scientific are placed by him on her piano--are performed to the credit
of both, with vast execution, as far as respects the science and the
harmony---but as for the singing, as singing ought to be, 'tis

"Worse than the howling of Irish wolves against the moon."

Well--_Miss_, from the expense and pains bestowed upon her, must, of
course, be the musical oracle of the family; the father must forego his
favourite old songs, written by "_honest_ Harry Carey," (as Ritson
insists on his being called); the mother is laughed to scorn if she
mentions "Auld Robin Gray," "Mary's Dream," "Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang
wi' me?"--or such obsolete stuff;--and even the brothers, who might
stickle a little for Moore's melodies,

"With thoughts that breathe and words that burn,"

are silenced with, "Pooh! any body can sing them."

Thus is the family taste made up; and this extends to the patronage of
singers in the style alone deemed correct, as it is the quantity of
public patronage which must influence the manager of either theatre or
concert in the persons he engages. And thus has the great extension of
musical taste been injurious to music.

But, to return to our old favourite. All who remember him must likewise
remember his powers of attraction ere this blight of _fashion_ had come
over us. Witness his various benefits, and above all, that at the Opera
House, producing, it is said, 1,500_l_. Such marks of public favour,
added to the constant request of company, both public and private, and
to a man who, like Incledon, _loved_ his art, were sure to be productive