of introduction. A writer of little experience always thinks it indispensable that he should preface what he has to say with a few general remarks, which, however, so far from creating a favourable impression, or doing any other good, generally serve only to deaden the curiosity and spirit of the reader, if he do not indeed choose the wiser plan of passing them over altogether. The only judicious way of beginning an article is to begin at the place where the matter in the mind begins, assuming a simple demonstrative style, and leaving all comment and philosophising to the conclusion, when, if the sympathy or attention of the reader shall have been properly engaged, he will be disposed to pause and linger over what has given him so much pleasure, and not only read what is added in the way of remark, but will dwell fondly even upon the printer's name and colophon, and finally only lay down the document, when not another word remains any where unperused.

THE MAN WHO SUNG WHEN ASKED.

EVERY body has had occasion to feel annoyed at the answers usually given in company to a request for a song. It seems to have been a pristine feature of human nature, that no man could sing when he was asked for Horace indignantly remarked the fact eighteen hundred years ago. The party either never sings, or, if known to have done so at any former period, he is sure to be so ill with a cold, that he can upon no account exhibit on the present occasion. In the words of Madame Corri, he has "a leetle kittlin in de breast, and a leetle horse at de trot." He must really be excused to-night, &c.; and then he gets up a cough with more or less success, by way of a practical affidavit of the truth of what he alleges. So unavoidable, apparently, is this wretched affectation, that we have known a person who, being both able and willing to sing, privately

hinted to some one to ask him, and who yet, when the request was made, set forth all the usual apologies, as if he had been startled at the very idea of a vocal exhibition.

It has always been held as a particular claim upon the praise of history, that any individual should, in the prevalence of a monstrous vice, hold forth an example of the opposite virtue. Why do we so much extol Aristides ?— because he was just in the midst of a people who were the reverse. Why do we reverence the name of Archbishop Leighton ?-because he was moderate when all his brethren were furious. On this principle, how much must we admire any man who, instead of annoying his fellowcreatures when asked to sing, by allegations that he cannot, was positively anxious to be asked, and no sooner heard the request, than, with one preliminary hem, if so much, he was off full bound into a canticle! Such a man, reader, has lived-when, we cannot tell; but certainly

Once in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man

who sung when he was asked; of this we can assure you. His name was Smith, and he resided, while as yet vouchsafed for the adornment of human nature, in the city of York. It cannot be very long since Smith lived; for traditions of him are still fresh in the memory of a grateful people about that part of the country. He is said to have been a smart, neat, little man, somewhat vain about his person, and also about his singing, but redeeming every fault by that one lustrous virtue, in which he shone preeminent above his kind, a willingness to sing when he was asked. Alas, that such a man should have been mortal, or that, in dying, he should have left no copy!

Smith's habits were those of a convivial old bachelor; for though he had been married in early life, he had been so long a widower, that the feelings and tastes of single life had all returned upon him. Being quite at ease in his circumstances, he thought of nothing but how he might

best enjoy life-how he might, with the greatest ease, attend the greatest possible number of social meetings, drink the greatest possible quantity of punch, and sing the greatest possible number of songs. He belonged to a vast number of clubs and musical associations, not only in York, but throughout all the neighbouring country: and he would often travel fifty miles, in order to contribute to the attraction of a glee festival. Being such a sure card for a song, he was invited, moreover, to a vast number of private parties, insomuch that, one way and another, he scarcely ever missed punch and music a single night. To such festive assemblages, Smith never went till pretty near supper-time. If, when he went, he found any thing like a dance going on, he was very apt to turn at the drawing-room door, and go away perhaps to some club, where he would spend an hour in singing, and then return in time for supper. If he did go in, and endeavour to stay out the dancing, it was always evident, from his fidgetty aspect, how earnestly he longed to see all this folly over, and the people descending to the dining-room. Smith really liked supper. If he once saw a party fobbed off with sandwiches up stairs, he marked the house with a black cross in his remembrance, and would never go back again. At table he always contrived to get himself planted as near the middle as was consistent with the likelihood of his escaping the business of carving. The lady might be anxious to honour him with a seat next herself, but this he always modestly evaded. Having got himself planted in his favourite place, he would look kindly about to the rest, who were still perhaps hesitating where to alight, and say, "Pray, gentlemen, take your seats; plenty of room." To the actual business of supper, he always addressed himself with great earnestness. When he ate, like the Irishman sleeping, he " paid attention to it." Carving he detested. He thought it took up too much time, and was apt to cause his meat to cool. As to the quarter of an hour said to be allowed to carvers, Sir," said he, "it is all a deception. Though you were

