and his literary progeny, he is never a bad man. A situation, however, may sometimes make even a blind man ridiculous. I once on a Saturday night saw a saintly, ascetic-looking man, with lank hair descending about his peaky shoulders, being conducted home by his dog. He had spent a jovial evening, his gait was serpentine, and the string which attached him to his dog was too long for convenience. The dog chose one side of a lamp-post, and he the other, which caused a check. Then language broke forth from the man which was neither saintly nor ascetic, as he endeavoured to hit the dog with his stick. The dog, fearful for his skin and yet appreciating his advantage, dodged each blow, and protested with derisive barks, leading his master in circles till the two revolved round and round the lamp-post like planetary moons, to the great entanglement of the string. There was Homeric laughter in that bark. The street was convulsed, and even the stolid policeman flung his dignity aside, and held his sides with inextinguishable merriment, and only partially recovered his official gravity on considering the problem of a rescue. A blind drunken man wildly aiming blows at nothing with a heavy ferruled stick is not so easy to tackle. At last the thing was accomplished, and the beggar disarmed of his stick in case he should do a mischief to his dog, and after much soothing of a ruffled temper, a bystander offered to take him home.

There is a plaintive-looking man whose usual 'pitch' is on the pavement in a conspicuous place. The tray from which he sells studs, laces and like commodities, his dog, and mat occupy a considerable portion of the pavement, and he wears a shade to protect his dark eyes which have the dull and filmy look of the blind. It was the morning after that historic night when the news of the relief of Mafeking had galvanised London into a dancing frenzy, when conversation became general on the tops of omnibuses, and when the most reserved opened out to strangers. The streets were ringing with the shouts of newsboys selling papers, when our friend was seen suddenly to spring up, seize a paper from a boy, and greedily examine its contents. The print was very bad on that morning, and one is driven to the conclusion that there are none so blind as those who see occasionally. I was sorely tempted to chaff the man when next I bought a bootlace, but my better nature prevailed. Patriotism is too sacred.

De Quincey, in his English Mail Coach,' speaking of the effect of the news of the battle of Waterloo on the English people, says:

The beggar, rearing himself against the wall, forgets his lameness -real or assumed-thinks not of his whining trade, but stands erect with bold, exulting smiles, as we pass him.'

His patriotism, then, is traditional.

There was a quaint little mannikin with eyeless sockets who used to raise the echoes of Piccadilly with a penny whistle which matched his stature, for it was half the length of the ordinary instrument. The execution with which he discoursed his shrill music was extraordinary, and, if set to the accompaniment of a music-hall band, might have commanded a handsome competence. He would take up his station outside Devonshire House and pipe lustily by the hour. You would have heard his birdlike notes from afar, in spite of the roar of the traffic. But, alas! a change has come over the spirit of his fortune, for his pipe is now silent and he plays no more. Whether an inartistic policeman has forbidden his music, or whether something has broken for ever those four or five inches of tin, who shall say? He is now to be seen silently soliciting alms, cheerful as ever, but songless. A tragedy lies somewhere about the loss of that unique penny whistle.

As a rule there is nothing aggressive about these blind men: they stand, either in a retired spot against the wall, or on the kerbstone, speechless; they do not follow you with an insistent whine, or pluck your sleeve. One exception, however, must be noted. A fat, well-fed man with sleek hair used to sit against a shop corner not far from the top of Sloane Street, and grind a little hand organ. It came about that, during some alterations in the place, a temporary wooden sidewalk was erected scarcely six feet wide, for the accommodation of the public. Our fat friend saw his opportunity. He took up his station in the narrow way, occupying half the gangway. You could barely pass him without treading on his feet. People tumbled over him and kicked him by mistake, and for very shame had to solace him, his blind face looked so innocent. A friend of mine, indignant at such blatant obstruction, complained to a constable, and the answer was, ' Oh, we never interfere with him, he has been there for years.' My friend pointed out that there was a different place altogether. At last the bold blind beggar became such a public nuisance, thrusting his feet forward to be trodden on, that others complained, and the police had to relegate him to his old and less assertive position by the shop.

Everyone is familiar with the man who has lost his money, and wants a third-class ticket with which to get home; the tale is thrice VOL. XXXIV.-NO. 204, N.S.

