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’ station-house, and has been often speaking to me since
about it; and on I went at the rate of about three mile an hour, and
touched every lamp-post 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 suddenly, 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 one of their rooms, others have cocks and hens,
and others white mice and rabbits, and almost all have dogs, though
all are not led about by them. Some blind men take delight in having
nothing but bull-dogs, not to lead them, but solely for fancy. Nobody
likes a dog so much as a blind man, I am told--“they can’t--the blind
man is so much beholden to his dog, he does him such favours and
sarvices.” “With my dog I can go to any part of London as independent
as any one who has got his sight. Yesterday afternoon when I left your
house, sir, I was ashamed of going through the street. People was a
saying, ‘Look’ee there, that’s the man as says he’s blind.’ I was
going so quick, it was so late you know, they couldn’t make it out,
but without my dog I must have crawled along, and always be in great
fear. The name of my present dog is ‘KEEPER;’ he is a mongrel breed;
I have had him nine years, and he is with me night and day, goes to
church with me and all. If I go out without him, he misses me, and
then he scampers all through the streets where I am in the habit of
going, crying and howling after me, just as if he was fairly out of his
mind. It’s astonishing. Often, before my first blind wife died (for
I’ve been married twice to blind women, and once to a seeing woman), I
used to say I’d sooner lose my wife than my dog; but when I did lose
her I was sorry that ever I did say so. I didn’t know what it was.
I’m sorry for it yet, and ever will be sorry for it; she was a very
good woman, and had fine principles. I shall never get another that I
liked so much as the first. My dog knows every word I say to him. Tell
him to turn right or left, or cross over, and whip! round he goes in
a moment. Where I go for my tobacco, at the shop in Piccadilly, close
to the Arcade--it’s down six or seven steps, straight down--and when
I tells Keeper to go to the baccy shop, off he is, and drags me down
the steps, with the people after me, 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 first he comes to. Directly I whisper 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, one night last week I was coming along Burlington-gardens, and I
stopped to light my pipe as I was coming home, and I let him loose to
play a bit and get a drink; and after I had lit my pipe I walked on,
for I knew the street very well without any guide. I didn’t take notice
of the dog, for I thought he was following me. I was just turning into
Clifford-street when I heard the cries of him in Burlington-gardens.
I know his cry, let him be ever so far away; the screech that he set
up was really quite dreadful; it would grieve anybody to hear him. So
I puts my fingers in my mouth and gives a loud whistle; and at last
he heard me, and then up he comes tearing along and panting away as
if his heart was in his mouth; and when he gets up to me he jumped up
to me right upon my back, and screams like--as if really he wanted to
speak--you can’t call it panting, because it’s louder than that, and he
does pant when he a’n’t tired at all; all I can say is, it’s for all
the world like his speaking, and I understands it as such. If I say a
cross word to him after he’s lost--such as, ah, you rascal, you--he’ll
just stand of one side, and give a cry just like a Christian. I’ve
known him break the windows up two story high when I’ve left him
behind, and down he would have been after me only he durstn’t jump out.
I’ve had Keeper nine year. The dog I had before him was Blucher; he
was a mongrel too; he had a tail like a wolf, an ear like a fox, and
a face black like a monkey. I had him thirteen year. He was as clever
as Keeper, but not so much loved as he is. At last he went blind; he
was about two year losing his sight. When I found his eyes was getting
bad I got Keeper. The way I first noticed him going blind was when I
would come to cross a street on my way home; at nightfall the shade
of the house on the opposite side, as we was crossing, would frighten
him and drive him in the middle of the road; and he wouldn’t draw to
the pavement till he found he was wrong; and then after that he began
to run again the lamp-posts in the dark; when he did this he’d cry out
just like a 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, come and have the collar on,’ I
may call twenty times before he’ll come; but if I say, ‘Dash, come and
have the collar on,’ Keeper’s there the first word, jumping up agin me,
and doing anything but speak. At last my old Blucher went stone blind,
as bad as his master; it was, poor thing; and then he used to fret so
when I went out without him that I couldn’t bear it, and so got at
length to take him always with me, and then he used to follow the knock
of my stick. He done so for about six months, and then I was one night
going along Piccadilly and I stops speaking to a policeman, and Blucher
misses me; he couldn’t hear where I was for the noise of the carriages.
He didn’t catch the sound of my stick, and couldn’t hear my voice for
the carriages, so he went seeking me into the middle of the road, and
there a buss run over him, poor thing. I heerd him scream out and I
whistled to him, and he came howling dreadful on to the pavement again.
I didn’t think he was so much hurt then, for I puts the collar on him
to take him safe back, and he led me home blind as he was. The next
morning he couldn’t rise up at all, his hind parts was useless to him.
I took him in my arms and found he couldn’t move. Well, he never eat
nor drink nothing for a week, and got to be in such dreadful pain that
I was forced to have him killed. I got a man to drown him in a bag. I
could’nt have done it myself for all the world. It would have been as
bad to me as killing a Christian. I used to grieve terribly after I’d
lost him. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I had had him so many years,
and he had been with me night and day, my constant companion, and the
most faithful friend I ever had, except Keeper: there’s nothing in the
world can beat Keeper for faithfulness--nothing.”
OF THE LIFE OF A BLIND BOOT-LACE SELLER.
The blind boot lace-seller who gave me the following history of his
life was the original of the portrait given in No. 17. He was a tall,
strongly-built man. In face he was ghastly, his cheek bones were sharp
and high, his nose flat to his face, and his eyes were so deeply sunk
in that he had more the appearance of a death’s head than of a living
man. His shirt was scrupulously clean. He wore a bright red cotton
neckerchief and a plaid waistcoat of many colours. His dog accompanied
him and never left his master’s side one moment.
“It’s very sorrowful--very sorrowful indeed to hear that,” said the
boot-lace seller to me, on my reading him the account of the blind
needle-seller; “it touches me much to hear that. But you see I don’t
grieve for the loss of my sight as he do, poor man. I don’t remember
ever seeing any object. If there was a thing with many colours in it, I
could dissarn the highest colour. I couldn’t tell one from another, but
only the highest.
[Illustration: THE BLIND BOOT-LACE SELLER.
[_From a Daguerreotype by_ BEARD.]]