volume went up in a certain study, before the old bookworm returned to his feast of books with zest: and many and many a weary day crumbled Wilfred Hall, before Sir Wilfred Wilfred found the same delight in the buried coins he dug up.

"O. B."

+

A WORD FOR WANDERERS.

"The man that hath no music in himself
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,
The motions of his spirit are dull as night.
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted."

ALLOW me to inform you, ladies and gentlemen, that a champion has at last arisen for the persecuted organgrinders-one who fearlessly enters the lists against nervous old gentlemen, cross old ladies, invalids, policemen, studious men and lovers of peace generally. What though Mr. Nervus Phidgetts be at this moment helplessly wrapping his bald head in the bed-clothes and muttering smothered imprecations, ("Pop goes the weasel," every now and then cheerfully sounding below him, cruelly merry and livelily torturous, while a wandering dewdrop of cold perspiration trickles down the side of his imbedded nose):-what though Mr. Weakly Everill has just awoke from a short sleep snatched from departing night, with a bad head-ache, to the joys and sorrows of a suburb morning, and catches, faintly borne upon the breeze, the well-known strains of "Bobbing around," half a street away, but coming on surely and slowly, like the spider on the ceiling walking leisurely down the web to his prey as if meditating some slow torture for the victim-blue-bottle, and what though the papoosed watch at the back of the invalid's pillow already anticipates the coming melody, by ticking with devilish glee to the tune that is slowly approaching:-what though the studious Mr. Reading Jones, fists on ears and elbows on table, shuts his senses to the music and his heart to the upturned eye of the expectant grinder, and desperately reads pages and pages of his book, to find in the end that he remembers not one word of what he has been reading. For

"His heart was otherwhere,

While the organ shook the air,"

as the City Poet hath it:-and what though Mr. Punch himself, driven to despair, represents in his next number a persistent musician defying the policeman's command to move on, and so endeavours to urge the imbecile authorities to more effective steps:-what though all this be true, still I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, that a champion has at last arisen for the persecuted organ-grinders-I, a quondam grinder, am that champion.

But before I begin to defend my musical brethren, it becomes me to return the thanks and blessings of them and myself to our unprejudiced patrons, those of the public who have enjoyed and supported, or at least endured patiently our serenades; especially to him who, taking an interest in me, and I hope I may say without conceit, considering that I had a soul above organs, has lifted me from my low estate and given me education and honourable employment,-in fact has made me what I am.

Now, in the first place, I mean to say that our street music is generally in itself agreeable.-Be not prejudiced, ye lodgers who look down from above and lodging-housekeepers who look up, from kitchens below, at that olivefaced, brown-eyed, laughing Italian boy who gives you music at so small a charge.-Be not prejudiced, but open your hearts and ears to the melody, and ten to one you will enjoy it, a hundred to one you will not dislike it so much, as if you treat the boy harshly and fidget and annoy yourselves. Ulysses scarcely deafen'd his ears to the sirensongs more obstinately than you do to street music, or, more correctly, his companions' ears, for he seemed not to dislike the music himself, and listened attentively to the performance on the beach, though for safety he spliced himself to a mast, for fear the melody should be too much for his feelings and entice him overboard, as it had former voyagers, who,

"By these prevailing voices now
Lured, evermore drew nearer to the land,
Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,
That strewed that fatal strand;

"Or seeing, feared not-warning taking none
From the plain doom of all who went before,
Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,
And whitened all the shore."

No, take yon smiling baby in his nurse's arms for your example-see how the little fellow stretches forth his tiny

arms and croaks with delight; while you, determined to make yourselves miserable, draw in your sensitive horns like insulted snails.

I, on the other hand, in my suburban abode, in the extreme confines of the suburbs where the town meets the country, twilight as it were, am charmed, as I sit in my shady little lawn this beautiful June afternoon, by an organ fragment floating from afar, louder and lower as the changeful breeze rises and falls-what with the bright blue sky, the sunlight shadow-chequered on the grass, flowers, a wandering butterfly or two, a light wind playing with the leaves of an open book, and a cigar whence thin blue smoke wreaths slowly ascend and vanish,-the effect is quite fairy-like and mystic.

In the second place, as to the construction of barrelorgans, though it be objected that turning a handle round and round is too automaton-like, artificial and ungraceful, yet there is certainly this advantage in it, namely that correct time is pretty sure to be kept and if we have the music what matter how it is produced? it sounds well and in moderation is quite enjoyable; witness yonder nursery window crowded with juvenile faces eager to buy with a copper or two the music-ware of the approaching organ-man: he will unstrap his burden and grind any amount for the money, and then seek some more rural scene, rural enough at least to supply a hedge and bank, where he will rest awhile to eat his bread and cheese, and, meeting perchance with some similarly burdened companion, will gleefully gabble in his native tongue.

It might perhaps be a good thing if these young Italians could be formed into regiments and sent home as soldiers, especially in the present state of European affairs.* A certain amount of endurance they must have acquired by their rough wandering life here,-and they would find it less labour to carry military knapsacks and arms, used as they are to the weight of something like a young piano strapped on their backs. And, as for marching, many of them, from being so long accustomed to no other conveyance than their feet, would probably without much difficulty march any army off its legs, so to speak, in a few days.

But what induced me more than anything to say a word for my companions, was, because I have really been often struck by the great beauty of the music, and think that it

This was written last long vacation, 1859.

is unjustly and with prejudice accused of being unbearable and inharmonious. Climb up Primrose hill some fine day and sit down on one of the benches, whence you may enjoy an extensive view, rows of houses, streets crossing each other, trees, lamp-posts, palisading, men, horses, and vehicles. From some spot in this panorama extending from Hampstead road to Primrose hill and the regions about Regent's park, you will probably hear one or more strains of wind-borne music, anon pausing and again arising in some nearer or more remote locality, approaching or retreating. If you are in a good humour and open to soothing influences of sunlight, bright skies, fleecy fleets of sailing clouds, and that fresh hilarity of spirits which results from a lofty situation, you will find that the effect is not bad.

I could relate many queer anecdotes, aye and affecting romances of organ-grinders, if it were worth while to do so and if space permitted, and I shall be glad to continue my subject, which is a very extensive one, in future numbers of The Eagle, if what I have now written meets with any approbation from its readers.