the last wailing notes of "A noble race was Shenkin," played by a band
in advance, blended with the brisk music of "My name's David Price, and
I'm come from Llangollen," performed by a company in the rear. In fact,
it was a genuine Welsh musical medley, and the daring genius who would
have occupied himself in "untwisting all the links which tied its hidden
soul of harmony," would have had about as difficult and distressing a
task as he who tried to make ropes out of sea-sand.

Of course, these bands were made up of divers instruments, but the
national harp was head and chief of them all, as might naturally have
been expected in such a place and at such a time. There were harps of
all sorts and shapes; some of the Welsh urchins had even Jews-harps
between their teeth. There were Irish harps, English harps, and Welsh
harps. There was no Caledonian harp, though; but a remarkably dirty
fellow in the procession seemed to be making up for the lack of one
stringed instrument by bringing another,--the Scotch fiddle!--on which
he perpetually played the tune of "God bless the gude Duke of Argyle!"
There were harps with one, two, and three sets of strings,--harps with
gold strings, silver strings, brass strings,--strings of cat-gut and
brass,--strings red, and brown, and white. I looked sharp for the "harp
of a thousand strings," but it was nowhere to be seen; and surmising
that such is only played on by the spirits of just men made perfect, I
ceased to search further for it in _that_ procession,--for though the
men composing it might be just enough, they were evidently a long way
from perfection. And when it is remembered that all these harps were
twang-twanging away furiously, and that their strings were being
swept over with no Bochsa fingers, few will wonder that I longed for
cotton-wool, and blessed the memory of Paganini, who had only one string
to his bow.