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6-1
Copyright © 2017 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior written consent of
McGraw-Hill Education.
Chapter 06
Vision and the Direction of Change
Multiple Choice Questions
1. According to the _____ image of change, vision is something that is essential to producing
successful organizational change and must be articulated at an early stage by the leaders of an
organization.
A. director
B. navigator
C. interpreter
D. coach
2. According to the _____ image of change, vision is in many ways immaterial to the way change will
proceed. Inexorable forces, often external to an organization, will have the most influence on
change.
A. director
B. nurturer
C. caretaker
D. interpreter

6-2
3. According to the _____ image of change, vision articulates the core values and ideology that
underpin an organization's identity.
A. director
B. nurturer
C. coach
D. interpreter
4. According to Kimberly Boal and Robert Hooijberg, effective visions have:
A. an affective and a cognitive component.
B. a positive and a negative correlation.
C. a general and a specific component.
D. no relationship to organizational change.
5. According to Paul Nutt and Robert Backoff, which of the following is NOT one of the generic
attributes of vision that are likely to enhance organizational performance?
A. Possibility
B. Desirability
C. Actionability
D. Accountability
6. According to Paul Nutt and Robert Backoff, the _____ attribute of a vision communicates the
future clearly through powerful imagery of where an organization is headed.
A. possibility
B. desirability
C. actionability
D. articulation

6-3
7. According to Scott-Morgan et al., which of the following is NOT a characteristic of an effective
vision?
A. Desperation
B. Aspiration
C. Inspiration
D. Perspiration
8. According to Scott-Morgan et al., _____ highlights the work required to achieve a vision.
A. desperation
B. procreation
C. levitation
D. perspiration
9. According to Kimberly Boal and Robert Hooijberg, the _____ component of vision is based on
information and expresses outcomes.
A. emotional
B. affective
C. cognitive
D. visceral
10. According to Kimberly Boal and Robert Hooijberg, the _____ component of vision appeals to
values and beliefs, and thus underpins the motivation and commitment that are key to the
implementation of the vision.
A. rational
B. affective
C. intellectual
D. cognitive

6-4
11. According to Ira Levin, the first step to be taken when using vision as storytelling is to:
A. become informed.
B. visit the future.
C. create the story.
D. deploy the vision.
12. Which of the following statements is true of goals?
A. They identify the desired results for an organization.
B. They articulate the actions necessary to produce favorable outcomes.
C. They address the role of organizational values in achieving a desired result.
D. They refrain from setting specific targets such as a bigger market share.
13. Which of the following is true of missions statements?
A. They do not articulate the actions necessary to produce desirable outcomes.
B. They do not address the role of organizational values in achieving favorable results.
C. They paint a vague and hopeful picture of the future.
D. They are purposive and instrumental in outlining what needs to be done.
14. According to Hay and Williamson, the _____ dimension of vision is a shared view within an
organization of how markets work, what drives customers, competitors, industry dynamics, and
the impact of geopolitical events.
A. external
B. internal
C. inward
D. contingency

6-5
15. According to Nutt and Backoff's assessment of organizational contexts in terms of their abilities to
produce visionary strategic change, _____ organizations are classified as those that have limited
resources but high acceptance of the need for change.
A. rigid
B. bold
C. overmanaged
D. liberated
produce visionary strategic change, _____ organizations have a context in which visionary
processes are likely to be most successful.
A. rigid
B. bold
C. overmanaged
D. liberated
17. According to Nutt and Backoff, _____ organizations have high resource availability but little
acceptance of the need for change.
A. rigid
B. bold
C. overmanaged
D. liberated

6-6
18. According to Nutt and Backoff, which of the following is a difference between overmanaged
organizations and bold organizations?
A. Overmanaged organizations have high acceptance of the need for change, whereas bold
organizations have a low acceptance for the need for change.
B. Overmanaged organizations are organic and liberated, whereas bold organizations are rule-
bound and authoritarian.
C. Overmanaged organizations have an unstable environment, whereas bold organizations have
a highly stable environment.
D. Overmanaged organizations have high resource availability, whereas bold organizations have
limited availability of resources.
produce visionary strategic change, bold organizations:
A. have low acceptance of the need for change.
B. have unlimited resources.
C. are less rule-bound.
D. are more inorganic.
produce visionary strategic change, rigid organizations:
A. are very flexible.
B. are hierarchical.
C. have high acceptance of the need for change.
D. have high resource availability.

6-7
21. According to Nutt and Backoff, the _____ approach to crafting a vision is one in which the CEO
provides the strategic vision for an organization.
A. leader-dominated
B. pump-priming
C. facilitation
D. desperation
22. According to Nutt and Backoff, the _____ approach to crafting vision is one in which the CEO
provides visionary ideas and gets selected individuals and groups within an organization to
further develop these ideas within some broad parameters.
A. leader-dominated
B. pump-priming
C. facilitation
D. liberation
23. According to Holpp and Kelly, the _____ approach to developing vision relies on the use of
imagination and imagery to encourage staff to participate in vision development.
A. intuitive
B. analytical
C. benchmarking
D. participative
24. According to Holpp and Kelly, the _____ approach to developing vision requires focusing on the
actions and standards utilized by the organization's toughest competitors.
A. intuitive
B. analytical
C. benchmarking
D. participative

6-8
25. According to Holpp and Kelly, the _____ approach to developing vision is the most externally
focused.
A. intuitive
B. analytical
C. benchmarking
D. inverted
26. A vision is most likely to fail if it is _____.
A. too relevant
B. too realistic
C. too adequate
D. too complex
27. According to Lipton, which of the following is NOT a key way in which skillful visions can benefit
organizations?
A. Enhancing performance
B. Recruiting talent
C. Focusing on decisionmaking
D. Causing employees to lose faith in their leader
28. According to William Gardner and Bruce Avolio, _____ is the art of managing that includes
influencing others to accept a leader's interpretation of the vision by stressing its importance and
aligning it with their values.
A. framing
B. scripting
C. staging
D. performing

6-9
29. According to William Gardner and Bruce Avolio, _____ is the selection of symbols, artifacts, props
and settings to reinforce a vision.
A. framing
B. scripting
C. staging
D. performing
30. _____ defines the reason for the existence of an organization.
A. Core value
B. Core purpose
C. Turnover vision
D. Contingency plan
True / False Questions
31. A lack of vision is associated with organizational decline and failure.
True False
32. According to the coach image of change, vision emerges from the clash of chaotic and
unpredictable change forces.
True False
33. According to John Kotter, effective visions are focused enough to guide decisionmaking yet are
flexible enough to accommodate individual initiative and changing circumstances.
True False

6-10
34. Ira Levin argues that some vision statements have a "bumper sticker" style, based on jargon and
fashionable terms.
True False
35. According to Nutt and Backoff, rigid organizations have a context in which visionary processes
are likely to be most successful.
True False
36. According to Holpp and Kelly's approaches to developing vision, the benchmarking approach is
more internally focused, whereas the intuitive and analytical approaches have an external focus.
True False
37. While some visions stand the test of time and remain applicable and adaptable to new situations
and environments, others need to be overhauled in order to remain relevant.
True False
38. According to William Gardner and Bruce Avolio's dramaturgical perspective of the processes
used by leaders to enact their visions, "staging" refers to the final enactment of a vision.
True False
39. Core values are durable guiding principles.
True False
40. It is more important to create an organization with a vision than to have a charismatic chief
executive with a personal vision.
True False

