Concerning street musicians, they are of multifarious classes. As
a general rule, they may almost be divided into the tolerable and
the intolerable performers, some of them trusting to their skill
in music for the reward for their exertions, others only making a
_noise_, so that whatever money they obtain is given them merely as an
inducement for them to depart. The well-known engraving by Hogarth,
of “the enraged musician,” is an illustration of the persecutions
inflicted in olden times by this class of street performers; and in the
illustrations by modern caricaturists we have had numerous proofs, that
up to the present time the nuisance has not abated. Indeed, many of
these people carry with them musical instruments, merely as a means of
avoiding the officers of the Mendicity Society, or in some few cases as
a signal of their coming to the persons in the neighbourhood, who are
in the habit of giving them a small weekly pension.
These are a more numerous class than any other of the street performers
I have yet dealt with. The musicians are estimated at 1000, and the
ballad singers at 250.
The street musicians are of two kinds, the skilful and the blind. The
former obtain their money by the agreeableness of their performance,
and the latter, in pity for their affliction rather than admiration
of their harmony. The blind street musicians, it must be confessed,
belong generally to the rudest class of performers. Music is not used
by them as a means of pleasing, but rather as a mode of soliciting
attention. Such individuals are known in the “profession” by the name
of “pensioners;” they have their regular rounds to make, and particular
houses at which to call on certain days of the week, and from which
they generally obtain a “small trifle.” They form, however, a most
peculiar class of individuals. They are mostly well-known characters,
and many of them have been performing in the streets of London for
many years. They are also remarkable for the religious cast of their
thoughts, and the comparative refinement of their tastes and feelings.
“OLD SARAH.”
One of the most deserving and peculiar of the street musicians was
an old lady who played upon a hurdy-gurdy. She had been about the
streets of London for upwards of forty years, and being blind, had
had during that period four guides, and worn out three instruments.
Her cheerfulness, considering her privation and precarious mode of
life, was extraordinary. Her love of truth, and the extreme simplicity
of her nature, were almost childlike. Like the generality of blind
people, she had a deep sense of religion, and her charity for a woman
in her station of life was something marvellous; for, though living
on alms, she herself had, I was told, two or three little pensioners.
When questioned on this subject, she laughed the matter off as a jest,
though I was assured of the truth of the fact. Her attention to her
guide was most marked. If a cup of tea was given to her after her
day’s rounds, she would be sure to turn to the poor creature who led
her about, and ask, “You comfortable, Liza?” or “Is your tea to your
liking, Liza?”
When conveyed to Mr. Beard’s establishment to have her daguerreotype
taken, she for the first time in her life rode in a cab; and then her
fear at being pulled “back’ards” as she termed it (for she sat with her
back to the horse), was almost painful. She felt about for something
to lay hold of, and did not appear comfortable until she had a firm
grasp of the pocket. After her alarm had in a measure subsided, she
turned to her guide and said, “We must put up with those trials, Liza.”
In a short time, however, she began to find the ride pleasant enough.
“Very nice, ain’t it Liza?” she said; “but I shouldn’t like to ride on
them steamboats, they say they’re shocking dangerous; and as for them
railways, I’ve heard tell they’re dreadful; but these cabs, Liza, is
very nice.” On the road she was continually asking “Liza” where they
were, and wondering at the rapidity at which they travelled. “Ah!” she
said, laughing, “if I had one of these here cabs, my ‘rounds’ would
soon be over.” Whilst ascending the high flight of stairs that led to
the portrait-rooms, she laughed at every proposal made to her to rest.
“There’s twice as many stairs as these to our church, ain’t there,
Liza?” she replied when pressed. When the portrait was finished she
expressed a wish to feel it.
The following is the history of her life, as she herself related it,
answering to the variety of questions put to her on the subject:--
“I was born the 4th April, 1786 (it was Good Friday that year), at
a small chandler’s shop, facing the White Horse, Stuart’s-rents,
Drury-lane. Father was a hatter, and mother an artificial-flower
maker and feather finisher. When I was but a day old, the nurse took
me out of the warm bed and carried me to the window, to show some
people how like I was to father. The cold flew to my eyes and I caught
inflammation in them. Owing to mother being forced to be from home all
day at her work, I was put out to dry-nurse when I was three weeks old.
