ort must be made
to break the spell, and that the best thing is some music to set them
a-talking. Some _mimini-pimini_ Miss is in consequence selected as the
victim, (or rather, the victimizer,) and requested to "pain" the
company. She fidgets, bridles, and duly declines, at the same time
vigorously pulling off one of her gloves in evident preparation for the
attack. After much pressing, she reluctantly yields to what she had from
the first made up her mind to do; takes her seat at a grand pianoforte,
behind a couple of candles and an enormous music-book, and--crash go the
keys in a thundering prelude, (the pedal, and every other means of
increasing the noise being unscrupulously resorted to,) which, after
superhuman exertions, lands her in what, to our affrighted and stunned
ears, is evidently the key of Z flat! Who would have thought those
delicate hands could thus descend with the vigour of a pavior's hammer
on the unhappy ivories, that groan and shriek beneath the infliction, as
though fully sensible of the surpassing cruelty with which they are
treated.

But hark! she sings--"Rome, Rome, thou art _n'more_," (_sic_)--a furious
scramble on the keys, with a concluding bang--"On thy seven hills thou
satt'st of yore,"--another still more desperate and discordant flourish,
which continues alternating with her "most sweet voice," till she has
piped through the whole of her song: when the group around, apprehensive
of a repetition of the torture to which they have been subjected,
overwhelm her with thanks and expressions of admiration, under cover of
which they hurry her to her seat. Such is the stuff palmed off on us,
varied as it is by glees, screamed out by four voices all in different
keys; solos, squeaked out by stout gentlemen, and roared by pale lanky
lads of eighteen; duets by young ladies, who accidentally set out on
discordant notes, and don't find out the mistake till they come to the
finale; with occasionally a psalm crooned by worthy sexagenarians,
guiltless alike of ear and voice, but who, seeming to think it a duty to
add their mite to the inexpressible dissonance, perform the same to the
unmixed dismay of all their hearers.

We would far rather hear an unpretending street organ than such
abominations; and, indeed, some of the itinerant music is, to our
unsophisticated ears, sweet beyond expression, especially when
accompanied, as it is sometimes, by a rich Italian or reedy German
voice; for whose sake we