6-11
Chapter 06 Vision and the Direction of Change Answer Key
Multiple Choice Questions
1. According to the _____ image of change, vision is something that is essential to producing
successful organizational change and must be articulated at an early stage by the leaders of
an organization.
A. director
B. navigator
C. interpreter
D. coach
Accessibility: Keyboard Navigation
Difficulty: 2 Medium
Learning Objective: 06-01 Explain the arguments for and against the concept of vision, and how approaches to this issue
depend on the image held of managing organizational change.
2. According to the _____ image of change, vision is in many ways immaterial to the way change
will proceed. Inexorable forces, often external to an organization, will have the most influence
on change.
A. director
B. nurturer
C. caretaker
D. interpreter

6-12
3. According to the _____ image of change, vision articulates the core values and ideology that
underpin an organization's identity.
A. director
B. nurturer
C. coach
D. interpreter
4. According to Kimberly Boal and Robert Hooijberg, effective visions have:
A. an affective and a cognitive component.
B. a positive and a negative correlation.
C. a general and a specific component.
D. no relationship to organizational change.
Learning Objective: 06-02 Identify the characteristics of effective visions.
5. According to Paul Nutt and Robert Backoff, which of the following is NOT one of the generic
attributes of vision that are likely to enhance organizational performance?
A. Possibility
B. Desirability
C. Actionability
D. Accountability

6-13
6. According to Paul Nutt and Robert Backoff, the _____ attribute of a vision communicates the
future clearly through powerful imagery of where an organization is headed.
A. possibility
B. desirability
C. actionability
D. articulation
7. According to Scott-Morgan et al., which of the following is NOT a characteristic of an effective
vision?
A. Desperation
B. Aspiration
C. Inspiration
D. Perspiration
8. According to Scott-Morgan et al., _____ highlights the work required to achieve a vision.
A. desperation
B. procreation
C. levitation
D. perspiration

6-14
9. According to Kimberly Boal and Robert Hooijberg, the _____ component of vision is based on
information and expresses outcomes.
A. emotional
B. affective
C. cognitive
D. visceral
Difficulty: 1 Easy
10. According to Kimberly Boal and Robert Hooijberg, the _____ component of vision appeals to
values and beliefs, and thus underpins the motivation and commitment that are key to the
implementation of the vision.
A. rational
B. affective
C. intellectual
D. cognitive
Difficulty: 1 Easy
11. According to Ira Levin, the first step to be taken when using vision as storytelling is to:
A. become informed.
B. visit the future.
C. create the story.
D. deploy the vision.
Difficulty: 1 Easy

6-15
12. Which of the following statements is true of goals?
A. They identify the desired results for an organization.
B. They articulate the actions necessary to produce favorable outcomes.
C. They address the role of organizational values in achieving a desired result.
D. They refrain from setting specific targets such as a bigger market share.
13. Which of the following is true of missions statements?
A. They do not articulate the actions necessary to produce desirable outcomes.
B. They do not address the role of organizational values in achieving favorable results.
C. They paint a vague and hopeful picture of the future.
D. They are purposive and instrumental in outlining what needs to be done.
14. According to Hay and Williamson, the _____ dimension of vision is a shared view within an
organization of how markets work, what drives customers, competitors, industry dynamics,
and the impact of geopolitical events.
A. external
B. internal
C. inward
D. contingency

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in street have come as Lascar, and not go back for bosen and bosen-
mate, and flog. So dey stay for beg, or sweep, or anyting. Dey are
never pickpocket dat I ever hear of.”
Performer on Drum and Pipes.
A stout, reddish-faced man, who was familiar with all kinds of
exhibitions, and had the coaxing, deferential manner of many
persons who ply for money in the streets, gave me an account of
what he called “his experience” as the “drum and pipes:”—
“I have played the pandean pipes and the drum for thirty years to
street exhibitions of all kinds. I was a smith when a boy, serving
seven years’ apprenticeship; but after that I married a young woman
that I fell in love with, in the music line. She played a hurdy-gurdy in
the streets, so I bought pandean pipes, as I was always fond of
practising music, and I joined her. Times for street-musicianers were
good then, but I was foolish. I’m aware of that now; but I wasn’t
particularly partial to hard work; besides, I could make more as a
street-musicianer. When I first started, my wife and I joined a
fantoccini. It did well. My wife and I made from 9s. to 10s. a-day.
We had half the profits. At that time the public exhibitions were
different to what they are now. Gentlemen’s houses were good then,
but now the profession’s sunk to street corners. Bear-dancing was in
vogue then, and clock-work on the round board, and Jack-i’-the-
green was in all his glory every May, thirty years ago. Things is now
very dead indeed. In the old times, only sweeps were allowed to
take part with the Jack; they were particular at that time; all were
sweeps but the musicianers. Now it’s everybody’s money, when
there’s any money. Every sweep showed his plate then when
performing. ‘My lady’ was anybody at all likely that they could get
hold of; she was generally a watercress-seller, or something in the
public way. ‘My lady’ had 2s. 6d. a-day and her keep for three days—
that was the general hire. The boys, who were climbing-boys, had
1s. or 6d., or what the master gave them; and they generally went

to the play of a night, after washing themselves, in course. I had 6s.
a-day and a good dinner—shoulder of mutton, or something prime—
and enough to drink. ‘My lord’ and the other characters shared and
shared alike. They have taken, to my knowledge, 5l. on the 1st of
May. This year, one set, with two ‘My ladies,’ took 3l. the first day.
The master of the lot was a teetotaler, but the others drank as they
liked. He turned teetotaler because drink always led him into trouble.
The dress of the Jack is real ivy tied round hoops. The sweeps
gather the ivy in the country, and make the dresses at their homes.
My lord’s and the other dresses are generally kept by the sweeps.
My lord’s dress costs a mere trifle at the second-hand clothes shop,
but it’s gold-papered and ornamented up to the mark required. What
I may call war tunes, such as ‘The White Cockade,’ the ‘Downfall of
Paris,’ (I’ve been asked for that five or six times a-day—I don’t
remember the composer), ‘Bonaparte’s March,’ and the ‘Duke of
York’s March,’ were in vogue in the old times. So was ‘Scots wha hae’
(very much), and ‘Off she goes!’ Now new tunes come up every day.
I play waltzes and pokers now chiefly. They’re not to compare to the
old tunes; it’s like playing at musicianers, lots of the tunes now-a-
days. I’ve played with Michael, the Italy Bear. I’ve played the fife and
tabor with him. The tabor was a little drum about the size of my cap,
and it was tapped with a little stick. There are no tabors about now.
I made my 7s. or 8s. a-day with Michael. He spoke broken English. A
dromedary was about then, but I knew nothing of that or the
people; they was all foreigners together. Swinging monkeys were in
vogue at that time as well. I was with them, with Antonio of Saffron
Hill. He was the original of the swinging monkeys, twenty years ago.
They swing from a rope, just like slack-wire dancers. Antonio made
money and went back to his own country. He sold his monkeys,—
there was three of them,—small animals they were, for 70l. to
another foreigner; but I don’t know what became of them. Coarse
jokes pleased people long ago, but don’t now; people get more
enlightened, and think more of chapel and church instead of
amusements. My trade is a bad one now. Take the year through, I
may make 12s. a-week, or not so much; say 10s. I go out
sometimes playing single,—that’s by myself,—on the drum and

