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the ground at Naples, in the country, and I guarded sheep. I never
was a domestic; but it was for my father. It was ground of his. It
was not much. He worked the earth for yellow corn. He had not
much of sheep, only fifteen. When I go out with the sheep I carry
my bagpipes always with me. I play on them when I was sixteen
years of age. I play them when I guard my sheep. In my country
they call my instrument de ‘zampogna.’ All the boys in my country
play on it, for there are many masters there who teach it. I taught
myself to play it. I bought my own instrument. I gave the money
myself for that affair. It cost me seven francs. The bag is made of a
skin of goat. There are four clarionets to it. There is one for the high
and one for the bass. I play them with different hands. The other
two clarionets make a noise to make the accord; one makes high
and the other the low. They drone to make harmony. The airs I play
are the airs of my country. I did not invent them. One is ‘La
Tarentule Italien,’ and another is what we call ‘La Badend,’ but I not
know what you call it in French. Another is the ‘Death of the Roi de
France.’ I know ten of these airs. The ‘Pastorelle Naopolitan’ is very
pretty, and so is the ‘Pastorelle Romaine.’
“When I go out to guard my sheep I play my zampogna, and I walk
along and the sheep follow me. Sometimes I sit down and the sheep
eat about me, and I play on my instrument. Sometimes I go into the
mountains. There are plenty of mountains in my country, and with
snow on them. I can hear the guardians of sheep playing all around
me in the mountains. Yes, many at once,—six, ten, twelve, or
fifteen, on every side. No, I did not play my instrument to keep my
sheep together, only to learn the airs. I was a good player, but there
were others who played much better than me. Every night in my
village there are four or six who play together instruments like mine,
and all the people dance. They prefer to dance to the ‘Tarentule
Italien.’ It is a pretty dance in our costume. The English do not
dance like nous autres. We are not paid for playing in the village,
only at fêtes, when gentlemen say, ‘Play;’ and then they give 20
sous or 40 sous, like that. There is another air, which is played only
for singing. There is one only for singing chansons, and another for
singing ‘La Prière de la Vierge.’ Those that play the zampogna go to
the houses, and the candles are lighted on the altar, and we play
while the bourgeois sing the prière.
“I am aged 23 years next March. I was sixteen when I learnt my
instrument. The twelfth of this month I shall have left my country
nine months. I have traversed the states of Rome and of France to
come to England. I marched all the distance, playing my zampogna.
I gain ten sous French whilst I voyage in the states of France. I
march from Marseilles to Paris. To reach Marseilles by the boat it
cost 15 frs. by head.
“The reason why we left our native land is this:—One of our
comrades had been to Paris, and he had said he gained much
money by painters by posing for his form. Then I had envy to go to
Paris and gain money. In my country they pay 20 sous for each year
for each sheep. I had 200 to guard for a monsieur, who was very
rich. There were four of us left our village at the same time. We all
four played de zampogna. My father was not content that I voyage
the world. He was very sorry. We got our passport arranged tout de
suite, two passport for us four. We all began to play our instruments
together, as soon as we were out of the village. Four of our friends
accompanied us on our road, to say adieu. We took bread of corn
with us to eat for the first day. When we had finished that we played
at the next village, and they give us some more bread.
“At Paris I posed to the artists, and they pay me 20 sous for the
hour. The most I pose is four hours for the day. We could not play
our instruments in the street, because the serjeant-de-ville catch us,
and take us directly to prison. I go to play in the courts before the
houses. I asked the concierge at the door if he would give me
permission to play in the court. I gain 15 sous or 1 franc par jour.
For all the time I rest in Paris I gain 2 francs for the day. This is with
posing to artists to paint, and for playing. I also play at the barrière
outside Paris, where the wine is cheap. They gave us more there
than in the courts; they are more generous where they drink the
wine.
“When I arrive at Paris my comrades have leave me. I was alone in
Paris. There an Italian proposed to me to go to America as his
servant. He had two organs, and he had two servants to play them,
and they gave him the half of that which they gained. He said to me,
that he would search for a piano organ for me, and I said I would
give him the half of that which I gained in the streets. He made us
sign a card before a notary. He told us it would cost 150 francs to go
to America. I gave him the money to pay from Paris to Folkestone.
From there we voyaged on foot to Londres. I only worked for him for
eight days, because I said I would not go to Amérique. He is here
now, for he has no money to go in Amérique.
“I met my cousin here in Londres. I was here fifteen days before I
met him. We neither of us speak Anglais, and not French either, only
a little very bad; but we understand it. We go out together now, and
I play the zampogna, and he the ‘biforc Italien,’ or what the French
call flageolet, and the English pipes. It is like a flageolet. He knows
all the airs that I play. He play well the airs—that he does. He wears
a cloak on his shoulders, and I have one, too; but I left it at home
to-day. It is a very large cloak, with three yards of étoffe in it. He
carry in his hat a feather of what you call here peacock, and a
French lady give him the bright ribbon which is round his hat. I have
also plume de peacock and flowers of stuff, like at the shops, round
my hat. In my country we always put round our hat white and red
flowers.
“Sometimes we go to pose to the artists, but it is not always. There
are plenty of artists near Newman-street, but in other quarters there
are none at all. It is for our costume they paint us. The colours they
put on the pictures are those of our costume. I have been three
times to a gentleman in a large street, where they took our portraits
photographique. They give a shilling. I know the houses where I go
to be done for a portrait, but I don’t know the names of the
messieurs, or the streets where they reside. At the artists’ they pay
1s. par heure, and we pose two or three heures, and the most is
four heures. When we go together we have 1s. each for the hour.
My cousin is at an artist’s to-day. They paint him more than me,
because he carries a sash of silk round his waist, with ornaments on
it. I haven’t got one, because I want the money to buy one.
“We gain 1s. each the day. Ah! pardon, monsieur, not more than
that. The artists are not for every day, perhaps one time for the
week. When we first come here, we take 5s. between the two, but
now it makes cold, and we cannot often play. Yesterday we play in
the ville, and we take 7d. each. Plenty of persons look at us, but
when my comrade touch his hat they give nothing. There is one
month we take 2s. each the day, but now it is 1s. For the three
months that we have been here, we have gained 12s. the week
each, that is, if we count what we took when first we were arrived.
For two months we took always a crown every day—always, always;
but now it is only 1s., or 2s., or 7d. I had saved 72s., and I had it in
my bourse, which I place under my head when I sleep. We sleep
three in a bed—myself, my cousin, and another Italian. In the night
this other take my bourse and run away. Now I have only 8s. in my
bourse. It nearly broke the heart when I was robbed.
