well-informed, and with a manner beyond courtesy: this in some sort prepared me for more than I had yet seen in the son. As soon as the cloth was taken away, I begged for potheen: I had learned to like it hugely. Believe me, Ainsworth, it is, as Tom Moore says of the melody of "Love's Young Dream," one of those easy, artless strangers, which recommends itself to your affections on a slight acquaintance. A square bottle, that might have held a couple of quarts of the mountain-dew, was produced, and a kettle, that might have cut a respectable figure in the heroic ages, was set upon the hob, giving forth a music which, in the south of Ireland, is quite as animating a prelude to good-humour and to glee as the glu-glu de flacons, in the South of France. "And so we fell a drinking!" And I had leisure to look about the room. There was neither picture nor mirror; but there was a well-filled bookcase, in which a man might see the true importraitures of the famous that had lived, and learn to know himself, which is better than looking on the reflection of his countenance. The thought crossed my mind at the time, and I have therefore here recorded it. Over the mantel-shelf there was a Spanish gun, with a barrel inlaid with gold, and a stock most richly ornamented; and on a table I observed a backgammon-box and a fiddle-case. I soon put Charley's musical powers in requisition, and found he was a most accomplished performer. Rarely have I been so much delighted by any instrumental performance. He played with infinite truthfulness and feeling; and then, for the first time, I heard many an Irish melody of the most exquisite character, which is not to be met with in the collections of Moore or Bunting. He left me for a short time, to see the horses fed. This gave me the opportunity of examining his little library. It consisted exclusively of old books. Among them were many of my favourite authors, in the original tongues, and of the best editions. There was Homer, Demosthenes, Herodotus, Virgil, Cicero, Tacitus,-in short, all the best Greek and Roman poets, orators, historians, and philosophers; Rabelais, Molière, Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, Rousseau, and many others; Don Quixote, Quevedo, Berner's Froissart, most of our old chronicles, North's Plutarch, Florio's Montaigne, Davis's Tracts on Ireland, and a number of other historical works of ancient date relating to Ireland, Spenser's Works, the folio Shakspere, and Johnson and Steevens's edition. When he came back, I hastened to turn the conversation to the "dead kings of memory," and he entered on it, nothing loth. His erudition was surprising: it was not alone that he had read much, but he had thought also, long and deeply, on all he read. He had in truth, after receiving the rudiments of an excellent education in his youth, ripened by foreign travel, gone on, for a quarter of a century, with his august companions, -exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year." Our talk chiefly turned on Shakspere's dramas, and he opened to me floods of light upon the subject. He had studied his author with love and reverence, and thus in time his spirit became disclosed to him. We pulled down the old folio, enriched with remarks and annotations, which were the fruits of the loving labour of years. We talked over the Macbeth, the Hamlet, and other of the great psychological dramas, and failed not as we went along to consign the heartless or incompetent commentators of Shakspere to several hundred panniers full of devils. We only turned aside from our delightful task for half an hour in the course of the evening, to pay our devotions to a basket-full of pouldoodies, which, by the bye, are to all other oysters what claret is to butter-milk. At last, I sought my pillow, a wiser, though by no means a sadder man. You will easily imagine that this was not my last visit to Charley. Many and many a happy morning I spent with his annotated Shakspere, and many and many a delightful evening with himself. At last I took to enriching a copy of my own with Charley's notes, and with the far more copious illustrations of the poet's works I caught from him in conversation. With time and ardent study I came to add something of my own. I have continued to this day a practice which, in dull or disagreeable quarters, has enabled me to beguile many a tedious hour. And now, in obedience to your earnest request, to try my hand at concocting something by way of a contribution for your new magazine, and finding that the modern rage is all in reference to Shakspere's text, without the slightest regard to elucidating his meaning where it is really difficult or obscured by his commentators, I turn to my beloved volume, which Charley Belvihill taught me to make my grand depositary of thoughts. I prefer endeavouring to extract from it a paper or two for you, to attempting to write commentaries upon campaigns or adventures in foreign parts. There has been too much of that sort of writing amongst us idle militaires of late. Cæsar has not bequeathed his pen to any of us. Indeed, I am inclined to think he spoiled it for all future use in that tussle with his murderers. I can forgive Napier, however, for