something vigorous. We accordingly sent out
the servant-of-all-work, as a deputation, with a
shilling, and a request that they would "move
on," as there was a gentleman in the house
afflicted with lumbago. It had the desired
effect–––the donative, not the message––and
we thought we were free.

Fallacious hope!

We had scarcely set to work again, and
had got one of the peasants in the drama upon
his knees, offering a rose to his beloved, and
pointing to a distant cottage on the Rhine,
when a more terrible noise invaded our ears.
This time it was a "Punch," to which a retired
half-pay officer and his family in the first-floor
front are partial, and which had come, by
their express orders, to perform in front of
the house. The habitués of this kind of
exhibtion, gathered round in dense array to witness
their favourite performance, and there we
were, stopped again for a full half-hour. But
everything must have an end, and the
"Punch" at length departed amidst our
suppressed maledictions. With difficulty, indeed,
was my heroic friend Jones prevented from
rushing out and administering a kick to the
dog Toby who, with a pipe in his mouth, had
added ten-fold to our agony, and contributed
to the horror which, for my part, I have
always felt for precocious animals.

Well, Sir, we had no sooner congratulated
ourselves on the termination of this disgraceful
scene, when an individual habited in a Turkish
garb came into the street, to swallow a sword
and to balance a walking-stick on his
copper-coloured nose. Neither sixpences, nor shillings,
nor protestations, could get rid of this infernal
Oriental, who–––in perfectly good English–––
informed us that he had not been that way
for a whole fortnight, and that he really must
perform. It was in vain that we requested
him to retire–––if not to his own country, and
the smiling babes he had left behind him
either in Damascus or in Houndsditch–––at all
events, lower down the street. He was
inexorable, and for full twenty minutes large
pebbles and other heavy articles seemed to
disappear down his capacious throat, and
were brought up again before our reluctant
eyes.

He was succeeded by a Hindoo chieftain
who danced the national war-dance, howling
at the same time the national war-song–––upon
a deal plank, two feet square.

I shall not prolong this painful subject much
further. At half-past one, we had a
Fantoccini; at three, a performance of Ethiopian
serenaders; at four, a select band of Scottish
youths, to execute the fling; interspersed at
intervals with barrel-organs, organs upon
wheels, brass bands, violinists, flute-players,
and every other kind of known and unknown
musicians. Now, Sir, just to show you the
effect that these accursed artists have had
upon one of the most promising dramatic
pieces of the season, take this passage as I
find it written in my MS.:–––

Bertram. Beloved Anna, cast not upon me that
contemptuous look. The false Ferdinand loves
thee not. Oh! say, charmer, wilt thou be mine?

Anna (sobbing tenderly). Curse that Turk!!

I could put up with barrel-organs. I could
bring myself to suffer, almost without
repining, under "Lucy Long." I could even
endure "Trab Trab." But to be molested with
these Punches and Eastern performers is too
much for me. To watch one of these
Aborigines (I suppose I ought to say an Aborigo)
tearing his hair and making pretence to
munch his enemies; to hear the particulars
of the last half-dozen burglaries and murders
shouted under my very nose; to listen to a
man and six small children bellowing at the
tops of their stentorian voices that they have
not partaken of food for three days, and are
ready to drop down with exhaustion. All this
is too much for me. It occasions, in the
sensitive mind of a melo-dramatist, a degree
of phrenzy that makes him ready to tear his
hair, like the Aborigo; to yell, like the
whooping Indian; to drop down, like the
fatherless and motherless children and their
exhausted but strong-voiced parents.

Is there no law, Sir, to protect these
unhappy streets from the vagrants who infest
them? No international treaty to compel
Oriental nations to keep their jugglers and
curiosities to themselves? No untenanted
patent-theatre where Punch and Judy, and
Fantoccini, might find a secure retreat? No
policeman lying in ambush in a larder, ready
to spring out upon the offenders?

My mind is made up. I shall take a
lodging in the most cab-frequented street that
I can find, and compose my master-piece
there.

Even as I write, and the shades of evening
are stealing upon me, I observe an individual
advancing slowly out of the Strand with a
huge drum and a fife. Two other miscreants
are following him, wrapped up in large
great-coats. A secret presentiment tells me that
the wretches are about to throw off their
great-coats and stand upon their heads in
front of my window. I can, consequently,
write no more, but must remain,

                                Sir,
    Your very obedient and afflicted Servant,
                      JOHN SMITH, Dramatic Author.
Cecil Street, Strand.

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