“We pay 2d. for each for our bed every night. We live in a house
held by a Mossieu Italian. There are three who sleep in one bed—
me, and my comrade, and another. We are not large. This mossieu
let us lodge cheaper than others, because we are miserable, and
have not much money. For breakfast we have a half-loaf each one. It
is a loaf that you must pay 4d. or 4½d. We pay 2½d. each for that,
and ½d. each for a cup of tea or coffee. In the day we eat 2d. or
3d. between both for some bread, and we come home the night at
half-past eight, and we eat supper. It is of maccaroni, or potatoes
boiled, and we pay 2½d. each. It costs us 9d. each the day to live.
There are twenty-four Italian in the house where we live, and they
have three kitchens. When one is more miserable than the others,
then he is helped; and at another time he assists in his turn. We pay
2d. a-week to wash our shirt. I always share with my cousin what he
makes in the day. If he goes to work and I stop at home, it is the
same thing, and the same with me. He carries the money always,
and pays for what we have want to eat; and then, if I wish to go
back to my own country, then we share the money when we
separate.
“The gentlemen give us more money than the ladies. We have never
had anything to eat given to us. They have asked us to sing, but we
don’t know how. Only one we have sung to, an Italian mossieu, who
make our portraits. We sang the ‘Prayer of the Sainte Vierge.’ They
have also asked us to dance, but we did not, because the serjeant-
de-ville, if we assemble a great mob, come and defend us to play.
“We have been once before the magistrate, to force the mossieu
who brought us over to render the passport of my native village. He
has not rendered to me my card. We shall go before a magistrate
again some day.
“I can write and read Italian. I did not go much to the school of my
native village, but the master taught me what I know. I can read
better than I write, for I write very bad and slow. My cousin cannot
read and write. I also know my numbers. I can count quickly. When
we write a letter, we go to an Italian mossieu, and we tell him to say
this and that, and he puts it down on the paper. We pay 1s. for the
letter, and then at the post they make us pay 2s. 2d. When my
parents get a letter from me, they take it to a mossieu, or the
schoolmaster of the village, to read for them, because they cannot
read. They have sent me a letter. It was well written by a gentleman
who wrote it for them. I have sent my mother five pieces of five
francs from Paris. I gave the money, and they gave me a letter; and
then my mother went to the consul at Naples, and they gave her the
money. Since I have been here I could send no money, because it
was stolen. If I had got it, I should have sent some to my parents.
When I have some more, I shall send it.
“I love my mother very much, and she is good, but my father is not
good. If he gain a piece of 20 sous, he goes on the morrow to the
marchand of wine, and play the cards, and spend it to drink. I never
send my money to my father, but to my mother.”
 Italian with Monkey.
An Italian, who went about with trained monkeys, furnished me with
the following account.
He had a peculiar boorish, and yet good-tempered expression,
especially when he laughed, which he did continually.
He was dressed in a brown, ragged, cloth jacket, which was
buttoned over a long, loose, dirty, drab waistcoat, and his trowsers
were of broad-ribbed corduroy, discoloured with long wearing.
Round his neck was a plaid handkerchief, and his shoes were of the
extreme “strong-men’s” kind, and grey with dust and want of
blacking. He wore the Savoy and broad-brimmed felt hat, and with it
on his head had a very picturesque appearance, and the shadow of
the brim falling on the upper part of his brown face gave him almost
a Murillo-like look. There was, however, an odour about him,—half
monkey, half dirt,—that was far from agreeable, and which pervaded
the apartment in which he sat.
“I have got monkey,” he said, “but I mustn’t call in London. I goes
out in countree. I was frightened to come here. I was frightened you
give me months in prison. Some of my countrymen is very
frightened what you do. No, sir, I never play de monkey in de town.
I have been out vare dere is so many donkey, up a top at dat village
—vat you call—I can’t tell de name. Dey goes dere for pastime,—
pleasure,—when it makes fine weather. Dere is two church, and two
large hotel,—yes, I tink it is Blackheath! I goes dere sometime vid
my monkey. I have got only one monkey now,—sometime I have got
two;—he is dressed comme un soldat rouge, like one soldier, vid a
red jacket and a Bonaparte’s hat. My monkey only pull off his hat
and take a de money. He used to ride a de dog; but dey stole a de
dog,—some of de tinkare, a man vid de umbrella going by, stole a
him. Dere is only tree months dat I have got my monkey. It is my
own. I gave dirty-five shilling for dis one I got. He did not know no
tricks when he come to me first. I did teach a him all he know. I
teach a him vid de kindness, do you see. I must look rough for tree
or four times, but not to beat him. He can hardly stir about; he is
afraid dat you go to hit him, you see. I mustn’t feed him ven I am
teaching him. Sometimes I buy a happorth of nuts to give him, after
he has done what I want him to do. Dis one has not de force
behind; he is weak in de back. Some monkey is like de children at de
school, some is very hard to teash, and some learn de more quick,
you see. De one I had before dis one could do many tings. He had
not much esprit pas grande chose; but he could play de drum,—de
fiddle, too,—Ah! but he don’t play de fiddle like de Christian, you
know; but like de monkey. He used to fight wid de sword,—not
exactly like de Christian, but like de monkey too,—much better. I beg
your pardon to laugh, sir! He used to move his leg and jomp,—I call
it danse,—but he could not do polka like de Christian.—I have seen
the Christian though what can’t danse more dan de monkey! I beg
your pardon to laugh. I did play valtz to him on de organ. Non! he
had not moosh ear for de musick, but I force him to keep de time by
de jerk of de string. He commence to valtz vell when he die. He is
dead the vinter dat is passed, at Sheltenham. He eat some red-ee
paint. I give him some castor-oil, but no good: he die in great deal
pain, poor fellow! I rather lose six pounds than lose my monkey. I
did cry!—I cry because I have no money to go and buy anoder
monkey! Yes! I did love my monkey! I did love him for the sake of
my life! I give de raisins, and bile dem for him. He have every ting
he like. I am come here from Parma about fourteen or fifteen year
ago. I used to work in my countree. I used to go and look at de ship
in de montagnes: non! non! pas des vaisseaux, mais des moutons! I
beg your pardon to laugh. De master did bring me up here,—dat
master is gone to America now,—he is come to me and tell me to
come to Angleterre. He has tell me I make plenty of money in dis
country. Ah! I could get plenty of money in dat time in London, but
now I get not moosh. I vork for myself at present. My master give
me nine—ten shilling each veek, and my foot, and my lodging—yes!
everyting ven I am first come here. I used to go out vid de organ,—
a good one,—and I did get two, tree, and more shillan for my
master each day. It was chance-work: sometimes I did get noting at
all. De organ was my master’s. He had no one else but me wid him.
We used to travel about togeder, and he took all de money. He had
one German piano, and play de moosick. I can’t tell how moosh he
did make,—he never tell to me,—but I did sheat him sometimes
myself. Sometime when I take de two shillan I did give him de
eighteen-pence! I beg your pardon to laugh! De man did bring up
many Italians to dis country, but now it is difficult to get de
passports for my countrymen. I was eighteen months with my
master; after dat I vent to farm-house. I run away from my master.
