It was a droll scene: the sly black-smith in a profound fox’s sleep – the declaimer pretending to be asleep, and wide awake all the time and the thin, long-faced American, too wise to betray his colleagues, but evidently annoyed beyond measure at the trick they had played him.

I once went to hear a lecture at the Mechanics’ Institute, delivered by a very eccentric person, who styled himself the Hon. James Spencer Lidstone – the Great Orator of the West. My astonishment may be guessed better than described, when he gave out for the subject of his lecture –“Great women, from Eve down to Mrs. M—.” Not wishing to make myself a laughing-stock to a pretty numerous audience, I left the room. Going up the street next morning, a venerable white-haired old man ran after me, and pulling me by the shawl, said, “Mrs. M—, why did you leave us last night? He did you justice – indeed he did. You should have stayed and heard all the fine things he said of you.”

Besides scientific lecturers, Canada is visited by singers and musicians of every country, and of every age and sex – from the celebrated Jenny Lind, and the once celebrated Braham, down to pretenders who can neither sing nor play, worth paying a York shilling to hear. Some of these wandering musicians play with considerable skill, and are persons of talent. Their life is one of strange vicissitudes and adventure, and they have an opportunity of making the acquaintance of many odd characters. In illustration of this, I will give you a few of the trials of a travelling musician, which I took down from the dictation of a young friend, since dead, who earned a precarious living by his profession. He had the faculty of telling his adventures without the power of committing them to paper; and, from the simplicity and truthfulness of his character, I have no doubt of the variety of all the amusing anecdotes he told. But he shall speak for himself in the next chapter.

A MAY-DAY CAROL.

“There’s not a little bird that wings
    Its airy flight on high,
In forest bowers, that sweetly sings
    So blithe in spring as I.
I love the fields, the budding flowers,
    The trees and gushing streams;
I bathe my brow in balmy showers,
    And bask in sunny beams.

“The wanton wind that fans my cheek,
    In fancy has a voice,
In thrilling tones that gently speak –
    Rejoice with me, rejoice!
The bursting of the ocean-floods,
    The silver tinkling rills,
The whispering of the waving woods,
    My inmost bosom fills.

“The moss for me a carpet weaves
    Of patterns rich and care;
And meekly through her sheltering leaves
    The violet nestles there.
The violet! – oh, what tales of love,
    Of youth’s sweet spring are thine!
And lovers still in field and grove,
    Of thee will chaplets twine.

“Mine are the treasures Nature strews
    With lavish hand around;
My precious gems are sparkling dews,
    My wealth the verdant ground.
Mine are the songs that freely gush
    From hedge, and bush, and tree;
The soaring lark and speckled thrush
    Discourse rich melody.

“A cloud comes floating o’er the sun,
    The woods’ green glories fade;
But hark! the blackbird has begun
    His wild lay in the shade.
He hails with joy the threaten’d shower,
    And plumes his glossy wing;
While pattering on his leafy bower,
    I hear the big drops ring.

“Slowly at first, but quicker now,
    The rushing rain descends;
And to each spray and leafy bough
    A crown of diamonds lends.
Oh, what a splendid sight appears!
    The sun bursts forth again;
And, smiling through sweet Nature’s tears,
    Lights up the hill and plain.

“And tears are trembling in my eyes,
    Tears of intense delight:
Whilst gazing upward to the skies,
    My heart o’erflows my sight.
Great God of nature! may thy grace
    Pervade my inmost soul;
And in her beauties may I trace
    The love that form’d the whole!”

TRIALS OF A TRAVELLING MUSICIAN

“The man that hath not music in his soul.”

I will say no more. The quotation, though but too true, is too well known; but it will serve as the best illustration I can give to the various annoyances which beset the path of him who is musically inclined, and whose soul is in unison with sweet sounds. This was my case. I loved music with all my heart and soul, and in order to give myself wholly up to my passion, and claim a sort of moral right to enjoy it, I made it a profession.

Few people have a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the world than the travelling musician; yet such is the absorbing nature of his calling, that few make use of it less. His nature is open, easy, and unsuspecting; pleased with his profession, he hopes always to convey the same pleasure to his hearers; and though doubts will sometimes cross his mind, and the fear of ridicule make him awkward and nervous, yet, upon the whole, he is generally sure of making a favourable impression on the simple-hearted and generous among his hearers.

The musician moves among his fellow-men as a sort of privileged person; for who ever suspects him of being a rogue? His first attempt to deceive would defeat its own object, and prove him to be a mere pretender. His hand and voice must answer for his skill, and form the only true test of his abilities. If tuneless and bad, the public will not fail to condemn him.

The adventures of the troubadours of old, if they were more full of sentiment and romance than the every-day occurrences that beset the path of the modern minstrel, were not more replete with odd chances and ludicrous incident. Take the following for an example of the many droll things which have happened to me during my travels.

In the summer of 1846 I was making a professional tour through the United States, and had advertised a concert for the ensuing evening at the small town of —, and was busy making the necessary arrangements, when I was suddenly accosted, as I left the hotel, by a tall, thin, lack-a-daisical looking man, of a most unmusical and unprepossessing appearance: “How-do-ye-do? I’m highly tickled to see you. I s’pose you are going to give an extra sing here ain’t you?”

“Yes; I intend giving a concert here this evening.”

“Hem! How much dew you ax to come in? That is – I want to say – what are you goin’ to chearge a ticket?”

“Half a dollar – the usual price.”

“How?” inclining his ear towards me, as if he doubted the soundness of the organ.

“Half a dollar?” repeated I, carelessly.

“Tis tew much. You had better chearge twenty-five cents. If you dew, you’ll have a pretty good house. If you make it twelve and a half cents, you’ll have a smasher. If, mister, you’ll lower that agin to six and a quarter cents, you’ll have to take a field, – there ain’t a house would hold ‘em.” After a pause, scratching his head, and shuffling with his feet, “I s’pose you ginnerally give the profession tickets?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m a leetle in your line myself. Although I’m a shoemaker by trade, I leads the first Presbyterian choir upon the hill. I should like to have you come up, if you stay long enough.”

“As that is the case, perhaps you can tell me if I am likely to have a good house to-night?”

“I kind a reckon as how you will; that is, if you don’t chearge tew much.”

“Where shall I get the best room?”

“Well, I guess, you had better try the old meetin’ house.”

“Thank you. Allow me, sir, to present you with a ticket.” I now thought that I had got rid of him, and amply paid him for the information I had received. The ticket was for a single admission. He took it, turned it slowly round, held it close to his eyes, spelt it carefully over, and then stared at me. “What next?” thought I.

“There’s my wife.