they can only sleep in the earlier watches of the night, and, as a rule, they cannot write novels, or articles, or treatises; they cannot compose comic operas, or paint, in the midst of a row.  Now, the streets of London are the scenes of rows at every hour of night and day-light.  It is not the roll of carriages and carts that provokes irritation, and drives the sensitive man or woman half mad.  Even the whistling of the metropolitan trains may, perhaps, be borne with if the drivers are not too ambitious artists, and do not attempt fantasias and variations on their powerful instrument.  The noises that ruin health, temper, and power of work; the noises that cause an incalculable waste of time, money, and power, are all voluntary, and perhaps preventable.  Let us examine the working hours of the nervous or irritable musician, mathematician, man of letters, or member of Parliament.  On second thoughts, the last may be omitted, as if he cannot sleep in a tedious debate, his case is beyond cure.

   “Not bromide of potassium
   Nor all the drowsy speeches in the world”

can medicine him to forgetfulness of street noises.  For the others, the day may be said to begin about five, when the voice of the chimney-sweep is heard in the land.  Here we may observe that servants are the real causes of half the most provoking noises in London.  People ask why the sweep cannot ring the bell, like other people.  But the same people remark that even the howl of the sweep does not waken the neighbours’ servants.  Of what avail, then, could his use of the bell prove?  It generally takes the sweep twenty-five minutes exactly to bring the servants to open the door.  Meanwhile, the eminent men of letters in the street open their windows, and show a very fair command of language understanded by the people.  But the sweep only laughs, and every three minutes utters a howl which resembles no other noise with which men are acquainted.  Where do young sweeps learn to make this cry which can only be acquired by long practice?  Perhaps it is inherited, like the music of “the damned nightingales,” as the sleepless political economist called the Daulian birds.

When the sweep is silent, when slumber is stealing over the weary eyelids, then traction engines, or steam-rollers, or some other scientific improvement on wheels begin to traverse the streets and shake the houses.  This does not last more than a quarter of an hour, and then a big bell rings, and the working men and women tramp gaily by, chatting noisily and in excellent spirits.  Now comes the milkman’s turn.  He, like the chimney-sweep, has his own howl, softer, more flute-like in quality than that of the sweep, but still capable of waking any one who is not a domestic servant in hard training.  The milkman also cries “woa” to his horse at every house, and accompanies himself on his great tin cans, making a noise most tolerable, and not to be endured.  Is it necessary, absolutely necessary,