He gave me a slap of de face, you know, von time, so I don’t like it,
you know, and run away! I beg your pardon to laugh! I used to do
good many tings at de farm-house. It was in Yorkshire. I used to
look at de beasts, and take a de vater. I don’t get noting for my
vork, only for de sake of de belly I do it. I was dere about tree year.
Dey behave to me very well. Dey give me de clothes and all I want.
After dat I go to Liverpool, and I meet some of my countrymen dere,
and dey lend me de monkey, and I teash him to danse, fight, and
jomp, mush as I could, and I go wid my monkey about de country.
“Some day I make tree shillan wid my monkey, sometime only
sixpence, and sometime noting at all. When it rain or snow I can get
noting. I gain peut-être a dozen shillan a week wid my monkey,
sometime more, but not often. Dere is long time I have been in de
environs of London; but I don’t like to go in de streets here. I don’t
like to go to prison. Monkey is defended,—defendu,—what you call
it, London. But dere is many monkey in London still. Oh, non! not a
dozen. Dere is not one dozen monkey wot play in Angleterre. I know
dere is two monkey at Saffron hill, and one go in London; but he do
no harm. I don’t know dat de monkey was train to go down de area
and steal a de silver spoons out of de kitchen. Dey would be great
fool to tell dat; but every one must get a living de best dey can. Wot
I tell you about de monkey I’m frightened vill hurt me!
“I tell you dey is defended in de streets, and dey take me up. I hope
not. My monkey is very honest monkey, and get me de bread. I
never was in prison, and I would not like to be. I play de moosick,
and please de people, and never steal noting. Non! non! me no
steal, nor my monkey too. Dey policemen never say noting to me. I
am not beggar, but artiste!—every body know dat—and my monkey
is artiste too! I beg your pardon to laugh.”

The Dancing Dogs.

I received the following narrative from the old man who has been so
long known about the streets of London with a troop of performing
dogs. He was especially picturesque in his appearance. His hair,
which was grizzled rather than grey, was parted down the middle,
and hung long and straight over his shoulders. He was dressed in a
coachman’s blue greatcoat with many capes. His left hand was in a
sling made out of a dirty pocket-handkerchief, and in his other he
held a stick, by means of which he could just manage to hobble
along. He was very ill, and very poor, not having been out with his
dogs for nearly two months. He appeared to speak in great pain.
The civility, if not politeness of his manner, threw an air of
refinement about him, that struck me more forcibly from its contrast
with the manners of the English belonging to the same class. He
began:—
“I have de dancing dogs for de street—now I have nothing else. I
have tree dogs—One is called Finette, anoder von Favorite, that is
her nomme, an de oder von Ozor. Ah!” he said, with a shrug of the
shoulders, in answer to my inquiry as to what the dogs did, “un
danse, un valse, un jomp a de stick and troo de hoop—non, noting
else. Sometime I had de four dogs—I did lose de von. Ah! she had
beaucoup d’esprit—plenty of vit, you say—she did jomp a de hoop
better dan all. Her nomme was Taborine!—she is dead dare is long
time. All ma dogs have des habillements—the dress and de leetle
hat. Dey have a leetel jackette in divers colours en étoffe—some de
red, and some de green, and some de bleu. Deir hats is de rouge et
noir—red and black, wit a leetle plume-fedder, you say. Dere is some
10 or 11 year I have been in dis country. I come from Italie—Italie—
Oui, Monsieur, oui. I did live in a leetle ville, trento miglia, dirty mile,
de Parma. Je travaille dans le campagne, I vork out in de countrie—
je ne sais comment vous appellez la campagne. There is no
commerce in de montagne. I am come in dis country here. I have
leetel business to come. I thought to gagner ma vie—to gain my life
wid my leetel dogs in dis countrie. I have dem déjà when I have
come here from Parma—j’eu avait dix. I did have de ten dogs—je les
apporte. I have carried all de ten from Italie. I did learn—yes—yes—
de dogs to danse in ma own countrie. It did make de cold in de
montagne in winter, and I had not no vork dere, and I must look for
to gain my life some oder place. Après ça, I have instruct my dogs to
danse. Yes, ils learn to danse; I play de music, and dey do jomp.
Non, non—pas du tout! I did not never beat ma dogs; dare is a way
to learn de dogs without no vip. Premièrement, ven I am come here
I have gained a leetel monnaie—plus que now—beaucoup
d’avantage—plenty more. I am left ma logement—my lodging, you
say, at 9 hours in de morning, and am stay away vid ma dogs till 7
or 8 hours in de evening. Oh! I cannot count how many times de
leetel dogs have danse in de day—twenty—dirty—forty peut-être—all
depends: sometimes I would gain de tree shilling—sometime de
couple—sometime not nothing—all depend. Ven it did make bad
time, I could not vork; I could not danse. I could not gain my life
den. If it make cold de dogs are ill—like tout de monde. I did pay
plenty for de nouriture of de dogs. Sometime dey did get du pain de
leetel dogs (de bread) in de street—sometime I give dem de meat,
and make de soup for dem. Ma dogs danse comme les chiens, mais
dey valtz comme les dames, and dey stand on dare back-legs like les
gentilhommes. After I am come here to dis countrie two day, am
terrible malade. I am gone to hospital, to St. Bartolomé, de veek
before de Jour de Noël (Christmas-day). In dat moment I have de
fevre. I have rested in l’hospital quatre semaine—four veek. Ma dogs
vere at libertie all de time. Von compagnon of mine have promised
me to take de care of ma dogs, and he have lose dem all—tout les
dix. After dat I have bought tree oder dogs—one espanol, anoder
von appellé ‘Grifon,’ and de oder vas de dog ordinaire,—non! non!
not one ‘pull dog.’ He no good. I must have one month, or six
semaine, to instruite ma dogs. I have rested in a logement Italien at
Saffron-hill, ven I am come here to London. Dare vas plenty of
Italiens dare. It was tout plein—quite full of strangers. All come dare
—dey come from France, from Germany, from Italie. I have paid two
shillings per semaine each veek—only pour le lit, for de bed. Every
von make de kitchen for himself. Vot number vas dare, you say?
Sometime dare is 20 person dere, and sometime dere is dirty person
in de logement, sometime more dan dat. It is very petite maison.
Dare is von dozen beds—dat is all—and two sleep demselves in each
bed. Sometimes, ven dere arrive plenty, dey sleep demselves tree in
von bed—but ordinairement dere is only two. Dey is all musicians
dere—one play de organ, de piano, de guitar, de flute, yes, dare vos
some vot played it, and de viol too. De great part vas Italiens. Some
of dem have des monkeys, de oders des mice white, and des pigs
d’Indes, (guinea-pigs) and encore oders have des dolls vid two
heads, and des puppets vot danse vid de foot on de boards. Des
animals are in an appartement apart vid de moosick. Dare vos
sometime tree dancing dogs, one dozen of mice, five or six pigs
d’Indes, and ma monkey, altogether vid de moosick, by demselves.
