, having pipes for the upper notes, and metal reeds for the
bass. The effect is a succession of sudden hoarse brays as an
accompaniment to a soft melody, suggesting the idea of a duet between
Titania and Bottom. But this is far from the worst of it. The
profession of hand-organist having of late years miserably declined,
being in fact at present the next grade above mendicancy, the element
of cheapness has, per force, been studied in the manufacture of the
instrument. The barrels of some are so villainously pricked that the
time is altogether broken, the ear is assailed with a minim in the
place of a quaver, and _vice versa_--and occasionally, as a matter of
convenience, a bar is left out, or even one is repeated, in utter
disregard of suffering humanity. But what is worse still, these metal
reeds, which are the most untunable things in the whole range of
sound-producing material, are constantly, from contact with fog and
moisture, getting out of order; and howl dolorously as they will in
token of their ailments, their half-starved guardian, who will grind
half an hour for a penny, cannot afford to medicate their pains, even
if he is aware of them, which, judging from his placid composure
during the most infamous combination of discords, is very much to be
questioned.[1]

2. The monkey-organist is generally a native of Switzerland or the
Tyrol. He carries a worn-out, doctored, and flannel-swathed
instrument, under the weight of which, being but a youth, or very
rarely an adult, he staggers slowly along, with outstretched back and
bended knees. On the top of his old organ sits a monkey, or sometimes
a marmoset, to whose queer face and queerer tricks, he trusts for
compensating the defective quality of his music. He dresses his
shivering brute in a red jacket and a cloth cap; and, when he can, he
teaches him to grind the organ, to the music of which he will himself
dance wearily. He wears an everlasting smile upon his countenance,
indicative of humour, natural and not assumed for the occasion: and
though he invariably unites the profession of a beggar with that of
monkey-master and musician, he has evidently no faith in a melancholy
face, and does not think it absolutely necessary to make you
thoroughly miserable in order to excite your charity. He will leave
his monkey grinding away on a door-step, and follow you with a
grinning face for a hundred yards or more, singing in a kind of
recitative: 'Date qualche cosa, signe