and to be seen approving means money. The
minstrels are asked for the repetition of Little
Maggie May, and, after compliance, receive
what looks like half-a-crown, as it flashes from
the window to the hat of the leader. Half-a-crown
is not much among seven, though it is
evidently a much more liberal gratuity than
generally falls to the lot of street musicians, if
an opinion may be formed from the expression
that gleams on the sooty and greasy face of the
recipient.

Half-past seven.—A barrel-organ. No policeman.

Eight o'clock.—A woman, "clad in unwomanly
rags," with a thin weak voice, dolefully
chaunting Annie Laurie.

A quarter-past eight.—A barrel-organ. Policeman
in the street, for a wonder; is told to
expel this performer, and expels him accordingly.
The man persists in grinding as he goes
up the street to get out of it. "Leave off,"
says the policeman, sharply, and in the tone of
a man that means mischief if he be thwarted;
and the tune ceases. The policeman walks
down the street, up again, and disappears; and
in less than five minutes the organ fiend—for
such this particularly pertinacious vagabond
deserves to be called—re-enters the scene of his
discomfiture, and begins to grind away
triumphantly at the Old Hundredth Psalm. I suffer
him, in an agony of spirit, for a full ten
minutes. He meets no encouragement, and
retires. May he grind organs in Pandemonium
for ever and ever—amen!

Nine o'clock.—The tinkling of a guitar, well
played, succeeded by the rich full voice, of a
cultivated soprano, singing the old ballad,
Comin' through the Rye. Here, at last is
something worth hearing. Looking out I see
a well dressed woman, with a small crowd
around her. She next sings, Ye Banks and
Braes o' Bonnie Doon, and renders it beautifully;
afterwards, The Last Rose of Summer,
equally well, followed by Bonnie Dundee, sung
with a spirit which would do credit to any
stage. This person is, I understand, a protégée
of my landlady, and visits the street regularly
every week. She meets otherwise with very
considerable encouragement. She has sought,
but hitherto in vain, to obtain an engagement
at the music halls. "One reason is," she
says, "that negro melodies and comic songs by
ladies are more popular than Scotch songs, or
than sentimental songs of any kind, unless they
are sung by a man or a woman with a blackened
face." Another reason, perhaps, is poverty,
and the want of good introductions. My landlady
says she is an honest girl and has been well
enough educated to read music and sing at
sight. Can nothing be done for her? I ask.
"Many gentlemen," replies the landlady, "have
been greatly pleased with her singing, and
promised to exert themselves to get her an
engagement of some kind, however humble, to take
her out of street singing; but it has been all
cry and no wool; and nothing has come of it."

A quarter to Ten o'clock.—A tremendous
hullabaloo! and loud cries of "Awful murder!
awful murder! Second edition—Second eddishon!"
I send down to know what is the
matter. It is a sell—a sell—a palpable sell—
and no murder at all; and the servant brings me
up a fly sheet, printed on one side, like the
halfpenny ballads. This costs a penny; and
is the story—I quote literally—of "A married
man caught in a Trap, or, the Lovers Detected—
a Laughable Dialogue, which took place in
a Railway Carriage, between a married
gentleman, and a young lady in this town, which was
overheard by a gentleman, who immediately
committed the same to writing." The "laughable
dialogue" is not at all laughable, but vapid,
silly, puerile, and utterly contemptible. Compared
with the vendors of such swindling rubbish,
who disturb the night by their vociferous
cries, the most villanous organ-grinder of
Italy is a respectable man and a saint. If I
had the making of the laws and the administration
of them afterwards, I think such fellows
as these would never be able to vociferate again,
either on a false pretence or a true one, after
they got out of my clutches.

The above is a fair and true account, and an
unvarnished tale of a day's music and misery in
London. The real music was not much; the
real misery was very considerable. Is there no
remedy for such wrong? Cannot a prohibitive
duty be put upon Italians and Savoyards
at the port of entry? Cannot music, or the
murderers of music in the streets, by
unauthorised performers be prevented? Or if the
children and the servants, and the idle people
generally, must have street music, cannot the
infliction be concentrated within a couple of
hours every day. People must not bathe in the
Serpentine after eight in the morning; why
should people be allowed to make hideous noises
anywhere and everywhere in the business hours
of the day?

BAGGAGE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

WE have most of us in our time suffered
more or less from "Baggage." But it is not
until the traveller leaves Europe, and gets
beyond railways and civilisation that the real
miseries of the incumbrance fairly set in. Worst
of all do they become, if you travel with an
army, especially if that army be in Abyssinia.
The endless packing and unpacking, the nice
adjustment and fastening of the baggage upon
the mules, the numerous break downs upon
the road, the incessant delays, and the obstinacy
of the drivers, disposed me, when I was in these
last mentioned circumstances, to curse my birthday.

Sometimes the duty of looking after baggage
was more than an annoyance, for it was not
unattended with danger. I had been stationed
at Antalo, and one day received orders to
go down to Senafe. Two or three other officers
were also downward bound, and we decided
upon journeying together. Above Antalo,