not being altogether of the same opinion. I betake myself, then, to Shakspere, for your service, and if I should succeed in producing anything worth your notice, let the praise be given where it is due, and that is to my Shaksperian master, Charley Belvihill. I have been minute in describing the man, his abode, my first familiar acquaintance with him, and all about it, that I might, as it were, take you with me, and introduce you to the magician with all his proper advantages and accessories, in his own land, in his own abode, in his own study, with his own books and instruments about him; and if you take my advice, you will get George Cruikshank to transfer my description, perishable as the paper on which it is written, to enduring steel. His congenial mind will comprehend my sketch of Charley Belvihill, so plain, and yet so wise, so jovial in things corporeal, yet so enthusiastic in all matters of intellect, and his eloquent pencil will supply the deficiencies of my poor narration. The world would then have an opportunity of seeing in Charley Belvihill one commentator in his glory, with the-or rather a-"soul of song" on either side of him, (for who would be bold enough to maintain that a tumbler of punch may not, as well as a fiddle, be made to discourse most excellent music,) his author before him, and a judicious friend for audience, to which he may pour forth the words of wisdom; one commentator, I say, on "gentle Will," who had the man's tastes and fancies, who loved his lass and his glass, and the sports of the field, and who had the poet's sympathies with mankind and external nature. Believe me, dear Ainsworth, faithfully yours, CHARLES MOUTRAY. W. HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ. "NEVER!" BY JOHN A. HERAUD. NEVER-oh! never shall the past return, But never shall they cease to be deplored,— Never-oh! never shall the sorrow die That now has made a charnel of my heart! You ask me, what the sorrow that I mourn? STORY-TELLERS AND STREET MUSIC. BY R. B. PEAKE. "La philosophie triomphe aisement des maux passés et des maux à venir, mais les maux presents triomphent d'elle."-ROCHEFOUCAULT. My friend Wrigglesworth is a confirmed story-teller. In the county of which he is a confabulatory ornament, he is as essential to an evening party as the wine, and (I mean no invidious comparison) the cake. Last Christmas, he came to town, and his propensity for elongating a"yarn" was in unusual force. It was one of those events which, from their rarity, may be classed with the appearance of comets, the blooming of aloes, or an honest Jew-videlicit, the termination of a chancery suit, that drew him from his retirement in Cheshire, to this "workshop of the world," London. About a dozen of us were assembled at his rooms, prepared to listen to one of his best stories. The creature comforts were not wanting; and five minutes' reflection kindled a poetic fire: the kettle of inspiration was bubbling o'er, and scarcely had he poured a sublime idea into a second glass, after informing us that his story was entitled "Rival Noses," he assumed an air of considerable importance, as he observed-"I have often wondered, gentlemen, how Madame de Staël could deliberately make up her mind to declare, 'Voyager, c'est un triste plaisir:' for, to me, on the contrary, and I believe to most reasonable people, travelling is productive of exquisite delight: and is certainly more in harmony with the laws of nature than sitting still, while the globe, of which we are a part, is in rapid revolution." Apropos of revolution, at this very moment, as ill-luck would have it, an instrument which, to use the words of Shakspeare, sounds like "a brazen candlestick 'gainst a wheel," assailed his sensitive ears. He rushed to the window, and, to his mortification, beheld one of those banes of London tranquillity, an Italian organ-grinder. These ingenious foreigners, not contented with monopolizing the grinding business of all London and its vicinities, have also had their barrels so arranged, as to suit the taste of the British public, (benevolent feeling!) no sprightly foreign waltz, quadrille, or march being included—but "the 104th Psalm," "the College Hornpipe," and an interminable Scotch reel, with flats ad libitum, are played ad nauseatum. If an instance were wanted to prove that there is an utter want of taste for music in the lower orders of this country, the above selection must effect it. Dominico is playing to half a dozen squalid-looking children, progeny to a publican, to whose house (the sign of the Goat and Compasses) you are opposite, and a young gentleman, whose usual occupation is that of opening oysters, and who imagines the shells to be an excellent substitute for castanets, begins to dance the "College Hornpipe," sounding one of those expressive lines "With my right arm so, and around I go." There was a pause. "Jenny Jones," "Rory O'More," and the accursed hornpipe, are silent. A shilling from Wrigglesworth has done the business, and outbidden the fat landlady of the Goat and Compasses. My friend Wrigglesworth pulled down the blind, and, assuming a pensive attitude, hand on forehead, returned to his arm-chair again. He looked