“Dare is all de actors vot vas dare. Ma tree dogs gained me
sometime two shillan, sometime von shillan, and sometime I would
rest on my feet all day, and not gain two sous. Sometimes de boys
would ensault ma dogs vid de stones. Dare is long time I have
rested in London. Dare is short time I vas in de campagne de
countree here not much. London is better dan de campagne for ma
dogs—dare is always de vorld in London—de city is large—yes! I am
always rested at Saffron-hill for 10, 11 years. I am malade at
present, since the 15th of Mars; in ma arms, ma legs, ma tighs have
de douleure—I have plenty of pains to march. Ma dogs are in de
logement now. It is since the 15th of Mars dat I have not vent out
vid ma dogs—yes, since de 15th of Mars I have done no vork. Since
dat time I have not paid no money for ma logement—it is due
encore. Non! non! I have not gained my life since the 15th of Mars.
Plenty of time I have been vitout noting to eat. Des Italiens at de
logement dey have given me pieces of bread and bouilli. Ah! it is
very miserable to be poor, like me. I have sixty and tirteen years. I
cannot march now but vith plenty of pains. Von doctor have give to
me a letter for to present to de poor-house. He did give me my
medicine for nothing—gratis. He is obliged, he is de doctor of de
paroisse. He is a very brave and honest man, dat doctor dare. At de
poor-house day have give to me a bread and six sous on Friday of
de veek dat is past, and told me to come de Vednesday next. But I
am arrive dere too late, and dey give me noting, and tell me to
come de Vednesday next encore. Ma dogs dey march now in de
street, and eat something dare. Oh! ma God, non! dey eat noting
but what dey find in de street ven it makes good times; but ven it
makes bad times dey have noting at all, poor dogs! ven I have it,
dey have it,—but ven dere is noting for me to eat, dare is noting for
dem, and dey must go out in de streets and get de nouriture for
themselves. Des enfans vot know ma dogs vill give to dem to eat
sometimes. Oh! yes, if I had de means, I would return to Italie, ma
countree. But I have not no silver, and not no legs to walk. Vot can I
do? Oh! yes, I am very sick at present. All my limbs have great
douleur—Oh, yes! plenty of pain.”

Concertina Player on the Steamboats.

“I was always very fond of music, and if ever I heard any in the
streets, I always followed it about. I’m nearly fifteen now; but I can
remember when I was seven, being particularly taken with music. I
had an uncle who was captain of a steamer that run to Richmond,
and I was always on board with him; and they used to have a band
on board. It wasn’t in particular a passage-boat, but an excursion
one, and let to private parties, and a band always went along with
them. I was taken along to run after orders for the steward; and
when I had nothing to do, I used to go and listen to them. I learn all
their tunes by heart. They mostly played dances, and very seldom
any sentimental songs, unless anybody asked them. For myself, I
prefer lively tunes. I don’t know much operatic music, only one or
two airs; but they’re easier to play on the concertina than lively
music, because it’s difficult to move the fingers very quickly. You
can’t hardly play a hornpipe. It makes the arm ache before you can
play it all through, and it makes such a row with the valve working
the bellows up and down, that it spoils the music.
“I had not got my instrument when I was in this steamboat. When I
heard a tune, I used to whistle it. I asked my father to buy me a
instrument, but he wouldn’t. I was always on the steamboat, helping
uncle; and I could have had lots of time to learn music there. When
they, the musicians, put the harp down in the cabin, I’d get playing
on it. There was a hole in the green baize cover of the harp, and I
used to put my hand in and work away at it. I learnt myself several
tunes, such as the ‘Sultan Polka.’ I must have been eight years old
then. I didn’t play it with both hands: I couldn’t do the bass.
“I never had any lessons in music. I’ve done it all out of my own
head. Before I had a concertina, I used to go about amusing myself
with a penny tin whistle. I could play it pretty well, not to say all
tunes, but all such as I knew I could play very well on it. The ‘Red,
White, and Blue’ was my favourite tune.
“I have a brother, who is younger than I am, and he, before he was
ten, was put out to a master to learn the violin. Father’s a labourer,
and does something of anything he can get to do; but bricklaying
generally. He paid so much a quarter for having my brother Henry
taught. I think it was about 16s. a-quarter. It was a great expense
for father at first; but afterwards, when we was hard up, Henry
could always fly to the fiddle to earn a crust. Henry never took to
music, not to say well. I can play more out of my own head than he
can by notes. He’s a very good player now.
“I was about getting on for twelve when father first bought me a
concertina. That instrument was very fashionable then, and
everybody had it nearly. I had an accordion before; but it was only a
1s. 6d. one, and I didn’t take a fancy to it somehow, although I
could play a few tunes on it. I used to see boys about my own
height carrying concertinas about the streets, and humming them. I
always wanted one. There was a little boy I knew, he got one, and
then I wanted one worse. He used to come to our house, and play
all sorts of tunes, for he played very well. I liked the concertina,
because it’s like a full band. It’s like having the fiddle and the harp
together. I used to ask this little boy to lend me his instrument, and
I’d work the keys about a little, but I couldn’t do any airs.
“I play entirely out of my own head, for I never had any lessons at
all. I learn the tunes from hearing other people playing of them. If I
hear a street band, such as a fiddle and harp and cornopean playing
a tune, I follow them and catch the air; and if it’s any sort of a easy
tune at all, I can pick it up after them, for I never want to hear it
more than twice played on an instrument.
“At last, after bothering father a long time, he bought me a half-
crown concertina. I was in bed when he brought it into my room,
and he put it on the bed; when I woke up I see it. I instantly set to
work, and before I had got up I had learnt ‘Pop goes the Weasel.’ I
was just pleased. I was up and dressed, and playing it all day long. I
never used to let anybody touch, not even my own father hardly, for
fear he should break it. I did break it once, and then I was regular
dull, for fear I should lose my tunes.
“It took me six months before I could play it well, and then I could
play a’most any tune I heard. The fingers had learnt the keys, and
knew where the notes was, so that I could play in the dark. My
brother could play the fiddle well, long before I could do any tunes.
We used to play together duets, such as ‘A Boat, a Boat unto the
Ferry.’ We never hardly went out together in the streets and play
together, only once or twice, because a fiddle and a concertina don’t
sound well together unless a harp’s with it, and then it’s beautiful.
“How I came to get on the steamboats was this: father went to take
a trip up to Kew one day, so I wanted to go, and he said if I could
earn my fare I might go. So I thought I’d take my concertina and try.
