Matter-of-fact people read the story of Orpheus, and imagine that his
"charming rocks" and "soothing savage beasts," is a mere fabulous
invention. No such thing: it is undoubtedly founded on fact. Nay, we
could quote a thousand modern instances of the power of music quite as
astonishing.
One most true and extraordinary occurrence will suffice to establish the
truth of our proposition beyond a doubt. Molly Scraggs was a cook in a
first-rate family, in the most aristocratic quarter of the metropolis.
The master and mistress were abroad, and Molly had nothing to do but to
indulge her thoughts; and, buried as she was in the pleasant gloom and
quiet of an underground kitchen, nothing could possibly be more
favourable to their developement. She was moreover exceedingly plump,
tender, and sentimental, and had had a lover, who had proved false to his
vows.
In this eligible situation and temper for receiving soft impressions, she
sat negligently rocking herself in her chair, and polishing the lid of a
copper saucepan! when the sweet, mellifluous strains of an itinerant band
struck gently upon the drum of her ear. "Wapping Old Stairs" was
distinctly recognized, and she mentally repeated the words so applicable
to her bereaved situation.
"Your Molly has never proved false she declares," 'till the tears
literally gushed from her "blue, blue orbs," and trickled down her plump
and ruddy cheeks; but scarcely had she plunged into the very depths of
the pathos induced by the moving air, which threatened to throw her into
a gentle swoon, or kicking hysterics, when her spirit was aroused by the
sudden change of the melancholy ditty, to the rampant and lively tune,
with the popular burden of, "Turn about and wheel about, and jump Jim
Crow!"
This certainly excited her feelings; but, strange to say, it made her
leap from her chair, exasperated, as it were, by the sudden revulsion,
and rush into the area.
"Don't, for goodness sake, play that horrid 'chune,'" said Molly,
emphatically addressing the minstrels.
The 'fiddle' immediately put his instrument under his arm, and, touching
the brim of his napless hat, scraped a sort of bow, and smilingly asked
the cook to name any other tune she preferred.
"Play us," said she, "'Oh! no, we never mention her,' or summat o' that
sort; I hate jigs and dances mortally."
"Yes, marm," replied the 'fiddle,' obsequiously; and, whispering the
'harp' and 'bass,' they played the air to her heart's content.
In fact, if one might guess by the agility with which she ran into the
kitchen, she was quite melted; and, returning with the remnants of a
gooseberry pie and the best part of a shoulder of mutton, she handed them
to the musicians.
"Thanky'e, marm, I'm sure," said the 'bass,' sticking his teeth into the
pie-crust.
"The mutton 's rayther fat, but it 's sweet, at any rate--"
"Yes, marm," said the 'fiddle;' "it's too fat for your stomach, I'm sure,
marm;" and consigned it to his green-baize fiddle-case.
"Now," said Molly,--"play us, 'Drink to me only,' and I'll draw you a mug
o' table-ale."
"You're vastly kind," said the 'fiddle;' "it's a pleasure to play anythink
for you, marm, you've sich taste;" and then turning to his comrades, he
added, with a smile--"By goles! if she ain't the woppingest cretur as
ever I set eyes on--"
The tune required was played, and the promised ale discussed. The
'bass,' with a feeling of gratitude, voted that they should give a
parting air unsolicited.
"Vot shall it be?" demanded the 'harp.'
"Vy, considering of her size," replied the 'fiddle,' "I thinks as nothink
couldn't be more appropriate than
'Farewell to the mountain!'"
and, striking up, they played the proposed song, marching on well pleased
with the unexpected appreciation of their musical talent by the kind, and
munificent Molly Scraggs!