to hear the fulfilment of my prophecy even as it was uttered. From the
window of number Twelve Hundred and Seven gushes upon the slumberous
misty air the maddening ballad, "Ever of Thee," while at Twelve Hundred
and Eleven the "Star of the Evening" rises with a chorus. I am inclined
to think that there is something in the utter vacuity of the refrain
in this song which especially commends itself to the young. The simple
statement, "Star of the evening," is again and again repeated with an
imbecile relish; while the adjective "beautiful" recurs with a steady
persistency, too exasperating to dwell upon here. At occasional
intervals, a base voice enunciates "Star-r! Star-r!" as a solitary and
independent effort. Sitting here in my balcony, I picture the possessor
of that voice as a small, stout young man, standing a little apart from
the other singers, with his hands behind him, under his coat-tail, and
a severe expression of countenance. He sometimes leans forward, with
a futile attempt to read the music over somebody else's shoulder, but
always resumes his old severity of attitude before singing his part.
Meanwhile the celestial subjects of this choral adoration look down upon
the scene with a tranquillity and patience which can only result from
the security with which their immeasurable remoteness invests them.
I would remark that the stars are not the only topics subject to
this "damnable iteration." A certain popular song, which contains the
statement, "I will not forget you, mother," apparently reposes all its
popularity on the constant and dreary repetition of this unimportant
information, which at least produces the desired result among the
audience. If the best operatic choruses are not above this weakness,
the unfamiliar language in which they are sung offers less violation to
common sense.

It may be parenthetically stated here that the songs alluded to above
may be found in sheet music on the top of the piano of any young