compatriot with the barrel organ, that I should
have been glad if his hurdy-gurdy were in his
entrails, and persisted in remaining there and
playing for a week!

Twenty minutes to Two.—Another Italian,
with a barrel organ and a monkey. The monkey
very like a Fenian, the man not so good
looking. Why does not the Re Galantuomo
keep these lazy Italians to himself? This fellow
would make excellent food for powder. Two
little children and a nursemaid at the opposite
side of the street, seem delighted with the
monkey; but what their opinion of the music
is, I have no means of judging.

Half past Two.—A performer on the
cornet-a-piston, plays The Last Rose of Summer,
and Auld Lang Syne, neither very well, nor very
badly. His music brings up half-a-dozen female
heads from the areas on either side of the way.
He makes, what is in theatrical parlance called
a succès d'estime, but does not favour the street
beyond ten minutes.

A quarter past Three.—A lad in shabby
Highland costume, exhibits a pair of legs that
do not show to advantage, and plays
villanously on the bag-pipes, the well-known air of
Bonnie Laddie. The cooks, housemaids, and
children, seem to be well pleased; but when he
changes the air to the Reel of Tulloch, the joy
of the little ones grows frantic. Three or four
girls of eight or ten who have strayed down
the street from some of the contiguous alleys
on the other side of the Strand, get up a little
dance on the pavement. A policeman, for the
first time during the day, makes his appearance.
What he might have done, if the performer
had been a negro minstrel, singing the
Chickaleery Cove, I know not, but he evidently
neither admires the music of the bag-pipes,
nor the sight of the little children enjoying
themselves; so he orders away the
piper in a manner that shows he is not in
a humour to allow his authority to be trifled
with. Resistance being hopeless the piper
departs and blessed silence once again prevails
for a brief space.

Five minutes to Four.—A blind old man,
playing the violin, led by a young woman—
possibly his daughter. His tunes are mostly
Scotch, and miserably perverted. If no one
were permitted to play an instrument in the
streets without a licence, and if none but the
blind were eligible for the privilege, the plague
of minstrelsy in London might be beneficially
diminished. I make a present of this idea to
any metropolitan member who thinks well
enough of it, to introduce it to the legislature.

Ten minutes past Four.—Punch and Judy,
the most popular theatrical performance that
ever was invented, and known and enjoyed by
millions, who never heard of Macbeth or Hamlet,
and never will. The street suddenly seems
to swarm with children, nor are older people
at all scarce within two minutes after the
familiar squeak. The policeman again turns
up. He has apparently no objection to Punch,
or if he has he makes none. The play proceeds;
and as it is opposite my window,
I make the most of it—and if I must tell the
truth, I enjoy it. The dog that appears
towards the last act, is a first-rate performer,
cool and collected; and when Punch hits him a
little too hard, he fastens upon Punch's nose
in a manner that impresses the audience with
the idea, that he thoroughly believes it to be
flesh and blood. Good dog! I should think that
Punch clears about eighteenpence by this little
interlude, sixpence whereof was mine, for I had
been seen to laugh, and could not expect to
enjoy such a luxury without paying for it. If
the manager of this ambulatory theatre repeats
his performance ten or a dozen times a day,
with the same pecuniary results, he must
make what is called "a tolerably good thing of
it."

Five o'clock.—Barrel organ, Champagne
Charlie, Not for Joseph, and Adeste Fidelis.
No policeman.

Twenty-five minutes past Five.—Barrel organ.
Partant pour la Syrie. How I hate it! Followed'
by Adeste Fidelis, which if possible, I
hate still more. No policeman.

Six o'clock.—An old man with a fiddle; an
old woman with a concertina; and a younger
woman with a baby at her breast. The young
woman sings, and the older performers murder
the music. This is even a worse infliction than
the barrel organ; and lasts for about five
minutes. Much as the street seems to love
music, it evidently does not love this specimen
of harmony, and not a single halfpenny rewards
the trio.

Twenty minutes past Six.—A man leading a
Newfoundland dog, with a monkey riding on
its back. The man beats a big drum to attract
attention. Somebody rises from the dinner
table, throws a bone into the street to the dog,
which speedily unhorses, or I ought perhaps
to say undogs the monkey, and darts upon the
prize in spite of the opposition and the kicks
of his master. The monkey performs several
little tricks—holds out its paw for halfpence,
mounts and dismounts at word of command,
but not until the dog has crunched the bone and
made an end of it, with as much relish as if it
were flesh; and is altogether so popular with
the children and the servants, as to earn the
price of a dinner for his owner. The monkey
gets bits of cakes and apple from the children,
the dog gets another bone, with a little meat
on it, and the partnership of the man and two
beasts, departs in peace; to amuse the children
somewhere else.

Seven o'clock.—More mock niggers—seven
of them. They sing Ben Bolt, Moggie Dooral,
Little Maggie May, and others, which, I
presume, are the popular favourites. A family
just arrived—as is evident by the piles of boxes
on the roof of the two cabs that carry them in
detachments—and possibly fresh from the rural
districts, where black minstrelsy is rarer than
black swans, stand at the windows, and listen.
To be seen listening is to be seen approving,