anied her through a few liquorish airs, vows his tender passion,
brings her the last new song, and at length swears to be her
accompaniment throughout life. The piano is then locked up, the music
sent to Bath or _Canterbury_, and the lady is married and cannot sing.

But the Greek poets sang their own verses: "Homer literally _sang_ the
wrath of Achilles, and the woes of Greece;" would it were so in England.
Then, my poetical public, we should have Anacreon Moore singing his
"Rich and rare were the gems she wore," in some such place as the
Quadrant, or Opera Colonnade; and Sir Walter Scott celebrating the Field
of Waterloo, not in the broad-margined octavos of Paternoster-row, but
about the purlieus of the Horse Guards. Wordsworth would be his own
Skylark. The laureate, Southey, would perch himself on the dome of the
New Palace. Campbell would step out of New Burlingtonstreet into the
Park; Miss Mitford would keep a Covent-Garden audience awake with her
own tragedies, and Planche would no longer entrust his rhymes to Paton
or Vestris. On the other hand, Braham would no longer be indebted to
Moore for his songs, Bishop would write, compose, and sing his own
operas, and all our vocalists enter, like Dryden's king and two
fiddlers, _solus_!

Could we but once become a musical people, we should no longer marvel at
the effect of music in ancient times; for who knows but that if an
Englishman were to play like Orpheus, the River Thames might cease to
flow; the disposal of Mr. Cross's menagerie be no longer a question,
since the animals might be allowed to ramble about the Strand; and
Snowdon or Cader Idris journey to the King's Theatre to listen to his
inspirations.

It is, however, impossible to calculate the benefits which this
acquisition of musical skill might prove to the English people. What
bloodshed and tribulation it would prevent. Weare, or Maria Marten, like
Stradella, might have disarmed their assassins; the Insolvent Act would
be obsolete, and duns defeated; since hundreds of improvident wights,
like Palma, might, by their strains, soften the hearts of their
creditors, and draw tears from sheriff's officers. Chancery-lane would
be depopulated, and Cursitor-street be left to the fowls of the air;
locks would fall 50 per cent, and Mr. Bramah might betake himself to Van
Dieman's Land. What a pleasant thing would a public dinner be; for,
instead of a gentleman in a dress coat singing as from the orchestra of
an or