pipes; but it’s thought nothing of, for I’m not a German. It’s the
same at Brighton as in London; brass bands is all the go when
they’ve Germans to play them. The Germans will work at 2s. a-day
at any fair, when an Englishman will expect 6s. The foreigners ruin
this country, for they have more privileges than the English. The
Germans pull the bells and knock at the doors for money, which an
Englishman has hardly face for. I’m now with a fantoccini figures
from Canton, brought over by a seaman. I can’t form an exact
notion of how many men there are in town who are musicianers to
the street exhibitions; besides the exhibitions’ own people, I should
say about one hundred. I don’t think that they are more drunken
than other people, but they’re liable to get top-heavy at times. None
that I know live with women of the town. They live in lodgings, and
not in lodging-houses. Oh! no, no, we’ve not come to that yet. Some
of them succeeded their fathers as street-musicianers; others took it
up casalty-like, by having learned different instruments; none that I
know were ever theatrical performers. All the men I know in my line
would object, I am sure, to hard work, if it was with confinement
along with it. We can never stand being confined to hard work, after
being used to the freedom of the streets. None of us save money; it
goes either in a lump, if we get a lump, or in dribs and drabs, which
is the way it mostly comes to us. I’ve known several in my way who
have died in St. Giles’s workhouse. In old age or sickness we’ve
nothing but the parish to look to. The newest thing I know of is the
singing dogs. I was with that as musician, and it answers pretty well
amongst the quality. The dogs is three Tobies to a Punch-and-Judy
show, and they sing,—that is, they make a noise,—it’s really a howl,
—but they keep time with Mr. Punch as he sings.”

III.—STREET VOCALISTS.
The Street Vocalists are almost as large a body as the street
musicians. It will be seen that there are 50 Ethiopian serenaders,
and above 250 who live by ballad-singing alone.
Street Negro Serenaders.
At present I shall deal with the Ethiopian serenaders, and the better
class of ballad-singers. Two young men who are of the former class
gave the following account. Both were dressed like decent
mechanics, with perfectly clean faces, excepting a little of the
professional black at the root of the hair on the forehead:—
ETHIOPIAN SERENADERS.

[From a Photograph.]
“We are niggers,” said one man, “as it’s commonly called; that is,
negro melodists. Nigger bands vary from four to seven, and have
numbered as many as nine; our band is now six. We all share alike. I
(said the same man) was the first who started the niggers in the
streets, abour four years ago. I took the hint from the performance
of Pell and the others at the St. James’s. When I first started in the
streets I had five performers, four and myself. There were the banjo-
player, the bones, fiddle, and tambourine. We are regularly full-
dressed, in fashionable black coats and trowsers, open white
waistcoats, pumps (bluchers some had, just as they could spring
them), and wigs to imitate the real negro head of hair. Large white
wrists or cuffs came out after. It was rather a venturesome ’spec, the
street niggers, for I had to find all the clothes at first start, as I set
the school a-going. Perhaps it cost me 6s. a-head all round—all
second-hand dress except the wigs, and each man made his own
wig out of horse-hair dyed black, and sewn with black thread on to
the skin of an old silk hat. Well, we first started at the top of the
Liverpool-road, but it was no great success, as we weren’t quite up
in our parts and didn’t play exactly into one another’s hands. None
of us were perfect, we’d had so few rehearsals. One of us had been
a street singer before, another a street fiddler, another had sung
nigger-songs in public-houses, the fourth was a mud-lark, and I had
been a street singer. I was brought up to no trade regularly. When
my father died I was left on the world, and I worked in Marylebone
stone-yard, and afterwards sung about the streets, or shifted as I
could. I first sung in the streets just before the Queen’s coronation—
and a hard life it was. But, to tell the truth, I didn’t like the thoughts
of hard labour—bringing a man in so little, too—that’s where it is;
and as soon as I could make any sort of living in the streets with
singing and such-like, I got to like it. The first ‘debew,’ as I may say,
of the niggers, brought us in about 10s. among us, besides paying
for our dinner and a pint of beer a-piece. We were forced to be
steady you see, sir, as we didn’t know how it would answer. We sang
from eleven in the morning till half-past ten at night, summer time.

We kept on day after day, not rehearsing, but practising in the
streets, for rehearsing in private was of little use—voices are as
different in private rooms and the public streets as is chalk from
cheese. We got more confidence as we went along. To be sure we
had all cheek enough to start with, but this was a fresh line of
business. Times mended as we got better at our work. Last year was
the best year I’ve known. We start generally about ten, and play till
it’s dark in fine weather. We averaged 1l. a-week last year. The
evenings are the best time. Regent-street, and Oxford-street, and
the greater part of St. James’s, are our best places. The gentry are
our best customers, but we get more from gentlemen than from
ladies. The City is good, I fancy, but they won’t let us work it; it’s
only the lower parts, Whitechapel and Smithfield ways, that we have
a chance in. Business and nigger-songs don’t go well together. The
first four days of the week are pretty much alike for our business.
Friday is bad, and so is Saturday, until night comes, and we then get
money from the working people. The markets, such as Cleveland-
street, Fitzroy-square (Tottenham-court-road’s no good at any time).
Carnaby-market, Newport-market, Great Marylebone-street, and the
Edgeware-road, are good Saturday nights. Oxford-street is middling.
The New-cut is as bad a place as can be. When we started, the
songs we knew was ‘Old Mr. Coon,’ ‘Buffalo Gals,’ ‘Going ober de
Mountain,’ ‘Dandy Jim of Carolina,’ ‘Rowly Boly O,’ and ‘Old Johnny
Booker.’ We stuck to them a twelvemonth. The ‘Buffalo Gals’ was
best liked. The ‘bones’—we’ve real bones, rib-of-beef bones, but
some have ebony bones, which sound better than rib-bones—they
tell best in ‘Going ober de Mountain,’ for there’s a symphony
between every line. It’s rather difficult to play the bones well; it
requires hard practice, and it brings the skin off; and some men
have tried it, but with so little success that they broke their bones
and flung them away. The banjo is the hardest to learn of the lot.
We have kept changing our songs all along; but some of the old
ones are still sung. The other favourites are, or were, ‘Lucy Neale,’
‘O, Susannah,’ ‘Uncle Ned,’ ‘Stop dat Knocking,’ ‘Ginger Blue,’ and
‘Black-eyed Susannah.’ Things are not so good as they were. We can
average 1l. a-piece now in the week, but it’s summer-time, and we

