THE ORGAN-GRINDER.

WILL it do to say anything in a college paper about a class of musicians whom the College authorities, and especially the regent of the Yard, seem to regard with peculiar abhorrence, though why they should harbor such a prejudice would appear to the undergraduate mind to be due to the same cloudy wisdom that enwraps so many others of their proceedings. It may be that they fail to perceive the importance of the strains of the hand-organ as a soothing stimulation to study. It may appear to them that such music has a kinship with lolling out of the window and addressing the dispenser of familiar airs in terms of slang - or, possibly, the authorities may deem it improper that "the shining cent" should be flipped from such an elevation as the second or third story. Whatever the trivial reason may be, certain it is, that although the College gates are closed but once in twenty years, yet the vender of melodies rarely ventures through them, conscious that in whatsoever remote corner he may establish himself, the venerable Ubiquity will invite him to depart thence. But in spite of the antipathy displayed for the organ-grinder by the powers that preside over our studies, the student himself will infinitely prefer the performances of that much-abused personage, to those of the man overhead whose rowing-weights send forth a most distressing discord, half rumble, half squeak, or, still worse, whose religious enthusiasm finds its vent in practising Tabernacle tunes on a reed-organ. No sane person would hesitate to decide that "Just in time for Lanergan's ball" rendered on a good hand-organ by jist the very boy that knows all about that same himsilf, is more worthy of hearing than a disjointed howl of "Where art thou now, my beloved?" by the unmusical soul who comes up stairs taking three steps to each word. And there is so great a fondness for attempting this latter kind of music manifest at all times, that it seems almost unaccountable that the modest Italian should not be permitted to rest beneath our windows and tutor the untuneful ear into a correct knowledge of its favorite airs.

But however unfriendly a reception may be accorded to the organ-grinder within these classic precincts, in less cultured yards he is sure of an enthusiastic and appreciative audience who drink in the charms of music and monkey with open mouths. Put him in front of a bay-window, with a couple of babies looking out in the seventh heaven of ecstasy, and a nurse to take off his hat to, and to lavish his most winning smile upon, and it will be hard to find a more contented being than Signor Smitherini. He knows that he is inspiring two or three little souls with perfect bliss, and is himself expecting every moment an increase in his worldly goods. Is not this true happiness, to be doing good to others and to be getting good from them in return? One cannot imagine an organ-grinder to be a scamp. Take the blackest scoundrel and let him go out into the country and grind a barrel-organ for ten days, and at the end of that time, what with the circle of delighted faces constantly around him and the humanizing effect of so much music, he will have recovered all the innocence that used to be his, when, at the age of six, he tagged around after the superior being who carried on his back a box full of pretty tunes.

There is a charming bit of poetry called "The Charcoal Man," written by Trowbridge, in which the honest hero is pictured as coming home after shouting his familiar cry since early morn, and listening to the never-failing echo, and as he enters the room, he bends over the baby's crib, and whispers "charco' " in the little ear. The youngster cooing with delight, tosses up his arms, and echoes "harko' " just as the hills had been doing all day long. Now, why cannot one of our homely poets immortalize a scene in the organ-grinder's life? Let him be pictured coming into his home, chinking the coin in his pockets, and as he enters he strikes up the "Beautiful Blue Danube," and all the children fall into a spontaneous jig that is perfectly infectious in its jollity. May there not really be such a thread of romance running through the seemingly monotonous life-tramp of the Organ-Grinder?

G.