So I went, and I earned that day about 9s., all in halfpence and 4d.
bits. That was only by going up to Kew and coming back again. It
was on a Whitsun-Monday. Then I thought I’d do it again the next
day, and I think I took about the same. Then I kept on them all
together. I didn’t keep to the Kew boats, because they had got their
regular musicians, and they complained to the superintendent, and
he forbid me going. Then I went to the Woolwich boats, and I used
to earn a heap of money, as much as 10s. every day, and I was at it
all the week for the season.
“I usen’t to pay any fare, but I got a free pass. It was mostly the
crew. When I got out at the pier, I used to tell them I’d been
playing, and they would let me pass. Now I know near every man
that is on the river, and they let me go on any boat I like. They
consider I draw customers, and amuse them during the trip. They
won’t let some hardly play on board only me, because I’ve been on
them such a long time—these three years. I know all the pier-
masters, too, and they are all very kind to me. Sometimes, when I’m
waiting for a boat to go up anywhere, I play on the piers, and I
always do pretty fair.
“In winter I go on the boats all the same, and I play down in the
cabin. Some of the passengers will object to it if they are reading,
and then I have to leave off, or I should put my own self in a hobble,
for they would go and tell the captain; and if he wouldn’t say
anything, then they would tell the superintendent. In winter and wet
weather is my worst time; but even then I mostly take my 3s. In the
winter time, my best time is between three o’clock and six, when the
gentlemen are coming home from office; and I never hardly come
out before two o’clock. In summer its good from twelve till eight
o’clock. The passengers come to go to the Crystal Palace in the
morning part. Those that are going out for pleasure are my best
customers. In the summer I always take at the rate of about 6s. a-
day. Pleasure-people mostly ask me for dancing tunes; and the
gentlemen coming from business prefer song tunes. I have got a
good many regular gentlemen, who always give me something when
they are coming from business. There are some who give me 6d.
every day I see them; but sometimes they go up by a different boat
to what I’m in. There’s one always gives me 6d., whether I’m playing
or not; and it’s about four o’clock or half-past that I mostly see him.
“In winter my hands gets very cold indeed, so that I can scarcely
feel the keys. Sometimes I can’t move them, and I have to leave off,
and go down below and warm my hands at the cabin fire.
“In the summer I sometimes go out with a mate of mine, who plays
the piccolo. He’s very clever indeed, and plays most extraordinary.
He’s a little bigger than me. He lives by playing music in the boats.
We don’t play in the streets. I never played in the streets in my life.
He don’t play in the winter, but works with his father, who makes
hair-oil and that, and sends it out in the country. He’s a regular
perfumer; and serves chandlers’ shops and that like.
“There’s a tune we play together called the ‘Camp at Chobham.’ It
begins with my doing the bugle, and he answers it on his fife. Then
we do it in the distance like. Then come all the different marches the
soldiers march to. Some people are so fond of it, that when they see
us they come up and ask us to give it them. It takes a good quarter
of an hour to play it. When I’m with him, I earn about the same as
when I’m alone; but I like to go with him, because it’s company.
“One of the songs I play is, ‘Mother, is the battle over?’ That’s lately
come out. It is a lady’s song, and they generally ask me for it. They
also ask me for the Varsovienne. At the present time, the girls
mostly ask me for ‘Polly, won’t you try me, oh!’ They like anything
that is new, if it is a very pretty tune like ‘Polly, won’t you try me,
oh!’ Sometimes I forget the tunes; they go right out of my head, and
then, perhaps, a month afterwards they’ll come back again. Perhaps
I’ll be fingering the keys, and I’ll accidental do the beginning of the
air I’d forgot, and then I remember it all of a sudden the same as
before. Then I feel quite glad that I’ve got it back again, and I’ll
keep on playing it for a long time.
“When once I begin to play, I can scarcely leave off. I used at first to
play as I went along the streets, but now I feel too tired to do it. If I
haven’t been out in the boats, I must have a play just the same. I
like it very much. I don’t like any of the other instruments, now I’ve
learnt this one so well. The fiddle is pretty good, but nothing, to my
fancy, like the concertina.
“The concertina I use now cost me 16s. It’s got twenty double keys
—one when I pull the bellows out and one when I close it. I wear
out an instrument in three months. The edges of the bellows get
worn out: then I have to patch them up, till they get so weak that it
mostly doubles over. It costs me about 1s. a-week to have them
kept in order. They get out of tune very soon. They file them, and
put fresh notes in. I get all my repairs done trade price. I tune my
instrument myself. The old instruments I sell to the boys, for about
as much as I give for a new one. They are very dear; but I get them
so cheap when I buy them, I only give 16s. for a 25s. instrument.
“I’ve got a beautiful instrument at home, and I give a pound for it,
and it’s worth two. Those I buy come from Germany, where they
make them, and then they are took to this warehouse, where I buy
them.
“Once I was turned off the penny steam-boats. There was such a lot
of musicians come on board, and they got so cheeky, that when they
was told not to play they would, just the same, and so a stop was
put to all music on board. If one was stopped all must be stopped,
so I was told not to go. I still had my fourpenny boats. I never used
to go on the penny boats hardly, for I never used to get much
money in them. Now I am allowed go on them just the same as
before.
“I can’t say how often I’ve been up the Thames. I never go as far as
Chelsea hardly, only about twice a-day, for most of the people get
out between London-bridge and Nine-elms. My general run is down
to Hungerford and back to Blackfriars; and I do that about fifty times
a-day.
“I never go out on the Sunday. I mostly go to a Sunday-school, and
then take a walk. Father wants me to be a scholar: I can read and
write. I’m a teacher at the Sunday-school, and make the children
read their lessons. I know multiplication, and addition, and all them.
I go to school every night at half-past six and come home at nine.
Father makes me and my brother go to school every day, and we
pay 1s. each a-week. It’s a very good school, and the master is very
kind. There are about 30 night scholars and 50 day ones, besides
about 20 girls. His daughter teaches the girls.
“At night when I leave school I go and play music three nights a-
week at a ball. My brother goes with me. We go to a place in the
Westminster-road on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. It’s a
very nice ball-room, and there are generally about 200 there. They
pay 1s. each. There are four musicians, a fiddle, a harp, a fife, and a
concertina. It isn’t a Casino; it’s an assembly-rooms. We teaches on
three nights in the week, and the pupils assemble and practise on
the other nights.
“The room is like a street almost, and the music sounds well in it.
The other three play from notes, and I join in. I learnt their airs this
way. My mother and father were very fond of dancing, and they
used to go there nearly every night, and I’d go along with them, and
then I’d listen and learn the tunes. My brother regularly played
there. He was about ten years old when he first went to play there;
but he could play any music that was put before him. In the daytime
he blows the bellows at a blacksmith and engineer’s. The first time I
played in a orchestra I felt a little strange. I had been to rehearsal. I
went twenty times before I was confident enough to appear at night.
