st so
soon as he is a man, and able to lug it about, is provided with an
instrument with which he can make a noise in the world, and prefer his
clamorous claim for a recompense; while the poor blind Englishman has
nothing but a diminutive box of dilapidated whistles, which you may
pass fifty times without hearing it, let him grind as hard as he will.
It is generally nothing more than an old worn-out bird-organ, in all
likelihood charitably bestowed by some compassionate Poll
Sweedlepipes, who has already used it up in the education of his
bull-finches. The reason, we opine, must be that the major part, if
not the whole, of the peripatetic instruments of the metropolis are
the property of speculators, who let them out on hire, and that the
blind man, not being considered an eligible customer, is precluded
from the advantage of their use. However this may be, the poor blind
grinder is almost invariably found furnished as we have described him,
jammed up in some cranny or corner in a third-rate locality, where,
having opened or taken off the top of his box, that the curious
spectator may behold the mystery of his too quiet music--the revolving
barrel, the sobbing bellows, and the twelve leaden and ten wooden
pipes--he turns his monotonous handle throughout the live-long day, in
the all but vain appeal for the commiseration of his fellows. This is
really a melancholy spectacle, and one which we would gladly miss
altogether in our casual rounds.

7. The piano-grinders are by far the most numerous of the
handle-turning fraternity. The instrument they carry about with them
is familiar to the dwellers in most of the towns in England. It is a
miniature cabinet-piano, without the keys or finger-board, and is
played by similar mechanical means to that which gives utterance to
the hand-organ; but of course it requires no bellows. There is one
thing to be said in favour of these instruments--they do not make much
noise, and consequently are no very great nuisance individually. The
worst thing against them is the fact, that they are never in tune, and
therefore never worth the hearing. After grinding for twelve or
fourteen hours a day for four or five years, they become perfect
abominations; and luckless is the fate of the poor little stranger
condemned to perpetual companionship with a villainous machine, whose
every tone is the cause of offence to those whose charity he must
awaken into exercise, or go without a meal. These instru