as though in the Vale of Tempe! The yellow sun setting behind Olympus, and tinting with burnished gold the laurel-banked Peneus ! He then resumed: "In the autumn of last year I made a flying tour through Germany,-that is, I got as rapidly over the ground en chaise de poste as four wheels and sixteen legs could carry me, and, on the afternoon of a day more than commonly clear and beautiful, I arrived at Wildbad just as the sun was beginning to decline over the Schwartzwald mountains. Thoughts of good cheer, made the more desirable by reason of a two-fold appetite, occupied me while rattling along the suburbs, but, on turning into the street near the Konig Platz, my senses were completely dazzled by as matchless a piece of humanity as ever bore the name of 'woman." "She partly rested on the stone balcony of an antique mansion-was about nineteen years of age; almost tall, finely rounded, with dark auburn hair, shadowing features deliciously chiselled, and glowing with love and happiness. Within the room, stood with his arms folded, and in military costume, a young man of noble bearing, whose eyes were directed towards her, and to whom she occasionally addressed herself. "My head was thrust out of the carriage-window, and I gazed entranced upon that divine object, until the envious turning of another corner shut her abruptly from my sight. "I had fortunately two or three more streets to be jogged over, which served to modify my admiration, and to remind me that I had not broken my fast since the morning; and, therefore, on arriving at 'mine inn,' my first, and, of course, most rational demand, was for the bill of fare. To cut this matter short, I feasted somewhat voraciously, nor did I forget the landlord's Ausbruch Tokay, or the landlord himself, who favoured me with his company at my particular request. He was a jovial, pleasant fellow, and as good as an Arab at storytelling. "The lady of whom you inquire," said he-Wrigglesworth, had proceeded so far, when lo! the blast of a trombone, which outswelled puffed Aquilon, and formed part of a brass band, once more aroused him from his poetic dream. "Gracious powers!" exclaimed Wrigglesworth, "why will you thus persecute one, whose only crime is devotion to the Muses? Why, Orpheus, art thou unfriendly? They say thy lute was strung with poets' sinews-will not those suffice, but thou must needs turn their brains? From whence can these execrable musicians spring? Ah! that shake, out of all tune and time, on the Kent buglewhere was that shake acquired? Why, on board a Greenwich steamboat, and no great shakes neither!" Tranquillity once more-story resumed. "The lady of whom you inquire," said the landlord, "is the wife of a colonel in the army of Prussia, named Eckerlin, and is considered the most beautiful woman of which that country can boast; but her husband well deserves such a prize, for it was by no common stratagem that he obtained her." "Indeed!" said I, "How?" "By a NOSE!" replied mine host, "as you shall presently learn." A brief interruption at this point, from one of the tribe whose badge is that kind of sufferance inflicted by a huge bag, and whose cry of "Old Clo!" is so exquisitely nasal, is all we have to record. Petticoat Lane out of hearing, our story went on. "The lady's maiden name" (observed mine host) "was Julie Ancelot; her father was a stock-broker in Berlin, and one of the millionaires. He loved his daughter passionately, but was determined to have his own way in choosing a husband for her. Now, among other crotchets, he was an enthusiastic admirer of large noses, provided they had a Roman contour, though he freely admitted he had never beheld one of that ultra-prominency which entirely satisfied him. Just at this period, he received a letter from an old schoolfellow, settled in Silesia, who, as an army contractor, had become immensely rich. His name was Herr Schrattenbak, and being desirous of seeing his son settled in life, proposed him as a husband for the Fraulein Julie. There was, however, he frankly observed, one circumstance which might be deemed an objection: between his son's forehead and chin, there was a protuberance far beyond the Roman, or, indeed, any other standard!' The effect of this communication on Herr Necker Ancelot may be imagined: he, with all the precision of a man of business, wrote, by return of post, to say that if Herr Schrattenbak, Junior, arrived on a day specified, exactly at twelve o'clockare at it again. "Rule Britannia" in two arranged the bass of that cursed trombone? drunk; they have been boxing, and now have and) Compasses. They different keys! Who They must all four be come to box the (Goat This is past endurance. In a frenzied state, our friend Wrigglesworth dashes open the window, in the hope of calling a policeman; but, ah! vain, delusive hope!-a policeman when required! When you don't want him, there he is! The brass band still in full play, tearing the galopade in Gustavus to atoms. Rabid with rage, he shuts down the window, and rails against Government, thinking it a shame, (and so it is, after paying one and fourpence in the pound county and police rates, and in advance, too.) Silence! Wrigglesworth takes up the |