A poor, feeble, half-witted looking man, with the appearance of far
greater age than he represented himself, (a common case with the very
poor), told me of his sufferings in the streets. He was wretchedly
clad, his clothes being old, patched, and greasy. He is well-known in
London, being frequently seen with a crowd of boys at his heels, who
amuse themselves in playing all kinds of tricks upon him.
“I play the harp in the streets,” he said, “and have done so for the
last two years, and should be very glad to give it up. My brother lives
with me; we’re both bachelors, and he’s so dreadful lame, he can do
nothing. He is a coach-body maker by business. I was born blind, and
was brought up to music; but my sight was restored by Dr. Ware, the old
gentleman in Bridge-street, Blackfriars, when I was nine years old, but
it’s a near sight now. I’m forty-nine in August. When I was young I
taught the harp and the pianoforte, but that very soon fell off, and I
have been teaching on or off these many years--I don’t know how many. I
had three guineas a-quarter for teaching the harp at one time, and two
guineas for the piano. My brother and I have 1_s._ and a loaf a-piece
from the parish, and the 2_s._ pays the rent. Mine’s not a bad trade
now, but it’s bad in the streets. I’ve been torn to pieces; I’m torn to
pieces every day I go out in the streets, and I would be glad to get
rid of the streets for 5_s._ a-week. The streets are full of ruffians.
The boys are ruffians. The men in the streets too are ruffians, and
encourage the boys. The police protect me as much as they can. I should
be killed every week but for them; they’re very good people. I’ve
known poor women of the town drive the boys away from me, or try to
drive them. It’s terrible persecution I suffer--terrible persecution.
The boys push me down and hurt me badly, and my harp too. They yell
and make noises so that I can’t be heard, nor my harp. The boys have
cut off my harp-strings, three of them, the other day, which cost me
6-1/2_d._ or 7_d._ I tell them it’s a shame, but I might as well speak
to the stones. I never go out that they miss me. I don’t make more than
3_s._ a-week in the streets, if I make that.”