(Print her name in grand capitals, Mr. Compositor)--Billington returned
from Italy! My father, who remembered, I suspect, the beautiful woman more
than the accomplished singer, determined to hear again her _Mandane_; and
sorely against my will, I rather think to prevent the chance of my doing
mischief at home, forced me to go along with him. With listless and
unwilling ears I listened to her and Mrs. Mountain, that second best of
English singers throughout "Fair Aurora." Gradually, however, and
involuntarily, I became pleased, interested, delighted; and when the
encored "Soldier tired" was ended, had I but possessed so much Italian,
"Sono anch'io Cantatore" would have burst from my lips with as much fervour
and devotedness of resolution as the "Sono anch'io Pittore" of the artist.
From this moment never had I three shillings and sixpence in my pocket, and
either Billington's or Braham's name in the bills of the night, that I was
not to be seen planted in the front row of the pit, looking over the
leader's book, and taking the only lessons I ever received in music. The
opera over, no farce, however laughable, not even the "Turnpike Gate" with
Joe Munden's _Crack_, had the power to detain me in the house.--My time of
_imitation_ was arrived, and I sallied forth to alarm watchmen with the
last division of the "Soldier tired," affront my friends by saluting them
with "Adieu thou dreary pile," or annoy my father with shouting "The
Austrian trumpet's loud alarms" at a moment when, with all the fervour of
true John Bull anti-gallicanism, he was lamenting over Ulm and Austerlitz;
execrating Mack, pitying Francis and Alexander, and cursing the victorious
Napoleon by all his gods.--_Harmonicon_, No. 41.
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