gin-shops, beer-shops, coffee-shops, servants,
children, visitors from the country, ladies of doubtful
virtue, and occasionally titled ladies; but
these are almost invariably of recent elevation,
and deficient in that taste which their sex usually
possess. And what does Mr. Bass say to this?
"The habit of frequenting public-houses and
the amount of intoxication is much augmented
by these means. It therefore finds support
from the whole body of licensed victuallers, and
from all those who are interested as the
proprietors of public-houses."

Considering that Mr. Babbage is a commander
of the Italian order of St. Maurice and St.
Lazarus, one might expect him to have some
charity for the poor organ-grinder who comes
from the same country as his decoration; but he
has none. He is proud of the order of the dead
beggar; but he has no bowels of compassion
for the living one. His path is beset by him
go where he will. On one occasion he fled from
his tormentors to Cornwall, and there, within a
few miles of the Land's End, he met one of the
fellows whom he had frequently sent away from
his own street. Some of Mr. Babbage's neighbours
have derived great pleasure from inviting
musicians of various tastes and countries to
play opposite his house, with the view of
ascertaining whether there are not some kinds of
instruments which he might approve; but their
best efforts have had no other effect than to
bring the philosopher out into the street in
search of a policeman. What a misfortune it
is to a man to have no taste for music! There
goes Mr. Babbage in search of an officer of the
law followed by a crowd of young children,
urged on by their parents and backed at a
judicious distance by a set of vagabonds shouting
forth uncomplimentary epithets, and making
ridiculous rhymes on his name. When he turns round
to survey his illustrious tail, it stops; if he moves
towards it, it recedes; but, the instant he turns,
the shouting and the abuse are resumed. In one
case there were above a hundred persons,
consisting of men, women, and boys, who followed
him through the streets before he could find a
policeman. One day two fellows called " Stop
thief!" after him, and then ran away. A foolish
young fellow purchased a wind instrument with
a hole in it, with which he made discordant
noises for the purpose of annoying him. A
workman inhabiting an attic which overlooked
his garden, blew a penny whistle out of his
window every day for half an hour. When Mr.
Babbage took measures to put a stop to these
proceedings he was threatened with vengeance.
One correspondent kindly volunteered to do him
a serious bodily injury, while a third, in a personal
communication, intimated his intention of burning
the house down with Mr. Babbage in it.
The smaller evils of dead cats thrown down his
area, of windows from time to time purposely
broken, or of occasional blows on the head from
stones projected by unseen hands, Mr. Babbage
will not condescend to speak. All these things
are trifles compared to being awakened at one
o'clock in the morning (just as he has fallen
asleep after a painful surgical operation) by the
crash of a brass band. On a careful retrospect
of the last dozen years of his life, Mr. Babbage
arrives at the conclusion that one-fourth part of
his working power has been destroyed by street
music—which he regards as a twenty-five per
cent income-tax on his brain, levied by permission
of the government, and squandered among
the most worthless classes. During eighty days
he registered one hundred and sixty-five instances
when he went out to put a stop to the nuisance.
In several of these instances his whole day's
work was lost, for they frequently occurred
when he was giving instructions to his workmen
relative to some parts of his analytical
engine.

This is the case of the workers. Let us now
hear what Mr. Babbage has to say on behalf of
the invalids. It has been found by the returns
of benefit societies that in London 4.72 persons
in every hundred are constantly ill, which is
equal to forty-seven in every thousand. In Mr.
Babbage's district the number of persons in
a house averages ten. In Manchester-street,
which faces his own residence, there are fifty-
six houses. This, allowing the average stated,
shows that about twenty-six persons are usually
ill in that one street; but there are streets adjoining,
to portions of which the music penetrates, so
that if the portions of these streets are considered
to be only equal in population to that of
Manchester-street, we have upwards of fifty
sick people, who are constantly disturbed by
music.

These people, then, these slavish workers
and obstinate invalids, claim protection. They
demand that employment and ill-health shall be
just and reasonable causes for forcing street
musicians, not simply to move on, but to clear
out of the neighbourhood altogether. They ask
that the police, on any complaint whatever from
an inhabitant, shall have no discretion, but shall
be obliged to take the musician into custody and
lock him up. This is all very well for the workers
and the invalids, but what is to become of
me, a gentleman of good health and independent
property, who has no occasion to work, and who
only wants to be amused? What is to become of
the old gentleman at number one who likes
music at his dinner, when he comes from a drive
in his coach-and-four? What is to become of the
two young ladies with pink cheeks and frizzy
hair? Labour has its duties no doubt; but
property has its rights. What is Mr. Babbage's
calculating machine to me? I have five hundred
a year independent of the world, and when I
go to the bank to receive my dividends, I can
count the notes without a machine. The
machine I require is an organ to play to me
when I am dull, and want to kill time. What's
the use of being independent if you can't enjoy
yourself? One might just as well have to work.

Mr. Bass, too, to head the crusade! It is just
one barrel against another. But take heart, my
poor, persecuted, ill-used, unappreciated Italians,
Mr. Gladstone is going to give us universal
suffrage. You will have votes, you will return