentleman gave me 1l. twice over within three months, and Prince Napoleon gave me a sovereign last 23rd June was two year. I know the date, because that's the day the blind people goes to the Cloth Hall to get their quarter's money, 25s., and I thought I was as good as they." My informant told me he does better than any of them. "Not one does better than me," he said, "because I sticks to it night and day. It's 12 o'clock every night before I leave the streets. You know I leaves home by ten of a morning. I will have it to get a living. Many says they don't know how I stand it to keep so long on my legs. I only has two meals a day— my breakfast, a bit of summat about five or six at a public-house—my dog though has plenty. I feeds him well, poor fellow. Many times I sleep as I go, and knock my stick just the same as if I was awake. I get a comfortable living—always a little in debt. I've got a very good kerackter, thank God—indeed all the blind men has—they can always get credit; and my dog gets me many a shilling that I wouldn't get at all. But then it's dreadful slavery. I've never no amusement—always out excepting on Sunday. Then I've got 5l. from Cloth Hall, besides a small pension of 1s., and 2s. 6d., and 5s. a year from different gentlemen, who allows us poor blind a small pension yearly. There are many gentleman do this at the West-end. Some will allow 10s. a year, and some only 1s. a year, to a stated number; and they all pay on a particular day that they may appoint. The Earl of Mansfield allows twenty-four destitute blind people 10s. 6d. a year; and his mother gives two blind 1l., and four 10s. The Baroness Rothschild gives to between seventy and eighty 5s. a piece once a year." ("Bless her," said my informant, most heartily, "she is a good woman.") "The Earl Stanhope gives to between forty and fifty the same sum every year, and he's a fine kindhearted gentleman. The Earl of Cork's brother gives eight or nine of us a shilling a piece once a year. Lady Otway Cave, she is very good to us; she gives seventy or eighty of us 1s. each every fust of May; but the butler, like a many more, I am told, takes advantage of the blind, and puts them off with 6d., and takes a receipt from them for 1s. The Earl of Normanton gives 2s. 6d. to ten of us. Mrs. Managan, of May-fair, gives three 2s. 6d. a piece. The Hon. Miss Brande 1s. a piece to eight. Lady Clements, Grosvenorsquare, 2s. a piece to fifteen. The Marchioness of Aylesbury, 5s. a piece to about thirty. The Earl of Harrowby gives twelve 5s. a piece. Lord Dudley Stuart gives to seven or eight 5s. a piece. Mr. Gurney, 1s. a piece to forty. Mr. Ellis, Arlington-street, 2s. 6d. a piece to fourteen. The Marquis of Bute used to give 5s. a piece to sixty or seventy; but the Marchioness, since his death, has discontinued his allowance. The Dean of Westminster gives 1s. a piece to thirty on Boxingday. Mr. Spottiswoode, 1s. a piece to about fourteen. Archbishop of Oxford, 5s. a piece to twelve. Rev. Sir Samuel Jarvis, 2s. 6d. a piece to five. Lady Dundas, 1s. a piece to about fourteen or fifteen. The Earl of Besborough, 1s. each to ten. Lord Stafford, 1s. each to about twenty; he used to give 2s. 6d., but, owing to his servant, I am told the sum has been reduced to 1s. Lady Isabella Thynne, 1s. to ten. The Countess of Carlisle, 2s. 6d. each to sixteen. Earl Fitzwilliam used to give 5s. to some, and 2s. 6d. to others, to about twenty. The Countess of Essex, 2s. 6d. each to three. Lord Hatherton, 2s. 6d. each to twelve. John Ashley Warr, Esq., 5s. each to twenty-four. Lord Tynemouth, 2s. 6d. each to forty. Miss Vaughan, 2s. 6d. each to forty (this is bequeathed for ever). Lord Saltoun, 5s. each to three. Mr. Hope, 1s. each to fifty. Mr. Warren (Bryanstone-square), 1s. each to twenty-five. Miss Howard (York-place), 1s. each to every blind person that calls on Boxing-day. Sir John Curtis, 1s. each to eighty (this is also a bequest). Lady Beresford, 1s. each to forty. Lord Robert Grosvenor gives 1l. each to some few. The Countess of Andover, 2s. 6d. a piece to ten. Lord Stanley used to give 3s. to about twelve; but two years ago the allowance was discontinued. The Marquis of Bristol gives 10s. to eighteen. The Bishop of London, 5s. to every one that can obtain a minister's signature. Mr. Mackenzie (Devonshire-place), 2s. 6d. to ten. Mr. Deacon, 2s. 6d. to ten. Miss Sheriff (Manchester-square), 1s. to twenty. Miss Morrison (Cadogan-place), 1s. each to ten. Mrs. Kittoye (Wilton-crescent), 1s. to twenty. Mrs. Ferguson, 2s. 6d. each to seven. The Earl of Haddington, 10s. each to twelve." I am assured that these are only half of the donors to the blind, and that, with the exception of Lady Liddledam, there is not one person living eastward of Tottenham Court-road, who allows the smallest pension to the blind. My informant told me that he knew of no attorneys, barristers, surgeons, physicians, soldiers or sailors, who distributed any money to the blind, nor one tradesman. I think I get 10s. a week regular," he said. "While the quality's in town I'm safe. For other times I can't count above 5s. a week at the outside—if it's the least damp in the world, the quality will not come out. The musicians, you see, have got the chance of a damp day, for then all the best people's at home; but such as me does well only when they're out. If it wasn't for the pensions that the quality gives to the blind during the winter, they couldn't do at all. The blind people who have guides pay them no wages, they find them their victuals and clothes; but the guides are mostly children, and the blind are very good to them; many that I know spoils them.

