HAD this volume been a farce, which, unless every one’s life and
opinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no
reason to suppose—the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of
it, and then this chapter must have set off thus.
Pt . . . r . . . r . . . ing—twing—twang—prut—trut——’tis a cursed bad
fiddle.—Do you know whether my fiddle’s in tune or no?—trut . . . prut.
. — They should be _fifths._——’Tis wickedly strung—tr . . . a . e . i
. o . u .-twang.—The bridge is a mile too high, and the sound post
absolutely down,—else—trut . . prut—hark! tis not so bad a tone.—Diddle
diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is nothing in playing
before good judges,—but there’s a man there—no—not him with the bundle
under his arm—the grave man in black.—’Sdeath! not the gentleman with
the sword on.—Sir, I had rather play a _Caprichio_ to _Calliope_
herself, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that very man; and
yet I’ll stake my _Cremona_ to a _Jew_’s trump, which is the greatest
musical odds that ever were laid, that I will this moment stop three
hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without punishing
one single nerve that belongs to him—Twaddle diddle, tweddle
diddle,—twiddle diddle,—twoddle diddle,—twuddle diddle,——prut
trut—krish—krash—krush.—I’ve undone you, Sir,—but you see he’s no
worse,—and was _Apollo_ to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no
better.
Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle—hum—dum—drum.
—Your worships and your reverences love music—and God has made you all
with good ears—and some of you play delightfully
yourselves—trut-prut,—prut-trut.
O! there is—whom I could sit and hear whole days,—whose talents lie in
making what he fiddles to be felt,—who inspires me with his joys and
hopes, and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into motion.—If you
would borrow five guineas of me, Sir,—which is generally ten guineas
more than I have to spare—or you Messrs. Apothecary and Taylor, want
your bills paying,—that’s your time.