My eyes were then very bad, by all accounts, and some neighbours told
the woman I was with, that Turner’s cerate would do them good. She
got some and put it on my eyes, and when poor mother came to suckle
me at her dinner-hour, my eyes was all ‘a gore of blood.’ From that
time I never see afterwards. She did it, poor woman, for the best; it
was no fault of her’n, and I’m sure I bears her no malice for it. I
stayed at home with mother until I was thirteen, when I was put to the
Blind-school, but I only kept there nine months; they turned me out
because I was not clever with my hands, and I could not learn to spin
or make sash-lines; my hands was ocker’d like. I had not been used at
home to do anything for myself--not even to dress myself. Mother was
always out at her work, so she could not learn me, and no one else
would, so that’s how it was I was turned out. I then went back to my
mother, and kept with her till her death. I well remember that; I heard
her last. When she died I was just sixteen year old. I was sent to the
Union--‘Pancridge’ Union it was--and father with me (for he was ill
at the time). He died too, and left me, in seven weeks after mother.
When they was both gone, I felt I had lost my only friends, and that
I was all alone in the world and blind. But, take it altogether, the
world has been very good to me, and I have much to thank God for and
the good woman I am with. I missed mother the most, she was so kind to
me; there was no one like her; no, not even father. I was kept in the
Union until I was twenty; the parish paid for my learning the ‘cymbal:’
God bless them for it, I say. A poor woman in the workhouse first asked
me to learn music; she said it would always be a bit of bread for me;
I did as she told me, and I thank her to this day for it. It took me
just five months to learn the--cymbal, if you please--the hurdy-gurdy
ain’t it’s right name. The first tune I ever played was ‘God save the
King,’ the Queen as is now; then ‘Harlequin Hamlet,’ that took me a
long time to get off; it was three weeks before they put me on a new
one. I then learnt ‘Moll Brook;’ then I did the ‘Turnpike-gate’ and
‘Patrick’s day in the morning:’ all of them I learnt in the Union. I
got a poor man to teach me the ‘New-rigged ship.’ I soon learnt it,
because it was an easy tune. Two-and-forty years ago I played ‘The Gal
_I_ left behind me.’ A woman learnt it me; she played my cymbal and I
listened, and so got it. ‘Oh, Susannah!’ I learnt myself by hearing it
on the horgan. I always try and listen to a new tune when I am in the
street, and get it off if I can: it’s my bread. I waited to hear one
to-day, quite a new one, but I didn’t like it, so I went on. ‘Hasten
to the Wedding’ is my favourite; I played it years ago, and play it
still. I like ‘Where have you been all the night?’ it’s a Scotch tune.
The woman as persuaded me to learn the cymbal took me out of the Union
with her; I lived with her, and she led me about the streets. When she
died I took her daughter for my guide. She walked with me for more than
five-and-twenty year, and she might have been with me to this day,
but she took to drinking and killed herself with it. She behaved very
bad to me at last, for as soon as we got a few halfpence she used to
go into the public and spend it all; and many a time I’m sure she’s
been too tipsy to take me home. One night I remember she rolled into
the road at Kensington, and as near pulled me with her. We was both
locked up in the station-house, for she couldn’t stand for liquor, and
I was obligated to wait till she could lead me home. It was very cruel
of her to treat me so, but, poor creature, she’s gone, and I forgive
her I’m sure. I’d many guides arter her, but none of them was honest
like Liza is: I don’t think she’d rob me of a farden. Would you, Liza?
Yes, I’ve my reg’lar rounds, and I’ve kept to ’em for near upon fifty
year. All the children like to hear me coming along, for I always plays
my cymbal as I goes. At Kentish-town they calls me Mrs. Tuesday, and
at Kensington I’m Mrs. Friday, and so on. At some places they likes
polkas, but at one house I plays at in Kensington they always ask me
for ‘Haste to the Wedding.’ No, the cymbal isn’t very hard to play; the
only thing is, you must be very particular that the works is covered
up, or the halfpence is apt to drop in. King David, they say, played on
one of those here instruments. We’re very tired by night-time; ain’t
we, Liza? but when I gets home the good woman I lodges with has always
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.”