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

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

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

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

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

Do you know, I can hear any substance in the street as I pass it by, even the lamp-post or a dead wall—anything that's the height of my head, let it be ever so small, just as well, and tell what it is as well as you as can see. One night I was coming home—you 'll be surprised to hear this—along Burlington-gardens, between twelve and one o'clock, and a gentleman was following me. I knew he was not a poor man by his walk, but I didn't consider he was watching me. I just heerd when I got between Sackville-street and Burlington-street. Oh, I knows every inch of the street, and I can go as quick as you can, and walk four mile an hour; know where I am all the while. I can tell the difference of the streets by the sound of my ear—a wide street and a narrow street—I can't tell a long street till I get to the bottom of it. I can tell when I come to an opening or a turning just by the click on the ear, without either my touching with hand or stick. Well, as I was saying, this gentleman was noticing me, and just as I come to turn up Cork-street, which, you know, is my road to go into Bond-street, on my way home; just as I come into Cork-street, and was going to turn round the corner, the sergeant of police was coming from Bond-street, at the opposite corner of Cork-street, I heerd him, and he just stopped to notice me, but didn't know the gentleman was noticing me too. I whipped round the corner as quick as any man that had his sight, and said, 'Good night, policeman.' I can tell a policeman's foot anywhere, when he comes straight along in his regular way while on his beat, and they all know it too. I can't tell it where there's a noise, but in the stillness of the night nothing would beat me. I can't hear the lamp-posts when there's a noise. When I said, 'Good night, policeman,' the gentleman whipped across to him, and says, 'Is that man really blind?" and by this time I was half way up Cork-street, when the gentleman hallooed to me to stop; and he comes up, and says, says he, 'Are you really blind?' The sergeant of police was with him, and he says, 'Yes, he is really blind, sir;' and then he says, 'How is it that you go so cleverly along the street if you're blind?' Well, I didn't want to stop bothering with him, so I merely says, 'I do far cleverer things than that. I can hear the lamp-post as well as you that can see it.' He says, 'Yes, because you know the distance from one to another.' The sergeant stood there all the time, and he says, 'No, that can't be, for they're not a regular distance one from another.' Then the gentleman says, 'Now, could you tell if I was standing in the street when you passed me by?' I said, 'Yes; but you mustn't stand behind the lamp-post to deceive me with the sound of the substance.' Then he went away to try me, and a fine try we had. He will laugh when he sees that they're all put down. When he went away I recollected that if he didn't stand as near to the pavement as the lamp-post is, and remain still, he'd deceive me. Oh, certainly, I couldn't hear him if he was far off, and I shouldn't hear him in the same way as I can hear the lamp-posts if he didn't stand still. The policeman hallooed after him, and told him that he mustn't deceive me; but he wouldn't make no answer, for fear I should catch the sound of his voice and know where he was. I had agreed to touch every substance as I went along and round the street to look for him; we always call it looking though we are blind. Well, when he had stood still the sergeant told me to go; he's the sergeant of St. James' stationhouse, and has been often speaking to me since about it; and on I went at the rate of about three mile an hour, and touched every lamp-post without feeling for them, but just struck them with my stick as I went by, without stopping, and cried out, 'There's a substance.' At last I come to him. There's a mews, you know, just by the hotel in Cork-street, and the gentleman stood between the mews and Clifford-street, in Cork-street; and when I come up to him, I stopped quite snddenly, and cried out 'There's a substance.' As I was offering to touch him with my stick, he drew back very softly, just to deceive me. Then he would have another try, but I picked him out again, but that wouldn't satisfy him, and he would try me a third time; and then, when I come up to him, he kept drawing back, right into the middle of the road. I could hear the stones scrunch under his feet; so I says, 'Oh, that's not fair;' and he says, 'Well, I'm bet.' Then he made me a present, and said that he would like to spend an hour some night with me again. I don't think he was a doctor, 'cause he never took no notice of my eyes, but he was a real gentleman—the sergeant said so.

