Then he hates with a deadly hatred all who make music in the street or
next door--and preach in the crossways and bawl their wares on the
parade. What would he have said of the Salvation Army? He is haunted
by the bark of his neighbour's dog, by the crow of his neighbour's
Cochin China cock; he cannot even bear his neighbour to have his
chimney swept; and as for the Christmas waits--we all remember _that_
tragic picture! This exaggerated aversion to noises became a disease
with him, and possibly hastened his end.

Among his pet hates we must not forget the gorgeous flunky and the
guzzling alderman, the leering old fop, the rascally book-maker, the
sweating Jew tradesman, and the poor little snob (the 'Arry of his
day) who tries vainly to grow a moustache, and wears such a shocking
bad hat, and iron heels to his shoes, and shuns the Park during the
riots for fear of being pelted for a "haristocrat," and whose
punishment I think is almost in excess of his misdemeanor. To succeed
in over-dressing one's self (as his swells did occasionally without
marring their beauty) is almost as ignominious as to fail; and when
the failure comes from want of means, there is also almost a pathetic
side to it.

[Illustration: DOING A LITTLE BUSINESS

OLD EQUESTRIAN. "Well, but--you're not the boy I left my horse with!"

BOY. "No, sir; I jist spekilated, and bought 'im of t'other boy for a
harpenny."--_Punch_.]

And he is a little bit hard on old frumps, with fat ankles and scraggy