384 CONFESSIONS OF A MUSIC-HATER. 



in the world like it. I find him at the tip-top of a pair of sonorous 

 lungs practising a speech for a trial at Nisi Prius ? No, practising 

 an oration for a Political Union ? No no practising what, think 

 you ? 



" There she lay 



All the day, 

 In the Bay of Biscay, oh !" 



I ask a question 'tis about a matter in which I am much interested. 

 Instead, however, of stemming the tide of song, I make matters fifty 

 times worse. The only answer I get is, 



" A sail, a sail !" 



My vocal friend at the same time throwing his muscular frame, which 

 is at least six feet in altitude, into the position of Braham, and looking 

 as if he actually saw a tall frigate on the opposite shelf, amongst the 

 Reports and Statutes. I try politics ; it is the same thing 



" A sail, a sail ! 

 A sail, a sail appears !" 



I try literature, shooting, the weather, my new coat, which being a 

 rarity, I expect will command prompt attention. All in vain : that in- 

 fernal chaunt is the only reply I can extract, and this continues until the 

 executioner's that is the performer's lungs are exhausted, or I am 

 forced by business to leave him, the object of my call unattained, and 

 without a single syllable of rational, christian-like conversation. Fre- 

 quently when I am more than a hundred yards from the house, mutter- 

 ing deep curses on songs and songsters, I still hear, " mellowed by 

 distance," the same horrid sounds 



" A sail, a sail." 



I then clap my fingers into my ears, and run as if for my life, de- 

 termining, with an awful imprecation, to pay no more visits to a 

 practising barrister. 



Another, and I have done. I took a second floor in John-street, 

 Adelphi. The first time I slept there I was disturbed in the morning 

 by what seemed to my horrified imagination the screaming of ten thou- 

 sand charity children ? Upon inquiry, I found that I had pitched my 

 tent exactly opposite that of Mr. Hawes, the master of the singing boys 

 at the Chapel Royal, who gave his neighbours a similar treat every 

 morning before breakfast ! Well, I had scarcely recovered from that, 

 and was seated comfortably at my morning meal, when my ears were 

 regaled with the vibration of an accursed piano-forte, accompanied by a 

 screaming that might have set the last trump at defiance. I inquired 

 again, and found the first floor was occupied by Mr. John Barnett, the 

 musical director at Madame Vestris's theatre, who practised his profes- 

 sional pupils every day from eleven till three. 



This is not all. Four o'clock had scarcely arrived, when I verily 

 believe all the vagabond bands in London began to congregate in the 

 street, to regale the country visitors at Osborn's Hotel with their most 

 sweet harmony. Bagpipes, panspipes, and pipes of all descriptions were 

 there. Every instrument of name, sound, and torture, from a German 

 flute to a penny whistle, choked the highway ! 



Wrought into a phrenzy I rushed from the house, and have taken 

 lodgings at the top of the shot tower, across Waterloo Bridge. I shall 

 have no music there, or the devil's in it. 



