We hear
the three distinct hems--oblivion for a moment seizes us--the glasses
jingle--two auctioneers' hammers astonish the mahogany--several dirty
hands are brought in violent and noisy contact--we are near a friend of
the vocalist--our glass of gin-and-water (literally warm without) empties
itself over our lower extremities, instigated thereto by the gymnastic
performances of the said zealous friend--and with an exclamation that,
were Mawworn present, would cost us a shilling, we find the professional
singer has concluded, and is half stooping to the applause, and half
lifting his diligently-stirred grog, gulping down the "creature comfort"
with infinite satisfaction.
* * * * *
--There goes the hammer again! (Rubins has a sinecure compared to that fat
man). "A glee, gents!--a glee!"--Ah! there they are--three coats--three
collars--Heaven knows how many buttons!--three bald heads, three stout
stomachs, three mouths, stuffed with three tuning-forks, nodding and
conferring with a degree of mystery worthy of three Guy Faux."--What is
the subject?
"_Hail_ smi_lig_ _b_orn."
That's a good guess! By the way, the vulgar notion of singing
_ensemble_ is totally exploded by these gentry--each professional
singer, as a professional singer, sings his very loudest, in _justice to
himself_; if his brethren want physical power, that's no fault of
_his_, _he don't_.
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