can’t make that in bad weather. Then there’s so many of us. There’s
the Somer’s-town ‘mob’ now in London; the King-street, the four St.
Giles’s mobs, the East-end (but they’re white niggers), the two
Westminster mobs, the Marylebone, and the Whitechapel. We
interfere with one another’s beats sometimes, for we have no
arrangement with each other, only we don’t pitch near the others
when they’re at work. The ten mobs now in London will have 50
men in them at least; and there’s plenty of stragglers, who are not
regular niggers: there’s so many dodges now to pick up a living, sir.
The Marylebone and Whitechapel lots play at nights in penny
theatres. I have played in the Haymarket in ‘the New Planet,’ but
there’s no demand for us now at the theatres, except such as the
Pavilion. There are all sorts of characters in the different schools, but
I don’t know any runaway gentleman, or any gentleman of any kind
among us, not one; we’re more of a poorer sort, if not to say a
ragged sort, for some are without shoes or stockings. The ‘niggers’
that I know have been errand-boys, street-singers, turf-cutters,
coalheavers, chandlers, paviours, mud-larks, tailors, shoemakers,
tinmen, bricklayers’ labourers, and people who have had no line in
particular but their wits. I know of no connexion with pickpockets,
and don’t believe there is any, though pickpockets go round the
mobs; but the police fling it in our teeth that we’re connected with
pickpockets. It’s a great injury to us is such a notion. A good many
of the niggers—both of us here likes a little drop—drink as hard as
they can, and a good many of them live with women of the town. A
few are married. Some niggers are Irish. There’s Scotch niggers, too.
I don’t know a Welsh one, but one of the street nigger-singers is a
real black—an African.”
Statement of another Ethiopian Serenader.
“It must be eight years ago,” he commenced, “since the Ethiopian
serenading come up—aye, it must be at least that time, because the
twopenny boats was then running to London-bridge, and it was

before the ‘Cricket’ was blown up. I know that, because we used to
work the boats serenading. I used to wear a yellow waistcoat, in
imitation of them at the St. James’s Theatre.
“The first came out at St. James’s Theatre, and they made a deal of
money. There were five of them—Pell was bones, Harrington was
concertina, I think, White was violin, Stanwood the banjo, and
Germain the tambourine. I think that’s how it was, but I can easy
ascertain. After them sprang up the ‘Lantum Serenaders’ and the
‘Ohio Serenaders,’ the ‘South Carolina Serenaders,’ the ‘Kentucky
Minstrels,’ and many other schools of them; but Pell’s gang was at
the top of the tree. Juba was along with Pell. Juba was a first class—
a regular A 1—he was a regular black, and a splendid dancer in
boots.
“As soon as I could get in to vamp the tunes on the banjo a little, I
went at it, too. I wasn’t long behind them, you may take your oath.
We judged it would be a hit, and it was fine. We got more money at
it then than we do at any game now. First of all we formed a school
of three—two banjos and a tambourine, and after that we added a
bones and a fiddle. We used to dress up just the same then as now.
We’d black our faces, and get hold of a white hat, and put a black
band round it, or have big straw hats and high collars up to the ears.
We did uncommonly well. The boys would follow us for miles, and
were as good as advertisements, for they’d shout, ‘Here’s the
blacks!’ as if they was trumpeting us. The first songs we came out
with were ‘Old Joe,’ ‘Dan Tucker,’ and ‘Going ober de Mountain,’ and
‘O come along, you sandy boys.’ Our opening chorus was ‘The Wild
Racoon Track,’ and we finished up with the ‘Railway Overture,’ and it
was more like the railway than music, for it was all thumping and
whistling, for nobody knowed how to play the banjo then.
“When I went out pitching first I could sing a good song; but it has
ruined my voice now, for I used to sing at the top—tenor is the
professional term.
“It wasn’t everybody as could be a nigger then. We was thought
angels then. It’s got common now, but still I’ve no hesitation in

saying that, keep steady and sober, and it works well to the present
day. You can go and get a good average living now.
“We could then, after our ‘mungare’ and ‘buvare’ (that’s what we call
eat and drink, and I think it’s broken Italian), carry home our 5s. or
6s. each, easy. We made long days, and did no night-work. Besides,
we was always very indifferent at our business, indeed. I’d be
blowed if I’d trust myself out singing as I did then: we should get
murdered. It was a new thing, and people thought our blunders was
intended. We used to use blacking then to do our faces—we got
Messrs. Day and Martin to do our complexion then. Burnt cork and
beer wasn’t so popular then.
“I continued at the nigger business ever since. I and my mate have
been out together, and we’ve gone out two, and three, or four, up to
eleven in a school, and we’ve shared better when eleven than when
we was two. The highest we’ve got in a day has been 1l. 6s. each,
at the Portsmouth review, when Napier went out with the fleet,
above two years ago. We walked down to Portsmouth a-purpose. We
got 14s. 6d. each—and there was five of us—at the launch of the
‘Albert.’
“The general dress of the nigger is a old white hat and a long-tailed
coat; or sometimes, when we first come out, in white waistcoats and
coats; or even in striped shirts and wigs, and no hats at all. It’s all
according to fancy and fashion, and what takes.
“When we go to a cheap concert-room, such as the Albion, Ratcliffe-
highway, or the Ship and Camel, Bermondsey, our usual business is
to open with a chorus, such as ‘Happy are we,’ though, perhaps, we
haven’t had a bit of grub all day, and been as wretched as possible;
and then we do a song or two, and then ‘crack a wid,’ as we say,
that is, tell an anecdote, such as this:—
“Three old niggers went to sea on a paving-stone. The first never
had any legs, the next never had any arms, and the other was strip
stark naked. So the one without any legs said, ‘I see de bird;’ so the
one without any arms took up a gun and shot it, and the one

without any legs run after it, and the one that was strip stark naked
put it in his pocket. Now, you tell me what pocket that was?
“Then another says, ‘In his wainscoat pocket.’ Then I return, ‘How
can he if he was naked? Can you give the inflammation of that
story? Do you give it up?’ Then he says, ‘No, won’t give it up.’ Then I
say, ‘Would you give it up if you had it.’ Then he says, ‘Yes!’ and I
reply, ‘The inflammation of that is the biggest lie that ebber was
told.’
“Sometimes we do conundrums between the songs. I ask, ‘Can you
tell me how to spell blind pig in two letters?’ and then he,
remembering the first story, answers, ‘Yes, the biggest lie that ebber
was told.’ ‘No, that’s not it.’ Then I continue, ‘P, g; and if you leave
the i out it must be a blind pig, Jim.’
“Then we go on with the concert, and sing perhaps, ‘Going ober de
Mountain’ and ‘Mary Blane,’ and then I ask such conundrums as
these:
“‘Why is mahogany like flannel?’ ‘Because they are both used to
manufacture into drawers;’ and then we do this rhyme, ‘Because
mahogany makes drawers to put your clothes in, and flannel makes
drawers to put your toes in.’
“Perhaps we do another conundrum, such as this:—‘Supposing you
nigger was dead, what would be the best time to bury you?’ One
says, ‘I shan’t suppose.’ Another says, ‘I don’t know.’ And then I say,
‘Why, the latter end of the summer;’ and one asks, ‘Why, Jim?’
‘Because it’s the best time for blackberrying.’ Then I cry out, ‘Now,
you niggers, go on with the consort;’ and one of them will add,
‘Now, Jim, we’ll have that lemoncholy song of Dinah Clare, that poor
girl that fell in the water-butt and got burnt to death.’
“Another of our dialogues is this one:—‘Did I ebber tell you about
that lemoncholy occurrence, Mary Blane, the young girl that died last
night in the house that was burned down this morning, and she’s
gone to live in a garret?’ ‘I shall call and see her.’ ‘You can’t.’ ‘’Cos
why?’ ‘’Cos she moved from where she lives now; she’s gone to live

