ROOM IN THE INN. 73 



caws, croaks, mews, brays and caterwaulings ; 

 but not of music, Bill not of those charmed intri- 

 cacies of sound those tones that soothe, and some- 

 times agonize those avulsions from angel voices, 

 flung in among the fractured tongues at Babel's 

 tower ; not of these, Bill ? 



May. Mayhap of these, Doctor, I can discourse 

 to thee on the soul of the matter ; but it is heavy 

 and hackneyed to talk of crotchets and semibreves, 

 as do your catgut men and the small school-girls of 

 the day. There is no cunning in the modern science 

 of music, more than in our modern poetry. It hath 

 lost its Memnonian magic ; 'tis fallen and tricked 

 out with harlotry. What was chaste, energetic, and 

 solemn, has become tainted, feeble, redundant, and 

 grotesque. It runs not in its natural channel, but 

 is cooped up within angular sluice-beds, and marred 

 by the introduction of ill-judged embellishments. 

 'Tis music only to the depraved ear and the unfeel- 

 ing heart. What are the songs of Italy, sung as 

 they are by the donnas of the scenic board, but a 

 replication of squalls and quavers, infinitely more 

 annoying than the gibberish of crones and the 

 yelling of jackals ? 



Swivel Good, Bill ; thou art right, though har- 

 pies thrust a bodkin through thy tongue. I am in 

 humour to love thee for this heterodoxy of thine. 

 'Tis sheer diablerie our modern music diablerie 



and madness. Fiddlers, pianists, flutists, harpers, 



6 



