gratuity or payment which they may receive for
this service by such smaller contributions as
they can collect elsewhere. They do not rely
upon the crowd of bystanders, or upon
voluntary contributions, but send round the youngest
member of the party, who knocks or rings at
the door of every house in the street, and, hat
in hand, gathers whatever coppers the servant
girl or others are inclined to bestow. He
appears to be successful in about one house out
of three. The performances continue for about
twenty minutes, and would not only be tolerable,
but commendable, if they took place in
one of the parks at a seasonable hour, or people
were not compelled to listen to them unless
they pleased.

Nine o'clock.—A bulky Savoyard, ugly as a
baboon, and as dirty, with a barrel-organ. He
grinds, Partant pour la Syrie, Not for Joseph,
and Champagne Charlie. His tunes are such
a nuisance that I put my hat on, go to the street
door, and order him away. He pretends not to
understand me. I speak to him in Italian and let
him know that I shall hand him over to the police
if he will not immediately desist from grinding. He
swears and scowls. I reiterate my threat. He sees
I am in earnest, and finally slings his heavy organ
upon his brawny back, and sulkily departs, followed
by the not very amiable wish on my part that he
had his box of discords in his paunch instead of on
his shoulders.

Twenty minutes to Ten.—Eight sham niggers
—white men with blackened faces—wearing
the usual absurd caricature of negro costume
which does duty in London and elsewhere, for
the dress of the plantation negroes in the
Southern States of America. The leader of the
band does not blacken his face, but wears a
mask to represent Punchinello. He is active,
well made, agile, and a good low comedian.
This party sings both comic and sentimental
songs, almost, if not quite as well, as the real
Christy Minstrels, whom people pay their
half-crowns to hear. Windows are lifted right and
left, and pence and half-pence rattle on the
pavement. The cooks and servant girls appear
to be the chief patronesses of the show. The
niggers stay for a quarter of an hour, and
march off at a sign from Punchinello. They
evidently make a good thing of it, and are
prime favourites.

Half-past Ten.—Two young men, ragged and
shoeless, invade the street, and sing, "We have
no work to do-o-o," with the usual drawl. They
are not very successful, but far more so than
they deserve, and get a solitary penny from the
house that hires the brass band. Seeing they
have no chance they depart, to the great
satisfaction, it is to be presumed, of everybody,
even of the small children, and of the cooks
and the housemaids.

Eleven o'clock.—An old man, thinly clad and
feeble, with venerable grey hairs, whistling, but
so very faintly as to be scarcely audible. He
presents so forlorn an appearance, and his idea
of attracting anybody's attention by such a
weakly performance, appears to me so absurd
that I pity him to the extent of a penny. I
throw it out to him wrapped in a piece of
paper. He catches it in his hat, opens the
paper, takes out the penny, and spits upon it
three times (for luck I suppose), and goes on
whistling. Poor old fellow! He at least has
not the power, even if he had the will, to make
the street hideous with noise. It is possible
that I should not have heard his faint attempt
at music, if my attention were not specially
directed to the subject, and very doubtful
whether any one else in the street is aware
of his presence.

Fifteen minutes past Eleven.—A drum. An
abominable monotonous outrage. It is a Lascar
beating the tom-tom, and every now and then
breaking out into a moan, a whine, a grunt, a
shriek, or all these four diabolically blended into
one. He is the most repulsive and savage-looking
creature I ever beheld. Gaunt and wiry as
a hyena, and with the same hideous expression
of countenance, he strongly impresses me
with the idea that he must be Nana Sahib,
who massacred the women and children at
Cawnpore, or some other Eastern scoundrel
quite as detestable; if prolific nature has ever
yet produced a match to that specimen of her
handiwork. There is no policeman to be seen,
and I think if I were a policeman, I should
be rather shy of tackling such an ugly customer.

Five minutes past Twelve.—Another brass
band, the performers boys and lads from
the "Fatherland," who play so loudly and so
execrably that I wish the '"Fatherland" had
them back again, or that Count Bismarck
would take hold of them for the next Sadowa,
that his own or his royal master's ambition or
vanity may compel him to fight. They perform
for ten minutes. At their cessation the
silence is delightful.

Tvventy minutes to One.—A woman grinding
a barrel-organ, with a baby fast asleep upon the
top of it. The tune is the eternal Partant pour
la Syrie. When she ceases for a moment to
collect pence the baby awakes: when she
recommences, it falls asleep again. She traverses
the street slowly from end to end, receives
a penny. She then mercifully, or perhaps
hopelessly, makes her way out and grinds no
more.

Quarter past One.—An Italian boy, apparently
of about fourteen years of age, with a
hurdy-gurdy. He whistles to it as an accompaniment.
The combination is horrible and
past endurance. I go to the window and
order him away. He stops whistling, to grin
at me, and removes himself to the distance of
two houses, where he recommences his
performance. If there be a policeman in sight, I
shall assuredly have him removed per force
majeure. But no policeman has been seen the
whole morning, and none is visible now. This
young tormentor plagues me and the street for
five minutes before he goes his way. I feel
towards him, as I did in the case of his elder