sweetness.

There are many more powerful voices, but few more winning. A Royalist song, by Mr. Winn, "Ho, fill me a tankard good, mine host," was clever, and quite uproariously applauded. Donald King was tolerably effective in Dibdin's "Tom Bowling;" but a song composed and sung by that very clever musician, Mr. Hatton, carried off the honours, and was encored: it was called "The Christmas Sleigh Ride." Other vocal pieces would have been given had time allowed, but toasts and compliments absorbed it all. None of the numerous pledges elicited such loud applause as that of "Success for ever to the Ironmongers' Company, root and branch a sentiment to be cordially echoed by every true civic patriot. The continued vitality of the great City companies is of inestimable importance to London itself. Such wealthy corporate bodies are the best supporters of its privileges, the most liberal contributors to its revenues, the surest safeguards of its stability; and what they thus do for the metropolis exercises a most beneficial influence on the whole nation.

By nine o'clock, signs of languor crept over the guests; the music began to sound drowsily; full decanters stopped in their circuit; and as the indefatigable Chairman fired off new toasts, the interest they excited became small, and the plaudits fainter. Diners-out know that after three hours of revelling the coffee is needed, and then the guests whisper one another, "Homeward, ho!" A little before ten, all the company rose with the Master, and adjourned en masse to the drawing-room, where thin bread-and-butter, crisp biscuits, and tea and coffee were served. Several whist tables were in requisition, and when I made my final bow, a dozen or two of gentlemen were engaged in amicable card contests, with a satisfied air, as if they meant to remain at the game until midnight. And thus, thanks to the hospitality of the Worshipful Ironmongers,

I passed some very agreeable hours, carrying home with me recollections of a civic banquet which will not soon be forgotten.

Nor are such receptions desirable merely for the evanescent enjoyment they impart, though to make more than a hundred worthy people innocently happy is highly commendable. But the influence of such friendly meetings is far more lasting. Men of various characters, thus brought together often for the first time, have opportunity afforded to correct misapprehensions and errors of opinion, to cancel prejudices both as to things and persons, founded more on misconception than deliberate intention. Even rivals and antagonists occupying chairs at the same dinner table, softened at first by the courtesies of society, brought into contact unexpectedly with supposed enemies, begin silently to review the points of opposition-the grounds of unfavourable judgment, and to feel that it is possible they may have been wholly wrong. This once admitted, the heart warms under the genial influences of an unsuspicious hour, when petty jealousies are laid aside, when hands rigid and unimpressible for years, gradually warm, and, relenting, slide into opponent hands, giving and receiving hearty shakes where friendship was unknown and positive dislike predominant. In a hard business world, where our constant question in most courses of action is Cui bono? it is a good thing to be surprised into kindness, and to feel open or covert enmity fading away before we can logically find a reason for the change. Very frequently, could we bring even the bitterest foes to the same hospitable board for a few hours, a treaty of peace would be signed before they separated. Such meetings can seldom occur in private, but they are common at public banquets. Sometimes coolness is almost as damaging as estrangement; but if you can bring two agreeable persons unexpectedly in contact, their

old affection will often revive after a long season of interruption. All praise, then, to the excellent Masters and Prime Wardens who so liberally open their noble halls to the uninitiated, while the "wine-cup glistens," with music and song to aid its genial influence, smooth off the acerbities and roughnesses of life, and replace coldness or sternness by cordiality and kindness.

343

STREET MUSIC OF LONDON FIFTY
YEARS SINCE.

If we trace back the retreating shadows on Time's dial for half a century, we shall be landed in the Regency, and in a vastly different state of society from that of 1862. Perhaps the difference would be more observable in the musical tastes of the million than in any other particular. At present we are passionate in our loyalty to Mozart and Beethoven, and even Sebastian Bach: no score can be too elaborate or difficult for us. We soar, in our musical enthusiasm, to the highest regions of harmony; and swear, not by Shield, Horace, and Braham, but by Handel, Mendelssohn, and Meyerbeer. We delight most in songs without words, or, if we tolerate them at all, we choose nonsense verses in preference. Occasionally we give a mite of encouragement to mere English vocalists, but so keen is the fashion for foreign artistes that many of our best native-born singers have thought an outlandish prefix advantageous. Our ears have grown too refined for simple ballads. A Scotch or Irish air, or an old English madrigal (the older the better) is just endurable. A composition from Bennett or Macfarren may be worth hearing once; but your accomplished lover of sweet sounds is never so happy as when regaled with a piece of forty pages by some great maestro, or the marvellous warblings of an

Italian tenor, or the deep tones of a German bass. If this be thought an improvement, supposing the change of taste genuine, we sadly suspect that no small part of the thirst for highly elaborate compositions is mere affectation; and that those who are really pleased when the music paper is black with notes, or almost impossible arias are executed, must be comparatively few. Just notice the faces of our concert-goers during any grand performance, while a favourite scena is sung, or the pianoforte trembles under an inspiration of Hertz or Hummel; how blank and joyless they look! and then wait till Miss Dolby or Miss Pyne sings some tender, natural-toned air, and observe how changed their countenances become; feeling and interest have sprung up, where all was cold and heavy before. Why? Because, in the latter instance, the feelings were addressed; in the former, the judgment only, as deciding from certain scientific deductions. Well, it may be good for us that we are grown a musical people, and, perhaps, the ears of us elders, as they begin to be "stopped with dust," may not be altogether trustworthy; but if the reader spares us a few moments, we will try to give him a sketch of what was called music in London streets from 1805 to 1820.

In those days, for concerts, there was in the whole metropolis only a single large apartment, known as the Hanoversquare Rooms. Oratorios, with the meaning we now attach to them, were unknown. The strange miscellaneous music then performed during Lent, at the patent houses, was generally packed into three parts. The first, consisting of choruses (most imperfectly given) and airs from Handel or Haydn; the two last composed of a queer selection of songs, duets, and trios, chiefly English, but occasionally some sparkling air from Mozart or Rossini. Exceedingly gifted singers took part in these soirées--as John Braham, Mrs. Billington, Signora Storace, Miss

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