I could play the tunes well enough, but I didn’t know when to leave
off at the exact time they did. At last I learnt how to do it. I don’t
have any stand before me. I never look at any of the others’ music. I
look at the dancing. You’ve got to look at the time they’re dancing
at, and watch their figures when they leave off. The proprietor knew
father, and that’s how I came to have the job. I get 2s. 6d. a-night
for playing there, and plenty to eat and drink. There’s bread and
cheese and a drop of beer. On the other three nights when I’m not
at the ball I stop at home, and get a bit of rest. Father sends us to
bed early, about half-past nine, when I come home from school. On
ball-nights I’m sometimes up to two o’clock in the morning.
“I take all the money I earn home to father, and he gives me a few
halfpence for myself. All the year round it comes to 5s. a-day. I buy
my own food when I’m out on the boats. I go to a cookshop. I like
pudding or pie better than anything, and next to that I like a bit of
bread and butter as well as anything, except pie. I have meat or veal
pies. They charge you 6d. a-plate, and you have potatoes and all.
After that I have a couple of pen’orth of pudding with sugar. I drink
water. My dinner comes to about 9d. a-day, for I generally have a
pen’orth of apples as dessert. It makes you very hungry going about
in the steam-boats—very much so.
“I’m the only boy that goes about the steam-boats with a
concertina; indeed, I’m the only boy above-bridge that goes about
with music at all on the boats. I know the old gentleman who plays
the harp at the Essex pier. I often go and join in with him when I
land there, and we go shares. He mostly plays there of a morning,
and we mostly of an afternoon. We two are the only ones that play
on the piers.”

Tom-tom Players.
Within the last few years East Indians playing on the tom-tom have
occasionally made their appearance in the London streets. The
Indian or Lascar crossing-sweepers, who earned their living by
alternately plying the broom and sitting as models to artists—the
Indian converted to Christianity, who, in his calico clothes, with his
brown bosom showing, was seen, particularly on cold days,
crouching on the pavement and selling tracts, have lately
disappeared from our highways, and in their stead the tom-tom
players have made their appearance.
I saw two of these performers in one of the West-end streets,
creeping slowly down the centre of the road, and beating their
drums with their hands, whilst they drawled out a kind of mournful
song. Their mode of parading the streets is to walk one following the
other, beating their oyster-barrel-shaped drums with their hands,
which they make flap about from the wrist like flounders out of
water, whilst they continue their droning song, and halt at every
twenty paces to look round.
One of these performers was a handsome lad, with a face such as I
have seen in the drawings of the princes in the “Arabian Nights
Entertainments.” He had a copper skin and long black hair, which he
brushed behind his ears. On his head was a white turban, made to
cock over one ear, like a hat worn on one side, and its rim stood out
like the stopper to a scent-bottle.
The costume of the man greatly resembled that of a gentleman
wearing his waistcoat outside his shirt, only the waistcoat was of
green merino, and adorned with silk embroidery, his waist being
bound in with a scarf. Linen trowsers and red knitted cuffs, to keep
his wrists warm, completed his costume.
This man was as tall, slim, and straight, and as gracefully
proportioned, as a bronze image. His face had a serious, melancholy
look, which seemed to work strongly on the feelings of the nurses
and the servant-girls who stopped to look at him. His companion,
although dressed in the same costume, (the only difference being
that the colour of his waistcoat was red instead of green,) formed a
comical contrast to his sentimental Othello-looking partner, for he
was what a Yankee would call “a rank nigger.” His face, indeed, was
as black and elastic-looking as a printer’s dabber.
The name of the negro boy was Peter. Beyond “Yes” and “No,” he
appeared to be perfectly unacquainted with the English language.
His Othello friend was 17 years of age, and spoke English perfectly. I
could not help taking great interest in this lad, both from the
peculiarity of his conversation, which turned chiefly upon the
obedience due from children to their parents, and was almost
fanatical in its theory of perfect submission, and also from his
singularly handsome countenance; for his eyes were almond-
shaped, and as black as elder-berries, whilst, as he spoke, the
nostrils of his aquiline nose beat like a pulse.
When I attempted to repeat after them one of their Indian songs,
they both burst out into uproarious merriment. Peter rolling about in
his chair like a serenader playing “the bones,” and the young Othello
laughing as if he was being tickled.
In speaking of the duties which they owed to their parents, the rules
of conduct which they laid down as those to be followed by a good
son were wonderful for the completeness of the obedience which
they held should be paid to a father’s commands. They did not seem
to consider that the injunctions of a mother should be looked upon
as sacredly as those of the male parent. They told me that the soul
of the child was damned if even he disputed to obey the father’s
command, although he knew it to be wrong, and contrary to God’s
laws. “Allah,” they said, would visit any wickedness that was
committed through such obedience upon the father, but he would
bless the child for his submission. Their story was as follows:—
“Most of the tom-tom players are Indians, but we are both of us
Arabs. The Arabs are just equally as good as the Indians at playing
the tom-tom, but they haven’t got exactly to the learning of the
manufacture of them yet. I come from Mocha, and so does Peter, my
companion; only his father belongs to what we call the Abshee tribe,
and that’s what makes him so much darker than what I am. The
Abshee tribe are now outside of Arabia, up by the Gulf of Persia.
They are much the same as the Mucdad people,—it’s all the same
tribe like.
“My name is Usef Asman, and my father has been over here twelve
years now. He came here in the English army, I’ve heard him say, for
he was in the 77th Bengal Native Infantry; but he wasn’t an Indian,
but enlisted in the service and fought through the Sikh war, and was
wounded. He hasn’t got a pension, for he sent his luggage through
Paris to England, and he lost his writings. The East India Company
only told him that he must wait until they heard from India, and
that’s been going on for now six years.
“Mother came home with father and me, and two brothers and a
sister. I’m the second eldest. My brother is thirty-six, and he was in
the Crimea, as steward on board the Royal Hydaspes, a steam screw
she is. He was 17 and I was 6 years old when I came over. My
brother is a fine strapping fellow, over six feet high, and the muscles
in his arms are as big round as my thigh.
“I don’t remember my native country, but Peter does, for he’s only
been here for two years and five months. He likes his own country
better than England. His father left Arabia to go to Bombay, and
there he keeps large coffee-shops. He’s worth a little money. His
shops are in the low quarter of the town, just the same as Drury
Lane may be, though it’s the centre of the town. They call the place
the Nacopoora taleemoulla.
“Before father went into the army he was an interpreter in Arabia.
His father was a horse-dealer. My father can speak eight or nine
different languages fluently, besides a little of others. He was the
interpreter who got Dr. Woolfe out of Bokhara prison, when he was
put in because they thought he was a spy. Father was sent for by
the chief to explain what this man’s business was. It is the Mogul
language they speak there. My father was told to get him out of the
country in twenty-four hours, and my father killed his own horse and
camel walking so hard to get him away.