where she used to come from.’ ‘Did you ever see her broder Bill?’
‘No; he’s dead.’ ‘What! broder Bill dead, too?’ ‘Yes; I seed him this
morning, and axed him how he was.’ ‘Well, and what did he told
you?’ ‘He told me he was wery well, thankye, and he was going to
lib along with Dinah; and he’d only been married three weeks.’ So I
asked him how many children he’d got. He said he’d only got one.
So I said, ‘Dere something very dark about that, and I don’t think all
goes right, if you was to have a son in three weeks.’ So he said,
‘Look you here, sir; if the world was made in six days, it’s debblish
hard if we can’t make a son in three weeks.’ ‘Go on with the consort.’
“Another of our dialogues is this:—‘Did I ever tell you, Jim, about my
going out a-riding?’ ‘Neber.’ ‘Well, then, I’ll told you, I had two
dollars in my pocket.’ ‘Had you?’ ‘And I thought I’d do it gentleman-
tell-like.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So I went to the libery dealer.’ ‘Who?’ ‘The libery
dealer—the man that keeps the horses’ stable.’ ‘Oh! golly! you mean
the stable-man.’ ‘Yas. Well, I axed him if he could lend me a horse to
ride on; so he said, he’d only got one horse.’ ‘Wall?’ ‘And that was a
grey mare. I thought that would do just as well.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘And I
axed him what that would cost me? and he said he should charge
me two dollars for that—so I paid the two dollars.’ ‘Wall?’ ‘And he put
me the spurs on my boots, and he put de bridle on the horse’s back.’
‘The bridle on the horse’s back!—what did he do with the bit?’ ‘He
neber had a bit at all; he put the stirrups in the mouth.’ ‘Now stop—
you mean, he put the saddle on the back, and the bridle in the
mouth.’ ‘I know it was something. Den they put me on the saddle,
and my feet on the bridle.’ ‘You mean he put your foot in the
stirrups.’ ‘So I went out very well.’ ‘So the mare begun for to gallop,
so I caught hold of the turmel of the saddle.’ ‘The tummel!’ ‘Yes, Jim,
the tummel.’ ‘No, no; you means the pummel.’ ‘Wall, hab it the
pummel—you knows—but, but, I know, I’m right. So I caught hold
of the mane, and I got on berry well till I come to a hill, when the
mare began to gollop hard down the hill, because she was shy.’
‘What was she shy at?’ ‘She saw a new-found-out-land dog crossing
the wood.’ ‘A new-found-out-land dog crossing the road!’ ‘Yes; so I
thought I’d try and stop her: so I stuck my knees into her side, and

my spur into her, and by golly, she went too fast.’ ‘And did she now?’
‘Till she falled down and broke her knees.’ ‘Poor thing!’ ‘Aye, and
pitched poor nigger on his head; so I got up and tought I’d take the
debil of a mare back to the stable. So when I got back I told the
libbery man about it.’ ‘Yas, the stable-man.’ ‘And he said I must pay
2l. 10s.’ ‘What for?’ ‘For repairing the mare; so I said I wouldn’t; so
he said he would take me before the court, and I said he might take
me down the alley, if he liked; so I thought I had better go and
insult a man ob de law about it. So I went to the man ob the law’s
house and pulled at the servant, and out comed the bell.’ ‘No; you
means pulled the bell, and out comed the servant. Wall?’ ‘I said,
‘Can you conform me is de man ob de law at home?’ so she told me
he was out, but the man ob de law’s wife was at home, so down she
come. So I said I wanted to insult the man ob de law, and she said,
‘Insult me; I do just as well.’ So she says, ‘Plane yourself.’ So I said,
‘Well, den, supposing you was a gray mare, and I hired you for two
dollars to ride you, and you was rader rusty, and went too fast for
me, and I wanted to stop you, and I stuck my knees in your side,
and my spur into you, and you falled down and broke your knees,
how could I help it?’ So she flung the door in my face and went in.
So now go on with the consort.’
“Sometimes, when we are engaged for it, we go to concert-rooms
and do the nigger-statues, which is the same as the tableaux
vivants. We illustrate the adventures of Pompey, or the life of a
negro slave. The first position is when he is in the sugar-brake,
cutting the sugar cane. Then he is supposed to take it to be
weighed, and not being weight, he is ordered to be flogged. My
mate is then doing the orator and explaining the story. It’s as nice a
bit of business as ever was done, and goes out-and-out. You see, it’s
a new thing from the white ones. The next position is when he is
being flogged, and then when he swears revenge upon the overseer,
and afterwards when he murders the overseer. Then there’s the
flight of Pompey, and so on, and I conclude with a variety of
sculptures from the statues, such as the Archilles in Hyde-park, and
so on. This is really good, and the finest bit of business out, and

nobody does it but me; indeed it says in the bill—if you saw it—‘for
which he stands unrivalled.’
“We sometimes have a greenhorn wants to go out pitching with us—
a ‘mug,’ we calls them; and there’s a chap of the name of ‘Sparrow-
back’, as we called him, because he always wore a bob-tailed coat,
and was a rare swell; and he wished to go out with us, and we told
him he must have his head shaved first, and Tom held him down
while I shaved him, and I took every bit of hair off him. Then he
underwent the operation of mugging him up with oil-colour paint,
black, and not forgetting the lips, red. Ah, he carried the black marks
on him for two months afterwards, and made a real washable nigger.
We took him with us to Camberwell fair, and on the way he kept
turning round and saying how strong he smelt of turps, and his face
was stiff. Ah, he was a serenader! How we did scrub it into him with
a stiff brush! When we washed at a horse-trough, coming home, he
couldn’t get a bit of the colour off. It all dried round his nose and
eyes.
“When we are out pitching, the finest place for us is where there is
anybody sick. If we can see some straw on the ground, or any tan,
then we stays. We are sure to play up where the blinds are down.
When we have struck up, we rattle away at the banjos, and down
will come the servant, saying, ‘You’re to move on; we don’t want
you.’ Then I’ll pretend not to understand what she says, and I’ll say,
‘Mary Blane did you ask for? O yes, certainly, Miss;’ and off we’ll go
into full chorus. We don’t move for less than a bob, for sixpence ain’t
enough for a man that’s ill. We generally get our two shillings.
“Sometimes gents will come and engage us to go and serenade
people, such as at weddings or anything of that sort. Occasionally
young gents or students will get us to go to a house late in the
morning, to rouse up somebody for a lark, and we have to beat
away and chop at the strings till all the windows are thrown up. We
had a sovereign given us for doing that.
“The Christmas time is very good for us, for we go out as waits, only
we don’t black, but only sing; and that I believe—the singing, I