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told, and deceives none save those who give the sum asked for under a fond hope that they may have come across a genuine case; but for cool impudence commend me to the jocular familiarity of the 'well-dressed stranger' who used to haunt the highways of South Kensington. He was a smart, military-looking man, arrayed pointdevice, with a frank, truthful gaze which looked you between the eyes, the embodiment of gentility without any shabbiness. His linen was clean, he carried an expensive walking-stick, and he used to spend much of his spare time in public libraries reading reviews. How he utilised this cheaply acquired knowledge I cannot tell, unless he compiled statistics or novels, but his methods for his immediate requirements were these. He heaved alongside of me one day twirling his moustache like an art critic before an undiscovered masterpiece. Excuse me, sir, but I've been a fool.' It was so confidential and bland. I looked at him in astonishment, and said: 'Don't say that. You don't look like a fool.' He positively bridled. You flatter me, sir, but I really have made a fool of myself.' 'How is that?' I asked. 'Well, the fact is I've been horse-racing like a silly ass, put my money on a succession of wrong 'uns, couldn't stop in time, and here I am. This is literally my last shirt. The garment in question was spotless, a great deal cleaner than my own in fact. If you could just lend me half a sov., I should be awfully obliged. Of course I'll give you my name and address, and you shall have it back in a fortnight.' He might have been asking for a light, and explaining how he left his matchbox behind. He was rather conferring a favour on me by pointing out the obvious thing to do. I know it is quite incredible, but I refused to lend him the ten shillings. Of course,' he retorted with a pitying air, I am a total stranger to you, but I thought perhaps you might feel inclined to do me a favour. Good-day, sir.' There was no anger, no whine, no sneers at my close fist, and his pity made me feel that I had lost an opportunity. I went home feeling very mean. But I had not seen the last of my friend. Some months later he accosted me in Piccadilly on a foggy day. Excuse me, sir, . . .' 'Oh, yes,' I replied. I know. You are the man who has been a fool.' He burst forth into purple language, and disappeared.

Such engaging candour was irresistible, and probably succeeded nearly every time, and if ten shillings rewarded each friendly chat, he may now be living in affluent respectability and is probably churchwarden.

Talent should always be rewarded, but for some forms of begging no talent is required. For instance, when unemployment is rife, five or six stout fellows in their best corduroys will hire an organ, and stand in a row by the pavement while one grinds, and another shakes a money box in the face of the public. I had it once on the authority of an indignant 'bus driver, who knew one of them, that each took more in a day than he earned in a week, and I shrink from stating the sum for fear of being disbelieved.

There is an old Frenchman who is constantly seen in South Kensington, and whose methods are extremely simple, but his appearance is a masterpiece. A frogged coat with a short cape gives him a military air, a tall hat with true Parisian flat brim carries a whiff of the Faubourg St. Germain, and a dandy cane poised in a delicate hand, which looks as though it had featly wielded a rapier in better days, overwhelms you with an impression of gentility. He is tall, and smiles sadly down on you, from St. Cloud as it were, as he asks you the nearest way to Croydon.

Basingstoke would do equally well, but he prefers Croydon. You tell him in your worst French, and then he relates with the air of a Banished Lord' how he has had his pocket picked. If you cannot give him money, he requests with resignation that he may be permitted to give you and yours lessons in French! The idea of this noble old aristocrat doing anything so plebeian seems a trifle incongruous, but you are obliged to continue the conversation because there is something pleasing in being seen talking to such a distinguished-looking person, and it is only on his acceptance, with a pitying air, of some lame excuse that you will be permitted to go on your way.

One evening at dinner-time my door bell was rung violently, and I was told a man urgently wanted to see me. A vivacious little man, respectably dressed, and with eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, greeted me with fervour on the doorstep. He had come to thank me, that was all. On my asking him what benefit I had done him, he rapidly poured forth his story. Some years ago he had been knocked down by a butcher's cart just opposite Gloucester Road Station, and I, fortunately passing at the moment, had picked him up, hailed a passing cab, and driven him off to the Hospital. He was now cured, though I could see by his demonstration one leg was shorter than the other, still he was able to work, and he could not leave London without laying his gratitude at my feet. This tickled my heartstrings with a pleasing warmth,

for it was the kind of thing which, of course, I should have done, but, unfortunately, having no recollection of the affair, or of his face, I denied the soft impeachment. Then came further details too numerous to be mentioned here, little shadings, middle distances, all put in with the sincerity of an artist, till the more he added, the more I liked the picture. It was so true to nature, and so circumstantial, that I was almost persuaded that I really had been a good Samaritan. His thanks were received with the vicarious grace which should have belonged to another, and I was about to dismiss him with my benediction when the true cause of his quest came out. He had just obtained a situation in Bristol worth 25s. a week, and he congratulated himself on his good fortune in such hard times, and after his accident too! I mingled my gratulations with his in a friendly tone when he just let fall, by the way as it were, that his resources were at a low ebb, and he modestly craved the loan of a third-class fare to the said western port. His gratitude was a lively sense of favours to come.' I will not reveal whether I gave him the money or not. There are many ways of lowering oneself in the eyes of one's fellows, and one is by confession. A beggar always places you in a dilemma. You must either be stony-hearted or a fool, and neither appellation is particularly complimentary. The well-worn confidence trick which requires an accomplice pales before the art, the judgment of character, and the dramatic talent displayed by the street beggar. He feels his story for the moment, and his tears flow with the same sympathy as the actor's. He is as fascinating and as traditionally old as Punch and Judy, only he is nearer to life itself. When he accosts you in the street you feel that, but for the grace of God and an unaccountable thing called fortune, you might be making out a similar case. If we pay, we are rewarding an artist, if we deny him, let us at least appreciate his talent.

GILBERT COleridge.