“We was obliged to put ourselves up to going about the streets.
Duty and necessity first compelled me to do it. Father couldn’t get
his pension, and, of course, we couldn’t sit at home and starve; so
father was obliged to go out and play the drum. He got his tom-
toms from an Arab vessel which came over, and they made them a
present to him.
“We used before now, father and myself, to go to artists or
modelers, to have our likenesses taken. We went to Mr. Armitage,
when he was painting a battle in India. If you recollect, I’m leaning
down by the rocks, whilst the others are escaping. I’ve also been to
Mr. Dobson, who used to live in Newman-street. I’ve sat to him in
my costume for several pictures. In one of them I was like a chief’s
son, or something of that, smoking a hubble-bubble. Father used to
have a deal of work at Mr. Gale’s, in Fitzroy-square. I don’t know the
subjects he painted, for I wasn’t there whilst father used to sit. It
used to tire me when I had to sit for two or three hours in one
position. Sometimes I had to strip to the waist. I had to do that at
Mr. Dobson’s in the winter time, and, though there was a good fire in
the room, it was very wide, and it didn’t throw much heat out, and I
used to be very cold. He used to paint religious subjects. I had a
shilling an hour, and if a person could get after-work at it, I could
make a better living at it than in the streets; in fact, I’d rather do it
any time, though it’s harder work, for there is a name for that, but
there is no name for going about playing the tom-tom; yet it’s better
to do that than sit down and see other people starving.
“Father is still sitting to artists. He doesn’t go about the streets—he
couldn’t face it out.
“It’s about eight years ago since father got the tom-toms. They are
very good ones, and one of them is reckoned the best in England.
They are made out of mango tree. It grows just the same as the
bamboo tree; and they take a joint of it, and take out the pith—for
it’s pithy inside, just like elderberry wood, with the outside hard.
Father had these tom-toms for a month before we went out with
them.
“The first day father went out with me, and kept on until he got
employ; and then I went out by myself. I was about for four years
by myself, along with sister; and then I went with Peter; and now
we go out together. My sister was only about seven years old when
she first went out, and she used to sing. She was dressed in a
costume with a short jacket, with a tight waistcoat, and white
trowsers. She had a turban and a sash.
“When we first went out we done very well. We took 6, 7, or 8s. a-
day. We was the first to appear with it; indeed there’s only me and
my cousin and another man that does it now. Peter is my cousin. His
real name is Busha, but we call him Peter, because it’s more a proper
name like, because several people can call him that when they can’t
Busha. We are all turned Christians; we go to school every Sunday,
in Great Queen-street, Lincoln’s Inn, and always to chapel. They are
joined together.
“I and Peter take now, on a fine day in summer-time, generally 5 or
6s., but coming on winter as it does now it’s as much as we can do
to take 2s. or 3s. Sometimes in winter we don’t take more than 1s.
6d., and sometimes 1s. Take the year round it would come, I should
think, to 3s. a-day. On wet days we can’t do nothing.
“We were forced to become Christians when we came here. Of
course a true Mussulman won’t take anything to eat that has been
touched by other people’s hands. We were forced to break caste.
The beasts were slaughtered by other people, and we wanted meat
to eat. The bread, too, was made by Christians. The school-teachers
used to come to father. We remained as Mussulmen as long as we
could, but when winter came on, and we had no money, we was
obliged to eat food from other people’s hands.
“Persons wouldn’t believe it, but little family as we are it takes 4s. a-
day to keep us. Yet mother speaks English well. I’m sure father
doesn’t go out and drink not half-a pint a beer of a night, but always
waits till we come home, and then our 3s. or 4s. go to get bread and
rice and that, and we have a pot of beer between us.
“Peter’s father married my father’s sister, that’s how we are cousins.
He came over by ship to see us. He sent a message before to say
that he was coming to see his uncle, and he expected to go back by
the same ship, but he was used so cruelly on board that he
preferred staying with us until we can all return together. Because he
couldn’t understand English and his duty, and coming into a cold
country and all, he couldn’t do his work, and they flogged him.
Besides, they had to summon the captain to get their rights. He very
much wants to get back to India to his father, and our family wants
to get back to Mocha. I’ve forgot my Arabic, and only talk
Hindostanee. I did speak French very fluently, but I’ve forgot it all
except such things as Venez ici, or Voulez-vous danser? or such-like.
“When we are at home we mostly eat rice. It’s very cheap, and we
like it better than anything else, because it fills our bellies better. It
wouldn’t be no use putting a couple of half-quartern loaves before
us two if we were hungry, for, thank God, we are very hearty-eating,
both of us. Rice satisfies us better than bread. We mix curry-powder
and a little meat or fish with it. If there’s any fish in season, such as
fresh herrings or mackerel, we wash it and do it with onions, and
mix it with the curry-powder, and then eat it with rice. Plaice is the
only fish we don’t use, for it makes the curry very watery. We wash
the rice two or three times after looking over it to take out any dirt
or stones, and then we boil it and let it boil about five minutes. Rice-
water is very strengthening, and the Arabs drink a deal of it,
because whenever it lays in the stomach it becomes solid. It turns,
when cold, as thick as starch, and with some salt it’s not a bad
thing.
“Our best places for playing the tom-tom is the West-end in
summer-time, but in winter we goes round by Islington and
Shoreditch, and such-like, for there’s no quality at home, and we
have to depend on the tradespeople. Sometimes we very often
happen to meet with a gentleman—when the quality’s in town—who
has been out in India, and can speak the language, and he will
begin chatting with us and give us a shilling, or sometimes more.
I’ve got two or three ladies who have taken a fancy to us, and they
give me 6d. or 1s. whenever I go round. There’s one old lady and
two or three young ones, at several houses in different places, who
have such kindness for us. I was in place once with Captain Hines,
and he was very kind to me. He had been out in India, and spoke
the language very fluently. I didn’t leave him, he left me to go to the
Crimea; and he told me he was very sorry, but he had a servant
allowed him by the Government, and couldn’t take me.
“Some of the servant-girls are very kind to us, and give us a 1d. or
2d. We in general tries to amuse the people as much as we can. All
the people are very fond of Peter, he makes them laugh; and the
same people generally gives us money when we goes round again.
“When we are out we walk along side by side beating the tom-toms.
We keep on singing different songs,—foreign ones to English tunes.
The most favourite tune is what we calls in Hindostanee,—
 ‘Tasa bi tasa, no be no
Mutra bakooch, no arber go;
Tasa bi tasa, no be no
Attipa ho gora purgeen
Mara gora gora chelopageen.
Tasa bi tasa, no be no.
O senna key taho baroo
Dilla chungay gurrey kumahayroo.
