at by anybody else, has thrust this strange
episode into the heart of a poem, fraught wilh
the richest gems of thought and diction.

"Villain! Dolt! Knave! Rascal! Donkey!
Scoundrel! Ruffian! Booby!" commences, with
comparative mildness, the E. S.

"Dunghill! Coward! Dunce! Rapscallion!
Vagabond! Beast! Goose! Thief!" retorts the
D.A.

"Swindler! Liar! Jolthead! Bully! Craven!
Miscreant! Sot! Quack! Rebel!" pants his
opponent.

"Pighead! Carrion! Cutpurse! Drunkard!
Brawler! Mountebank! Cheat! Bravo!
Vermin! Snip! Bull-beggar!" returns his learned
brother.

"Tosspot! Pimp! Clown! Rat! Felon!
Mooncalf! Noodle!"

This is pretty well, yet are these phrases but
common tongue cuffs, after all. The first speaker
dives into the recesses of the language.

"Gulligut! Boor! Filthard! Bardash!
Royster! Druggel! Lubbard! Lout! Calf-lolly!
Fox! Raggard!" are the gems he brings up.

Antagonist makes a deeper dive, and reappears
with, "Nincompoop! Lusk! Bilkslop! Jobbernol!
Lobcock! Oaf! Grub! Pigface! Wittol!
Botch! Slubberdegullion!"

At which point the bench very properly
interposed.

Pass we into a politer atmosphere. There
remains one other species of name-calling which
is open to cavil. I allude, Miss Capulet, to
that description of name or title which seems
to imply power, grandeur, or distinction, and
may really mean no such thing. Permit me at
least to know what I am worshipping. If I
chat with a duke, I think I would rather know
he is a duke. I like dukes. By far the greater
part of the dukes with whom I am on terms of
intimacy are amazingly good fellows. There is
no mistake about them. Of what, however,
were we talking? Dubious titles, inexpressive
official distinctions, and the like. Do you know,
for instance, what is a Woodward, a Verderer,
a Regarder? Of course not: any more than
you could explain the terms " Stablestand,"
"Dogdraw," " Backbear," and " Bloodyhand,"
which several aspects of poaching passed into
oblivion with the forest craft which produced
the Woodward. These had meanings once, but
they and their significance are gone. Why,
however, should we perpetuate names that have
not, and never had, a meaning at all or, if
they have, leave it in obscurity?

That extraordinary appointment, in the gift of
the Crown, the stewardship of the Chiltern
Hundreds, an office which has the additional
peculiarity of being perpetually accepted, and in
no instance resigned, is a case in point. What
are this steward's duties? Where and when
does he perform them?

Take again, for example, the groomship of
the Stole. What is the Stole? Bad grammar
only? Something or somebody embezzled, or
misappropriated, diverted from public uses?
Why does it need grooming? And, further,
why do we, the public, provide the currycomb
wherewith this well-paid groom grooms what is
stolen or " stole" from ourselves? Imagine a
gentleman, who has bolted with your cob, sending
in his bill for six months' care and keep!

Once more. Clerk to the Stannaries. Who
upon earth are the Stannaries? and why the
definite article? Is it a family? There is a
friendly and familiar accent in the name that
favours this conjecture. Yet I don't know any
subject that has caused me more anxious speculation.
But for the casual remark of a young
Cornish friend of mine, who said, in his careless
way, that it had something to do with tin, I
should not have known that enormous wealth
compelled this fortunate family to employ a
clerk. Yet, why should it be regarded in the
light of a public office? What did old Stannary
do, that his private revenues should be so
jealously guarded by the State, to the extent of
appointing their own oflacer to look after them?

Again, Miss Capulet—— But here's
Montague! I take my leave.

OLD, NEW, AND NO MUSIC.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I. A GERMAN FESTIVAL.

IT may be worth while—for those, at least,
who do not share Swift's contempt for "the
fiddlers" and their "fine stuff," but rather
nourish their sympathies for a beautiful art,
under the more genial sanction of a Shakespeare
or a Milton—to stand still for a moment, and
attempt to form some idea as to what England's
gains in the matter of music have been during
the past quarter of a century. This can hardly be
accomplished without illustrating by comparison.
If comparison show loss on the part of other
countries, the result gives no ground for the
vulgarities of personal triumph, howbeit it may
point out sunken rocks we should do well to
avoid—paths not to be entered without the
certainty of fatigue, loss of patience, and loss of
strength. The writer was, not long ago, driven
on such a retrospect—on such expedients for
testing progress—by a couple of striking
experiences, which occurred within the compass
of three weeks: the experiences of a German
and of an English musical festival.

When the writer began to frequent meetings of
the kind—more than a quarter of a century since
—two of the great schools of European art had
little, if at all, passed their prime. Italy's
greatest operatic composer—Signor Rossini—
had only just ceased to produce, and the works of
Donizetti and Bellini (both in full activity) were
all but unknown to our public. Great singers
crossed the Alps to us from Milan, and Venice,
and Naples. Matters were in an even more
satisfactory state in Germany, regarding the art
and literature of which country English admiration
then stood at its highest point. Beethoven
had not long passed away, leaving a treasury of
his music complete and incomplete still to be
unsealed for us. Weber was carrying England