Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing,
The breathing Instrument inspire!
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre.

But what does Mr. Bass, who is a brewer, say?
Why, he says, "Take the Nine up, and lock
them in the' station-house." This is the
difference between an age of poetry and barrel-
organs, an age of bitter ale and beer-barrels.

I am fond of music myself, and I am a friend
of liberty and oppressed and picturesque peoples.
When I picture those poor but honest Savoyards,
countrymen of Alfieri and Dante, leaving the
sunny plains of fair Italy, bidding farewell to
the fruitful fig-tree and the clustering vine,
forsaking country, home, and friends, to go forth
as missionaries of the divine art of music to the
cold and inhospitable shores of the sunless
north—when I call up this vision of heroic
devotion in my mind's eye, and see Guiseppe and
Giovanni scaling the Alpine heights in very
indifferent shoes, but with fervour in their eyes
and "Excelsior" on their banners, I am moved
to the deepest sympathy and admiration.
Welcome Guiseppe, welcome Giovanni! Welcome
to England and Saffron-hill! He who does not
love the organ-man has no bowels for humanity,
no taste for music, no soul for poetry. The man
himself is a man and a brother; and as to his
instrument, what sings the poet, the same who
bade the Nine descend?

When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear,
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from Heaven to hear.

Yet there are people in the world who would
put down the organs, who would hand over the
discoursers of sweet music to the tender mercies
of rude and ruthless policemen, fellows with
souls for nothing but cook-maids, and tastes for
nothing but cold mutton. In view of the
immortal powers inclining their ears, and the angels
leaning out of the windows of Heaven to hear,
I can only say,

The gods have pity where mankind have none.

If you are going to put down everything, and
do away with everything in this way, I want to
know what a gentleman of independent property
like myself is to do? How am I to be amused
during the long hours of the day when there is
nothing doing in the Haymarket? As I said
before, you have left me nothing to be at; you
won't let me aid and abet a fight; you forbid
me to match my dog or my game cocks; and
now you are going to deprive me of my barrel-
organ, that sweet box of tunes, which comes,
as I lie on the sofa smoking my cigar, to soothe
me with Il Balen, and The Young Man from the
Country, and the Dark Girl dressed in Blue.
Oh, how I love that dark girl dressed in blue!
I have never seen her, but music has painted
all her charms, and I know that she is a smart
young girl, a tall young girl, a nice young girl,
and a dark young girl. All this in a flowing
blue skirt. What a picture! It ravishes my
soul! I send out a shilling to poor Giovanni,
and bid him play it over again and again.

There are two lady patronesses of Giovanni's
a few doors down on the other side of the way.
Charming girls they are, with pink cheeks and
frizzy hair, and nearly always sitting out in the
balcony in low dresses. I fancy they are
orphans, poor things, for I never see any one at
the window who looks like a parent. They are
passionately fond of music, and keep the organmen
playing to them for hours, and always pay
them well; for I am happy to say that, though
orphans, they appear to be well off, and go out
in a brougham. There is another ardent lover
of music at number one, an old gentleman who
had a fortune left him on condition that he
drove out every day in a coach-and-four. He
has an organ to play to him at all his meals, and
when the painter fellow, at number two, runs
out with a maulstick in his hand to drive the
musician away, the old gentleman has him into
the garden, and makes him play there. There
is another cantankerous man near me, who is
always rushing out at the poor fellows and
setting the police upon them. I don't know who
he is; but he sits at a window all day long
writing, and appears to work for his living. A
pretty thing! if independent persons like
myself, and the old gentleman, and the two pretty
ladies, are to be deprived of our pleasure to suit
the whims and fancies of mere workpeople.
The conceit of the fellows who "study," as
they call it, is perfectly ridiculous. They
think that the world cannot go on without
them; that what they do is everything, and
that everybody else ought to be hushed down
and silenced. Just listen to Mr. Babbage, who
calls himself a philosopher:* "During the last
ten years the amount of street music has so
greatly increased, that it is now become a positive
nuisance to a very considerable portion of
the inhabitants of London. It robs the
industrious man of his time; it annoys the musical
man by its intolerable badness; it irritates the
invalid, deprives the patient, who at great
inconvenience has visited London for the best
medical advice, of that repose which, under such
circumstances, is essential to his recovery, and
it destroys the time and the energies of all the
intellectual classes of society by its continual
interruptions of their pursuits." This is rather
a sweeping charge; let us see how he proves it.
The instruments of torture—torture, indeed!—
permitted by the government to be in daily and
nightly use in the streets of London are thus
enumerated: organs, brass bands, fiddles, harps,
harpsichords, hurdy-gurdies, flageolets, drums,
bagpipes—the delightful soul-inspiring bagpipes!—
accordions, halfpenny whistles, tomtoms,
trumpets, and the human voice divine,
shouting out objects for sale, and in religious
canting, and psalm-singing. The encouragers of
street music are tavern-keepers, public-houses,

* A Chapter on Street Nuisances, by Charles
Babbage, Esq.