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to carve all the time till the rest were done, they would still stare if they saw you eating after them. And how, sir, can any man continue to ply his knife and fork, while other twenty people, perhaps, are waiting for something else, and wondering how you can possibly eat what they have already satisfied themselves of? No, sir; the result of these disinterested services in behalf of mankind, is, simply, that you are compelled to huddle all your operations into a half or a third of the time allowed to the company at large, and, in short, that you make a bad supper. Sir, all these duties ought to be performed by servants." Not long after the conclusion of supper, and while nobody was thinking of such a thing, Smith's voice would be heard suddenly piercing the hum of conversation, his only commission for such an intrusion consisting in an unheard sentence, which he saw addressed to him by the lady of the house, and which, though it perhaps referred to something quite different, he was pleased to consider as a request for a song. A nod was as good as a wink to Smith in asking for a taste of his vocal powers.

Our friend was what is called a good, but not a brilliant or perfect singer. He had a stout gentlemanly voice, calculated to be of great service as a bass in a trio or duet, but not by any means a fine voice. Nevertheless, he sung with so much spirit and appropriate expression, that in general his performances were much admired, not to speak of the additional approbation which he always secured by his being so willing to contribute to the amusement of the company. Smith had just one fault, so far as singing was concerned. When once he was set a-going, there was no getting him to stop. When one of his songs was done, it would perhaps become the subject of conversation. " Capital song that-first-rate old fellow, Dibdin." Yes, sir: but did you ever hear his Tom Bowling ?-that is better still." And then, without further preface, he would com

mence

"Here a sheer hulk--"

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and so forth; after which, another could be tagged as slightly on to that, and another to that again, till you could almost echo his words, and wish that "death had brought him to." Smith estimated the pleasantness of a party, and the hospitality of the landlord and landlady, and the worldly worth and amiability of the whole company, by the number of songs he was asked or permitted to sing. "A deuced nice affair we had last night at Atherton's. I sung twoand-twenty of my very best. Thought I would have got in the twenty-third; but an old jade in a pink cap broke us up between twelve and one, just as I was about to begin." It was told of Smith, that he once stuck a song for want of the words (a most astonishing occurrence), and was so overwhelmed with shame on the occasion, as to leave the room abruptly, and rush away home. He had walked more than a mile on his way, when he suddenly recollected the missing stanza. Back he turned, crying, “I have it, I have it." On re-entering the room, he found the company just on their feet to depart. Stop, stop," he cried, in the tone of a man arresting an execution with a reprieve; "stop, here it is!" And, though almost breathless, he immediately resumed the song at the exact point where he had left off, with all the proper gesticulation, expression, and so forth, as if no hiatus had taken place.

Indeed, it must be allowed, great as his merit was, that singing had at length become a kind of hobby with him. He had rushed from the extreme of reluctance to the extreme of facility, and, by the praises of those who are not above flattering the foibles of an old man, had become dreadfully puffed up about his musical talents. He took it positively ill, if he were not permitted to sing at least a dozen times in an evening; and he has been known to retire at about the ninth or tenth, muttering, "confoundedly shabby." Then his whole business during the day was to go about, calling upon the persons who had heard him sing the night before, in order to gather their applauses. "I think I was in good voice last night, eh?"-thus delicately