mean—is, I believe, the original waits. With what we get for to play
and to go away, and what we collect on boxing Monday, amounts to
a tidy sum.
“There’s very few schools of niggers going about London now. I
don’t think there are three schools pitching in the streets. There’s
the Westminster school—they have kettle-drums and music-stands,
and never sings; and there’s the New Kent-road gang, or Houghton’s
mob, and that’s the best singing and playing school out; then a St.
Giles’s lot, but they are dicky—not worth much. The Spitalfields
school is broke up. Of course there are other niggers going about,
but to the best of my calculation there ain’t more than 40 men
scattered about.
“Houghton’s gang make the tour of the watering-places every year.
I’ve been to Brighton with them, and we did pretty well there in the
fine season, making sure of 30s. a-week a man; and it’s work that
continues all the year round, for when it’s fine weather we do
pitching, and when it’s wet we divide a school into parties of two,
and go busking at the public-houses.”
The following comic dialogue was composed by the “professional”
who was kind enough to favour me with his statement:—
“We are finishing a song, and after the song we generally do a
sympathy, as we calls it (a symphony, you know); and when I’ve
finished, Jim, my mate, keeps on beating the tambourine, as if he
couldn’t leave off. Then I turn round to him and say, ‘By golly, if you
don’t leave off, I’ll broke you over de jaw.’ He answers, ‘Go on, dig a
hole and bury yourself.’ Then I say, ‘Why don’t you ’splain yourself
properly.’ Then he keeps on playing still, and I say, ‘Can’t you leave
off, nigger?’ and he replies, ‘I’m trying to broke my trowsers.’ Then
he leaves off, and I say, ‘What de debil do you do dat for?’ and he
says, ‘Because I belong to de boulding (building) society.’ Then I
puts another question, and then begins this dialogue:—

“He says, ‘I’m going to sustire from dis profession.’ ‘What shall you
do den?’ ‘I’m going to be a boulder.’ ‘Go along! what shall you build?’
‘I’m going to be a boulder of trousers.’ ‘By golly, you shall bould me
a pair den.’ ‘Well, den, how would you like dem made? would you
like dem with high-pointed collars, full bozomed, and nice
wristbands?’ ‘What, de trowsems?’ ‘Made of lining nor calico?’ ‘What!
lining or calico trowsems?’ ‘No! shirt!’ ‘Why, you neber said a word
about shirt!’ ‘By golly, you did though.’ ‘Well, den, bould me a shirt.’
‘Well, den, how would yer like it? will you like it with nice square
toes, and bilingtary heels?’ ‘What! bilingtary heels shirts?’ ‘With a
row of hobnails?’ Then I turn round in a passion, and cry, ‘By golly, I
can’t stand this! What! hobnails shirt?’ ‘No; I was talking about a
pair of boots.’ ‘Now, you neber said a word about boots.’ ‘Oh yes, I
did.’ Then I get into a passion, and afterwards say, ‘Well, bould me a
pair of boots: now mind, you say a pair of boots.’ ‘Yes. Well, how
would you like dem boulded? Newmarket cut, rolling collar, face of
welwet?’ Then I say, aside, ‘What! rolling collar and faced with
welwet boots?’ and he continues, ‘With pockets in de tail, and two
row of gold buttons?’ ‘What! pockets in de tail, and two row of gold
button boots? By golly, dat’s a coat.’ ‘Yes; didn’t you say a coat?’
‘Neber spoke a word about coat in all my life. Did I?’ (that to the
audience). ‘Yes, ob course yer did.’ Then I get into a passion again,
but at last I say, ‘Well, den, bould me a coat.’ ‘Well, how would yer
like it? with a nice high crown?’ Then I say, aside, ‘What! a high-
crowned coat?’ ‘With a nice cork body, patent Paris nap, and silk
lining, with a return-up rim?’ ‘What! turn-up rim coat? Golly, dat’s a
hat!’ ‘Yas.’ ‘Neber spoked a work about a hat.’ ‘Oh, yer did now.’ Then
I get excited again; but at last say, ‘Well, den, bould me a hat.’ ‘Well,
den, how would you like it? Seben story high, with a nice green
waterbutt behind, and de nice palings round the garden?’ ‘What! de
palings round de garden of a hat?’ ‘No; I said de house.’ ‘By golly,
you said hat!’ ‘No; I said de house.’ ‘By golly, you said hat!’ Then we
get into a terrific passion, and he gets up and hits my tambourine,
and say, ‘By golly, you said de house!’ and I get up and hit him with
the banjo on the head, and cry, ‘By golly, you said a hat!’ Then, in
the height of my excitement, I turn to the people, and ask, ‘Didn’t

he say a hat?’ Of course they don’t answer, and I conclude I must
have made a mistake, so I reply, ‘Well, den, bould me a house.’
‘Well, den, how would you like it made? Of the best elm, with de
inscription-plate on the lid, tree rows of nails, and handles at each
side?’ ‘Well, by golly, dat’s a coffin!’ ‘Yas, Jim.’ ‘What do yer tink I
wants a coffin for?’ ‘Why, because you gets in such a passion, I
thought you’d going to die.’ Then I get sulky, and growl out, ‘Well,
den, go on wid de consort.’”
Street Glee-Singers.
An experienced street vocalist of the better kind, upon whose
statements I satisfied myself that every reliance might be placed,
described to me the present condition of his calling. He was
accompanied by his wife.
“I have been in the profession of a vocalist,” he said, “for twenty-five
years. Before that I was a concert-singer. I was not brought up to
the profession; I was a shipping agent, but I married a concert-
singer, and then followed the profession. I was young, and a little
stage-struck,”—(“Rather,” said his wife, smiling, “he was struck with
those who were on the stage”)—“and so I abandoned the ship-
agency. I have tried my fortune on the stage as a singer, and can’t
say but what I have succeeded. In fact, my wife and I have taken
more than any two singers that have ever appeared in the humble
way. We have been street vocalists for twenty-five years. We sing
solos, duets, and glees, and only at night. When we started, the
class of songs was very different to what it is now. We were styled
‘the Royal Glee-singers.’ ‘Cherry ripe,’ ‘Meet me by moonlight,’ ‘Sweet
home,’ were popular then. Haynes Bailey’s ballads were popular, and
much of Bishop’s music; as, indeed, it is still. Barnett’s or Lee’s
music, however, is now more approved in the concert-rooms than
Bishop’s. Our plan was, and is, to inquire at gentlemen’s houses if
they wish to hear glee or solo singing, and to sing in the street or in
the halls, as well as at parties. When we first commenced we have

made 3l. and 3l. 10s. in a night this way; but that was on
extraordinary occasions; and 3l. a-week might be the average
earnings, take the year through. These earnings continued eight or
ten years, and then fell off. Other amusements attracted attention.
Now, my wife, my daughter, and I may make 25s. a-week by open-
air singing. Concert-singing is extra, and the best payment is a
crown per head a night for low-priced concerts. The inferior vocalists
get 4s., 3s., 2s. 6d., and some as low as 2s. Very many who sing at
concerts have received a high musical education; but the profession
is so overstocked, that excellent singers are compelled to take poor
engagements.” The better sort of cheap concert-singers, the man
and wife both agreed in stating, were a well-conducted body of
people, often struggling for a very poor maintenance, the women
rarely being improper characters. “But now,” said the husband, “John
Bull’s taste is inclined to the brutal and filthy. Some of the ‘character
songs,’ such as ‘Sam Hall,’ ‘Jack Sheppard,’ and others, are so
indelicate that a respectable man ought not to take his wife and
daughters to see them. The men who sing character songs are the
worst class of singers, both as regards character and skill; they are
generally loose fellows; some are what is called ‘fancy men,’ persons
supported wholly or partly by women of the town. I attempted once
to give concerts without these low-character singings; but it did not
succeed, for I was alone in the attempt. I believe there are not more
than half-a-dozen street vocalists of the same class as ourselves.
They are respectable persons; and certainly open-air singing, as we
practise it, is more respectable than popular concert-singing as now
carried on. No one would be allowed to sing such songs in the
streets. The ‘character’ concerts are attended generally by
mechanics and their families; there are more males than females
among the audiences.”
Street Ballad-Singers, or Chaunters.

