exists even to this day. It has been honestly
believed, by some among its promoters (as
sympathetic with our art as Soult), that players
competent to their tasks might be hatched by
some rapid artificial process of incubation,
analogous to that of the ECCALEOBION (is the spelling
right?) which some years ago figured among the
sights of Leicester-square, and which (during its
little shining hour) was more productive of curiosity,
of newspaper paragraphs, than of real
practical poultry! The certificates which have
streamed forth from the gates of Kneller Hall—
assuring unmusical colonels and deaf generals
(perhaps able to hear the drum only) that A, B,
C, D, and so on to the end of the alphabet, were
competent to every duty which musical England
might expect every military musical man to do—
after a few months' ripening in the harmonious
oven—are, we are informed, astounding in their
number. Somehow, nevertheless, our bands have
of late grown worse, not better; — the truth
being (a hard morsel for unmusical field-officers
to swallow) that there is no such thing possible
as the education of an instrumental musician—
cheap to the edge of pauperism as regards pay
of the professors, and sudden in the full-fledged
results expected from it. Hard fingers knotted
by toil, lazy ones enervated by poor living,
cannot be quickened up within the compass of
a few months. A lip for the flute, a mouth for
the horn, a breath for the trombone, cannot be
commanded by regulation or contract, even as
have been commanded, in our high places, coats
that have fitted nobody, shoes that have pinched
every occupant's corns, and stocks that have
half-strangled more throats than they have
supported. One distinction is worth, once again,
insisting on. A chorus-singer, with a voice, can
soon learn to read music, and then his field is
fairly won; whereas no magic, no Eccaleobion,
can turn out, at a few months' or weeks' warning,
any competent squadron, any supportable
squadron of fifers, or "warbling buglers" (as
our Laureate hath it), or court cavalry
trumpeters who sit caparisoned in their gold-laced
coats on their "prancing music-stools" — to
quote from Vanity Fair — those royal cream-
coloured chargers of theirs — still less, complete
and ripe players on less whistling and blatant
instruments; without whose permanent establishment,
constant rehearsal, and thorough musical
intelligence, no military band is worth its pay,
or even its beer.

Thus, it has seemed wise and becoming to
some critics in scarlet, and others out of scarlet—
to some who are as violent as Field-Marshal
Boanerges (who is nothing when not thundering)
—to others who are as meek as the great
glowing professional advocates of peace, and
denouncers of any army, and of any navy,—who
nevertheless wink at and hound on a holy war
whensoever the same shall suit their purpose of
philanthropic agitation—that if Britain's army,
which "never will be slaves," is to have music,
such music should be good music, not to be
shamed by comparison with the music of our
national allies, or natural enemies;—that the same
should not be left to the care merely of amateur
colonels and acquiescing adjutants; — that the
artists who preside over it should be competent,
and, as such, adequately rewarded, rationally
promoted with some position (as regards army
and art also) ;— that the players who are to
"play up" to the life, energy, and courage of the
British soldier, and to regale the British officer
in his hours of leisure, should enjoy some decent
recompense for labours so hard as theirs, beyond
the power of caprice to disturb ; and some such
consideration in a world necessarily arranged
and kept alive by the mechanism of ranks and
distinctions, as falls (or should fall) to the lot of
every functionary who therein does his duty.

THE ROLL OF MUSIC.

"LEAVING us, Captain Yates, and so soon?
How very much we shall miss you. And I, who
had counted on you as one of my knights during
the winter! You must own that you are a sad
truant!" said the old princess, with a kind
smile. Though why she should wonder that
a Queen's messenger like myself should get
the route from St. Petersburg, it would have
been hard to guess. The wonder was, rather, that
I should have been kept dangling so long about
the embassy, under orders to report myself
every morning, but my own master as to the
disposal of my superfluous time. It was summer,
and the Russian capital was as empty as a
capital ever is, but I had met with a good deal
of hospitable attention. And now, under orders
to start for Vienna with important despatches, I
was paying a hasty round of farewell visits.

Although I had been often in St. Petersburg
before, I had only of late been introduced to the
Princess Anna Sobieski, widow of a Polish noble,
who had represented a junior branch of that great
historic race which has given kings and martyrs
to Poland. The old lady — whose large landed
possessions, bequeathed by her husband, had
procured her the dubious compliment of an
imperial command to reside in the metropolis—had
treated me with much kindness, and my first
call, when the order to depart arrived, was to
the Sobieski palace.

I forget what I said, but the conversation
rolled on in the usual common-place strain of
French compliment, until the princess inquired
if I should make any stay at Warsaw? If so,
perhaps I would do a kind turn to an old
woman who had few opportunities of communicating
with her native country. It was nothing
—a mere toy — a bagatelle not worth the attention
of a State messenger like ce cher capitaine,
who carried papers the contents of which
might convulse Europe—but, but would I take
charge of a roll of manuscript music,
produced by a gifted German composer in the
capital, and which her dear niece, enthusiastic
about music as all Poles were, was dying to
receive? Still it was a precious charge, being a
loan, since the composer declined to publish it,
and on that account it could not be entrusted to