Tasa bi tasa, no be no
Lutfellee karu basha bud
Shibbe de lum sesta bud
Tasa bi tasa, no be no.’

“This means:—
“‘I want something fresh (such as fish) in the value of nine. And
after he went and bought these fresh goods he looked at them, and
found them so good, that he was very pleased with them (‘mutra
bakooch’ is pleased), that he says to his servant that he will give him
leave to go about his business, because he’s made such a good
bargain.’
“That’s all the meaning of that, sir, and we sing it to its original
Indian tune. We sometimes sing Arab songs—one or two. They are
very different, but we can’t explain them so well as we can the
Hindostanee. They’re more melancholy, and towards the parents
sentimental-like. There’s one song they sing in Arabia, that it puts
them in that way they don’t know what they are doing of. They
begin the song, and then they bend the body about and beat their
knees, and keep on so until they tumble off their chairs. They nearly
strangle themselves sometimes. It’s about love to their parents, and
as if they left them and went far away. It’s a sort of a cutting song,
and very sentimental. There’s always a man standing in one corner,
looking after those singing, and when he sees them get into a way,
he reads a book and comes and rouses them. He’s a kind of
magician-like. Father sings it, and I know a verse or two of it. I’ve
seen father and another man singing it, and they kept on see-sawing
about, and at last they both fell off the chair. We got a little water
and sprinkled their faces, and hit them on the back very hard, and
said, ‘Sallee a nabbee,’ which is just the same as ‘Rise, in the name
of the Lord,’ and they came to instantly, and after they got up was
very calm—ah, very tame afterwards!
“The tom-tom hasn’t got much music in it beyond beating like a
drum. There are first-rate players in India, and they can make the
tom-tom speak in the same way as if you was to ask a gentleman,
‘How do you do?’ and they’ll answer you, ‘Very well, thank you.’ They
only go to the feasts, which are called ‘madggeless,’ and then the
noblemen, after hearing them, will give them great sums of money
as a handsome present. The girls, too, dance to the tom-tom in
India. Peter is a very good player, and he can make the tom-tom to
answer. One side of the drum asks the question, that is the treble
side, and the bass one answers it, for in a tom-tom each end gives a
different note.
“Father makes all our clothes for us. We wear flannel under our
shirts, which a lady made me a present of, or else we never used to
wear them before. All through that sharp winter we never used to
wear anything but our dress. All the Arab boys are brought up to
respect their parents. If they don’t they will be punished. For myself,
I always obey mine. My father has often called shame on the laws of
this country, to hear the children abusing their parents. In our
country, if a son disobeys his father’s command, he may, even
though the child be as tall as a giant, take up his sword and kill him.
My brother, who is on board ship, even though he has learnt the
laws of this country, always obeys my father. One night he wouldn’t
mind what was said, so my father goes up and hit him a side slap on
the chops, and my brother turned the other cheek to him, and said
in Arabic, ‘Father, hit this cheek, too; I have done wrong.’ He was
about 30 then. Father said he hoped he’d never disobey his orders
again.
“The Arabs are very clean. In our country we bathe three times a-
day; but over here we only go to the bath in Endell-street (a public
one) twice a-week. We always put on clean things three times a-
week.
“There’s a knack in twisting the turban. A regular Arab always makes
the rim bind over the right ear, like Peter’s. It don’t take more than
five minutes to put the turban on. We do it up in a roll, and have
nothing inside it to stiffen it. Some turbans have 30 yards in them,
all silk, but mine is only 3½ yards, and is calico. The Arab waistcoat
always has a pocket on each side of the breast, with a lengthways
opening, and a bit of braid round the edge of the stuff, ending where
the waist is, so that the flaps are not bound.
“The police are very kind to us, and never interfere with us unless
there is somebody ill, and we are not aware of it. The tom-tom
makes a very humming sound, and is heard to a great distance.”

Another “Tom-Tom” Player.

A very handsome man, swarthy even for a native of Bengal, with his
black glossy hair most picturesquely disposed, alike on his head and
in his whiskers and moustache, gave me, after an Oriental salute,
the following statement. His teeth were exquisitely white, and his
laugh or smile lighted up his countenance to an expression of great
intelligence. His dress was a garb of dark-brown cloth, fitting close to
his body and extending to his knee. His trowsers were of the same
coloured cloth, and he wore a girdle of black and white cotton round
his waist. He was accompanied by his son, (whom he sometimes
addressed in Hindoostanee), a round-faced boy, with large bright
black eyes and rosy cheeks. The father said:—
“I was born in Calcutta, and was Mussulman—my parents was
Mussulman—but I Christian now. I have been in dis contree ten year.
I come first as servant to military officer, an Englishman. I lived wit
him in Scotland six, seven mont. He left Scotland, saying he come
back, but he not, and in a mont I hear he dead, and den I com
London. London is very great place, and Indian city little if you look
upon London. I use tink it plenty pleasure look upon London as de
great government place, but now I look upon London, and it is
plenty bad pleasure. I wish very often return to my own contree,
where everyting sheap—living sheap, rice sheap. I suffer from
climate in dis contree. I suffer dis winter more dan ever I did. I have
no flannels, no drawer, no waistcoat, and have cold upon my chest.
It is now near five year I come London. I try get service, but no get
service. I have character, but not from my last master. He could not
give me; he dead ven I want it. I put up many insult in dis contree. I
struck sometime in street. Magistrate punish man gave me blow dat
left mark on my chin here. Gentlemen sometime save me from
harm, sometime not. De boys call me black dis or de oder. Wen I get
no service, I not live, and I not beg in street, so I buy tom-tom for
10s. De man want 30s. De 10s. my last money left, and I start to
play in streets for daily bread. I beat tom-tom, and sing song about
greatness of God, in my own language. I had den wife,
Englishwoman, and dis little boy. I done pretty well first wid tom-
tom, but it is very bad to do it now. Wen I began first, I make 3s.,
4s., 5s., or 6s. a-day. It was someting new den, but nine or ten
monts it was someting old, and I took less and less, until now I
hardly get piece of bread. I sometime get few shilling from two or
three picture-men, who draw me. It is call model. Anyting for honest
bread. I must not be proud. I cannot make above 6s. a-week of
tom-tom in street. Dare is, well as I know, about fifty of my
contreemen playing and begging in streets of London. Dose who
sweep crossing are Malay, some Bengal. Many are impostor, and
spoil ’spectable men. My contreemen live in lodging-house; often
many are plenty blackguard lodging-houses, and dere respectable
man is always insult. I have room for myself dis tree mont, and cost
me tree shilling and sixpennies a-week; it is not own furniture; dey
burn my coke, coal, and candle too. My wife would make work wid
needle, but dere is no work for her, poor ting. She servant when I
marry her. De little boy make jump in my contree’s way wen I play
tom-tom—he too little to dance—he six year. Most of my contreemen
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