The street classes that are still undescribed are the lower class of
street singers, the Street Artists, the Writers without Hands, and the
Street Exhibition-keepers. I shall begin with the Street Singers.
Concerning the ordinary street ballad-singers, I received the
following account from one of the class:—
“I am what may be termed a regular street ballad-singer—either
sentimental or comic, sir, for I can take both branches. I have been,
as near as I can guess, about five-and-twenty years at the business.
My mother died when I was thirteen years old, and in consequence
of a step-mother home became too hot to hold me, and I turned
into the streets in consequence of the harsh treatment I met with.
My father had given me no education, and all I know now I have
picked up in the streets. Well, at thirteen years, I turned into the
streets, houseless, friendless. My father was a picture-frame gilder. I
was never taught any business by him—neither his own nor any
other. I never received any benefit from him that I know. Well then,
sir, there was I, a boy of thirteen, friendless, houseless, untaught,
and without any means of getting a living—loose in the streets of
London. At first I slept anywhere: sometimes I passed the night in
the old Covent-garden-market; at others, in shutter-boxes; and at
others, on door-steps near my father’s house. I lived at this time
upon the refuse that I picked up in the streets—cabbage-stumps out
of the market, orange-peel, and the like. Well, sir, I was green then,
and one of the Stamp-office spies got me to sell some of the Poor
Man’s Guardians, (an unstamped paper of that time), so that his
fellow-spy might take me up. This he did, and I had a month at
Coldbath-fields for the business. After I had been in prison, I got in a
measure hardened to the frowns of the world, and didn’t care what
company I kept, or what I did for a living. I wouldn’t have you to
fancy, though, that I did anything dishonest. I mean, I wasn’t
particular as to what I turned my hand to for a living, or where I
lodged. I went to live in Church-lane, St. Giles’s, at a threepenny
house; and having a tidy voice of my own, I was there taught to go
out ballad-singing, and I have stuck to the business ever since. I
was going on for fifteen when I first took to it. The first thing I did

was to lead at glee-singing; I took the air, and two others, old
hands, did the second and the bass. We used to sing the ‘Red Cross
Knight,’ ‘Hail, smiling Morn,’ and harmonize ‘The Wolf,’ and other
popular songs. Excepting when we needed money, we rarely went
out till the evening. Then our pitches were in quiet streets or
squares, where we saw, by the light at the windows, that some
party was going on. Wedding-parties was very good, in general quite
a harvest. Public-houses we did little at, and then it was always with
the parlour company; the tap-room people have no taste for glee-
singing. At times we took from 9s. to 10s. of an evening, the three
of us. I am speaking of the business as it was about two or three-
and-twenty years ago. Now, glee-singing is seldom practised in the
streets of London: it is chiefly confined to the provinces, at present.
In London, concerts are so cheap now-a-days, that no one will stop
to listen to the street glee-singers; so most of the ‘schools,’ or sets,
have gone to sing at the cheap concerts held at the public-houses.
Many of the glee-singers have given up the business, and taken to
the street Ethiopians instead. The street glee-singers had been some
of them brought up to a trade, though some had not. Few were so
unfortunate as me—to have none at all. The two that I was with had
been a ladies’ shoemaker and a paper-hanger. Others that I knew
had been blacksmiths, carpenters, linendrapers’ shopmen, bakers,
French-polishers, pastrycooks, and such-like. They mostly left their
business and took to glee-singing when they were young. The most
that I knew were from nineteen to twenty-two years old; that had in
general been a little rackety, and had got stage-struck or concert-
struck at public-houses: they had got praised for their voices, and so
their vanity led them to take to it for a living, when they got hard up.
Twenty years ago there must have been at the east and west ends
at least fourteen different sets, good and bad; and in each set there
was, on an average, three singers: now I don’t think there is one set
at work in London streets. After I had been three years glee-singing
in the streets, I took up with the ballad business, and found it more
lucrative than the glee line. Sometimes I could take 5s. in the day,
and not work heavily for it either; but at other times I couldn’t take
enough to pay my lodging. When any popular song came up, that

was our harvest. ‘Alice Gray,’ ‘The Sea,’ ‘Bridal Ring,’ ‘We met,’ ‘The
Tartar Drum,’ (in which I was well known,) ‘The Banks of the Blue
Moselle,’ and such-like, not forgetting ‘The Mistletoe Bough;’ these
were all great things to the ballad-singers. We looked at the bill of
fare for the different concert-rooms, and then went round the
neighbourhood where these songs were being sung, because the
airs being well known, you see it eased the way for us. The very
best sentimental song that ever I had in my life, and which lasted
me off and on for two years, was Byron’s ‘Isle of Beauty.’ I could get
a meal quicker with that than with any other. ‘The Mistletoe Bough’
got me many a Christmas dinner. We always works at that time. It
would puzzle any man, even the most exactest, to tell what they
could make by ballad-singing in the street. Some nights it would be
wet, and I should be hoarse, and then I’d take nothing. I should
think that, take one week with another, my earnings were barely
more than 10s. a-week: 12s. a-week on the average, I should think,
would be the very outside. Street ballad-singers never go out in
costume. It is generally supposed that some who appear without
shoes and wretchedly clad are made up for the purpose of exciting
charity; but this the regular street ballad-singer never does.
“He is too independent to rank himself with the beggars. He earns
his money, he fancies, and does not ask charity. Some of the ballad-
singers may perhaps be called beggars, or rather pensioners—that is
the term we give them; but these are of the worst description of
singers, and have money given to them neither for their singing nor
songs, but in pity for their age and infirmities. Of these there are
about six in London. Of the regular ballad-singers, sentimental and
comic, there are not less than 250 in and about London.
Occasionally the number is greatly increased by an influx from the
country. I should say that throughout England, Wales, and Scotland,
there is not less than 700 who live solely by ballad-singing, and
selling ballads and song-books. In London the ballad-singers
generally work in couples—especially the comic singers. The
sentimental generally go alone; but there are very few in London
who are merely sentimental ballad-singers—not more than a dozen

