thus complete, including all the tones and
semitones, the player can run up and down either
the diatonic or the chromatic scale. As far as
its compass reaches, Wood-and-straw can give
any succession of notes that can be played on a
piano keyboard of the same extent.

The instrument is put into tune by cutting
off little shavings with a knife. The end of a
stick is cut, to sharpen a note; the body of a
stick is shaved, to lower its note. But perfect
tune, in all weathers, is difficult to attain;
because the substance of the wood itself is affected
by hygrometrical and other changes of the air.

To evoke his melody, the player strikes his
wooden notes with two little ebony sticks or
plectra, one in each hand; and it is for the sake
of having the notes more conveniently under
hand that the great difficulty of the instrument,
for learners, has been allowed to enter into its
arrangement. This arrangement is completely
arbitrary. The notes of the gamut do not follow
each other regularly in the ascending and
descending scales, as they do in the piano; it is
rather as if they were distributed on a chessboard,
in rows, so as to allow each hand to get
at them more readily; or the notes may be
roughly taken to be ranged like the houses in a
French street, all the even numbers on one side,
and the odd numbers on the opposite. The real
order of the gamut is sacrificed to facility of
execution.

For beginners, this apparent confusion renders
the instrument a labyrinth; to find the way
about it is extremely difficult, unless the notes
be marked by some distinctive sign. This might
be easily done, without in the least impairing
their tone, which would, of course, be stifled,
perhaps utterly ruined, by attempts at
ornamentation—such as painting, gilding, or
varnishing. Bois-et-paille, though it may shake
off unnecessary mystery, cannot depart from its
native simplicity.  But the arrangement so
completely reverses that of the piano, that, as a
rule, the low notes are found to the right, and
also nearest the performer. This peculiar
dispersion of the notes renders the chromatic
scale difficult to play. The easiest key on the
instrument is F.

With fair musical ability, it is supposed that
three years' practice will make a good performer
on Wood-and-straw. There is nothing to
prevent a lady from playing on this instrument. M.
de Try stands, with a table before him, over
which he occasionally and slightly leans, and
tapping with his ebony plectra produces such a
shower of notes as approach very nearly to
musical fireworks. Under his hand, bits of
dry wood give forth audible sparks. The
agility of wrist displayed is something
marvellous. The drumming of intricate beats
on the soldier's drum is nothing to it;
because the drummer taps always on the same
little spot, whereas the xylocarphist has to sweep
backwards and forwards over the whole extent
of his timber-yard.

The tone of the instrument is sweet and
clear, with a decidedly staccato character in all
its sounds which gives great brilliancy to florid
passages; but it is scarcely fitted to fill a very
large room. In M. de Try's hands, it is capable
of considerable expression, permitting him to
display his exquisite taste and his graceful reading
of whatever he performs. Supported by an
accompaniment, it makes its way, and comes
forward as the party entitled to address the
audience. With one note only for each hand,
its harmonies are necessarily limited to such
simple combinations as thirds and sixths; but
as first fiddle, as bravura singer, as renderer of
fantasias, capriccios, and sparkling variations,
Wood-and-straw is perfectly competent to raise
smiles of pleasure and astonishment, perhaps
even to become the fashion.

COMING INTO A FORTUNE.

MY DEAR BROTHER JOHN,—- This letter is to
apprise you of our uncle Benjamin Burfield's
death, an event which you will perhaps think
does not much concern us, since he showed
himself neither kind nor kinsmanlike to his sister's
children at a time when a very trifling sacrifice of
his abundant wealth would have enabled you to
remain in England, and have helped me to a very
different lot. But, dear John, he has left me all
his money; I have come into a fortune—half a
lifetime too late, it is true, but still I have come
into a great fortune! If he had given me twenty
years ago but one hundredth part of what he has
bequeathed me now, I could have blessed him.
Richard Heywood and I need never have parted,
and none of the manifold sorrows and regrets
that followed on our separation would have come
to pass. I have often thought since that if we
had had more faith and courage we might have
done well; we were both young, and I, at least,
was hopeful. I have never mentioned him in my
letters to you, because he did not prosper in the
world; and bad news comes always soon enough.
You used to say he had not sufficient perseverance
and tenacity of purpose to succeed; and it was
tantalising and grievous to see how sanguinely he
would start each new scheme, then in a little
while fall weary of it, and give it up, if it did not
first give up him. But he is dead now, poor
Richard, and done with his troubles, so it is of
no use talking of what might have been; let
me rather still endeavour to make the best of
what is.

The intelligence of Mr. Burfield's death was
sent to me by his man of business, Mr. Worsley,
the day after it took place. His letter found me
at tea with Mrs. Jacques—calm, passive,
expecting nothing beyond the rare pleasure of a new
good book ever to happen to me any more in this
world! Imagine, if you can, the shock of it.
Oh, John, but my great fortune will deprive me
of many keen enjoyments! There will be no
more triumph in achieving possession of a long-
coveted volume, when now I have only to ask
and to have every luxury under the sun that