defy all laws of musical composition, but which haunt one like a dream
of a lonely night on some wild African river, are said to have been
written by "OLD EMMET." Is there any such person? Has any one actually
seen "OLD EMMET" in the flesh, and with--say a high hat and a cotton
umbrella? For my part I disbelieve in the popular theory of the origin
of these EMMETIC melodies which stir one so strangely. They are not the
work of any earthly song writer, but are born of some untuned Eolian
harp played upon by uncertain breezes, that murmur the memory of
tropical groves and sigh with the sadness of exile. There is no "OLD
EMMET." If there is, let him be brought forward--not to be chucked out
of the window, as Mrs. F.'s AUNT might suggest,--but to be thanked and
wondered at as an inchoate OFFENBACH, who might, under other
circumstances, have written an American opera-bouffe, or, better still,
as a possible CHOPIN, who might have written a second "March Funébre" as
hopeless and desolate and fascinating as that of the despairing and
poetic Pole. (I am coming to "FRITZ" in a moment, but I won't be hurried
by any one.)

As for JOSEPH K. EMMET, he is an undoubted reality. If you don't believe
it, go to WALLACK'S and see him. Somebody discovered this EMMET in the
Pastoral privacy of the Bowery. Mr. GAYLER was made to write a play for
him, and EMMET, the Bowery Minstrel, straightway became Mr. JOSEPH K.
EMMET, the renowned impersonator of "FRITZ." He plays "FRITZ" at
WALLACK'S every evening, and the entertainment is something of this
nature.

ACT I.--_Scene, the outside of Castle Garden. Enter baggage-smashers,
emigrant-runners, aldermen, and other criminals_.

RUNNER. "There's a ship a' comin' up. I'll lay for the Dutchmen."