at the very outside. The rest sing whatever comes up. The tunes are
mostly picked up from the street bands, and sometimes from the
cheap concerts, or from the gallery of the theatre, where the street
ballad-singers very often go, for the express purpose of learning the
airs. They are mostly utterly ignorant of music, and some of them
get their money by the noise they make, by being paid to move on.
There is a house in the Blackfriars’-road where the people has been
ill for the last 16 years, and where the street ballad-singer always
goes, because he is sure of getting 2d. there to move on. Some, too,
make a point of beginning their songs outside of those houses where
the straw is laid down in front; where the knockers are done up in
an old glove the ballad-singer is sure to strike up. The comic songs
that are popular in the street are never indecent, but are very often
political. They are generally sung by two persons, one repeating the
two first lines of the verse, and the other the two last. The street-
ballads are printed and published chiefly in the Seven Dials. There
are four ballad-publishers in that quarter, and three at the East-end.
Many ballads are written expressly for the Seven-Dials press,
especially the Newgate and the political ones, as well as those upon
any topic of the day. There are five known authors for the Dials
press, and they are all street ballad-singers. I am one of these
myself. The little knowledge I have I picked up bit by bit, so that I
hardly know how I have come by it. I certainly knew my letters
before I left home, and I have got the rest off the dead walls and
out of the ballads and papers I have been selling. I write most of the
Newgate ballads now for the printers in the Dials, and, indeed,
anything that turns up. I get a shilling for a ‘copy of verses written
by the wretched culprit the night previous to his execution.’ I wrote
Courvoisier’s sorrowful lamentation. I called it, ‘A Woice from the
Gaol.’ I wrote a pathetic ballad on the respite of Annette Meyers. I
did the helegy, too, on Rush’s execution. It was supposed, like the
rest, to be written by the culprit himself, and was particular penitent.
I didn’t write that to order—I knew they would want a copy of
verses from the culprit. The publisher read it over, and said, ‘That’s
the thing for the street public.’ I only got a shilling for Rush. Indeed,
they are all the same price, no matter how popular they may be. I

wrote the life of Manning in verse. Besides these, I have written the
lament of Calcraft the hangman on the decline of his trade, and
many political songs. But song and Newgate ballad-writing for the
Dials is very poor work. I’ve got five times as much for writing a
squib for a rag-shop as for a ballad that has taken me double the
time.”
The Whistling Man.
It sometimes happens that a lad or a man, before being thrown for a
living on the streets, has often sung a song to amuse his
companions, or that he has been reckoned “a good whistler,” so he
resolves to start out and see if he cannot turn to pecuniary profits
that which until now he had only regarded in the light of an
amusement.
The young man from whom I elicited the annexed statement was
one of this class. His appearance was rather ungainly, and when he
walked across the room he moved in so slovenly a manner that one
leg appeared to drag itself after the other with the greatest
reluctance.
When telling me that he had never been guilty of stealing, nor
imprisoned, all his life, he did so in such a manner, and with such a
tone of voice, as left little doubt on my mind that he had been kept
honest more by the fear of the gaol than by his own moral principle.
His face was long and thin, and his cheeks so hollowed by long
whistling, that they appeared almost to have had a round piece of
flesh scooped out of the centre of each of them. His large thick lips
were generally kept half-an-inch apart, so that they gave the man a
half-idiotic look; and when he rounded them for whistling, they
reminded me somewhat of a lamb’s kidney.
“I am a whistler—that is, I whistle merely with my lips, without the
aid of anything besides. I have been at it about seven years. I am

twenty next birthday. My father was, and is, a coach-painter. He is, I
think, at the present time, working in Great Queen-street, Lincoln’s-
inn-fields. I had three sisters and one brother. I was the youngest
but two. When I got to be about seven years old my mother died,
and then I used to get into the streets and stop out all day playing
with other boys, most of them older than myself; and they often
persuaded me to ‘hop the wag,’ that is, play truant from school, and
spend the money which my father gave me to take to the master.
Sometimes they took me to Covent-garden or Farringdon Market,
where they used to prig a lot of apples and pears, not with the idea
of selling them, but to eat. They used to want me to do the same,
but I never would nor never did, or else I dare say I should have
been better off, for they say ‘the biggest rogues get on best.’ I was
always afraid of being sent to prison, a place I was never in in all my
life. At last I was persuaded by two young companions to stop out
all night, so we all three went to Mrs. Reding’s, Church-lane, and
had a fourpenny lodging a-piece. My pals paid for me, because I’d
got no money. I left them the next morning, but was afraid to go
home; I had got nothing to eat, so I thought I’d see if I gould get a
few ha’pence by singing a song. I knew two or three, and began
with the ‘Mariner’s Grave,’ and then ‘Lucy Neal.’ I walked about all
day, singing nearly the whole of the time, but didn’t get a penny till
about six o’clock. By nine o’clock I mustered 10d., and then I left off,
and went to a lodging-house in Whitechapel, where I got something
to eat, and paid my lodging for the night. It’s a custom always to
pay before-hand. The next morning I felt very down-hearted, and
was half a mind to go home, but was afraid I should get a hiding.
However, I at last plucked up my spirits, and went out again. I didn’t
get anything given me till about dinner-time, when a gentleman
came up to me and asked me how so young a boy as me come to
be in the streets? I told him I couldn’t earn my living any other way.
He asked my name, and where I lived. I gave him both a false name
and address, for I was afraid lest he should go to my father. He said
I had better go home with him, so he took me to his house in
Grosvenor-square, which was a very fine un—for he was a very rich
man, where he gave me plenty to eat, and made me wash myself,

and put on a suit of his little boy’s left-off clothes. I stayed here
three months, being employed to clean knives and boots, and run of
errands. He used to send me twice a-week to the Bank of England
with a cheque, which he used to write upon and tear out of a book,
and I used to bring back the money. They always tied it up safely for
me in a bag, and I put it into my pocket, and never took my hand
off it till I got safe back again. At the end of three months he called
me one day, and told me he was going with his wife and family into
the country, where, he was sorry to say, there’d be no room for me.
He then gave me 3l., and told me to go and seek for my friends, and
go and live with them if I could.
“I went home to my father, who was greatly pleased at seeing me
again; and he asked what I had been doing all the time, and where I
had got my clothes and money from. I told him all, and promised I
would never run away again,—so he forgave me. However, for a
long time he would not let me go out. At last, after a good deal of
persuasion, he let me out to look after a place, and I soon got one
at Mr. Cooper’s, Surgeon, in Seven Dials, where I had 4s. a week. I
used to be there from seven o’clock in the morning till nine at night,
but I went home to my meals. After I’d been at my place four
months, I by accident set fire to some naphtha, which I was stirring
up in the back-yard, and it burnt off all my eyelashes, and so I ‘got
the sack.’ When he paid me my wages,—as I was afraid to tell my
father what had happened,—I started off to my old quarters in
Whitechapel. I stopped there all day on Sunday, and the next three
days I wandered about seeking work, but couldn’t get none. I then
give it up as a bad job, and picked up with a man named Jack
Williams, who had no legs. He was an old sailor, who had got frost-
bitten in the Arctic regions. I used to lead him about with a big
painted board afore him. It was a picture of the place where he was
froze in. We used to go all about Ratcliffe Highway, and sometimes
work up as far as Notting Hill. On the average, we got from 8s. to
10s. a-day. My share was about a third. I was with him for fifteen
months, till one night I said something to him when he was a-bed
that didn’t please him, and he got his knife out and stabbed my leg

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