When I dream, it's just the same as I am now, I dream of hearing and touching. The last dream that I had was about a blind man—that's in prison just now. I went into his wife's house, I knew it was her house by the sound of my foot in it. I can tell whether a place is clean or dirty by the sound. Then I heard her say, 'Well, how do you get on?' and I said 'Very well;' and she said 'Sit down,' and after sitting there a little while, I heard a voice at the door, and I said to her, 'Bless me, wouldn't you think that was John;' she said, 'Yes, I would,' but she took no farther notice, and I heard his voice repeatedly. I thought he was speaking to a child, and I got up and went to the door, and says, 'Halloa! is this you;' I was quite surprised and took him by the arm (laying his hand on his own) and he was in his shirt sleeves. I knew that by the feel. Then I was kind of afeard of him, though I am not afeard of anything. I was rather surprised that he should come out three weeks before his time. Then I dreamt that he tried to frighten and pushed me down on the floor, that way (making the motion sideways), to make me believe he was a ghost. I felt it as plain as I should if you were to do the same to me now. I says to him 'Don't be so foolish, sit down', and I pushed him away and got up. When I got up, his wife says to him, 'Sit down, John, and don't be so foolish; sit down, and behave yourself;' and then we set down the two of us, just on the edge of the bed (here he moved his hand along the edge of the table). I thought it was turned down. He's a very resolute man and a wicked one, this blind man is, so I would like to have been out from him, but I was afeard to go, for he'd got a hold of me; after that I waked and I heerd no more. But it's my real opinion that he's dead now, it is indeed, through having such dreams of him I think so; and the same night his wife dreamt that I was killed and all knocked into about a hundred pieces; and those two dreams convince me something's come to him. Oh, I do firmly believe in dreams, that I do; they're sent for people to foresee things, I'm certain of it, if people will only take notice of 'em. I have been many times in prison myself, while I've been travelling the country. You know in many towns they comes and takes you up without given you never no warning if they catches you begging. I was took up once in Liverpool, once in Hull, once in Exeter, and once in Biddeford, in Devonshire. Most of the times I had a month, and one of them only seven days. I think that's very unjust—never to say you mustn't do it; but to drag you off without never no warning. Every time before I was put in quod I had always dreamt that my father was starving to death for want of victuals, and at last I got to know whenever I dreamt that, I was sure of going to prison. I never dreamt about my mother; she died, you see, when I was very young, and I never remember hearing her speak but once or twice. My father never did the thing that was right to me, and I didn't care much about him. When I was at home I was very fond of pigeons, and my mind went so much upon them, that I used to dream of it the night before, always when they had eggs, and when my rabbits had young ones too. I know when I wake in the morning that I am awake by my thoughts. Sometimes I dream I've got a lot of money in my hand, and when I wake and put my hand to feel it, it's gone, there's none there, and so I know it's been only a dream. I'm much surprised at my disappointment though.

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