cornet, flute, flute-basé, voix-humaine,
contrebasse, basson, mattau-phone, bourdon,
flageolet," &c.; and MM. Debain, Alexandre,
and other makers, adopt analogous means
for throwing great diversity into the tones
produced. It surpasseth all our ingenuity to
explain exactly and minutely the precise
differences between the harmonium, the
melodium, the æolophon, the æolodium, the
æolharmonica, the æolomusicon, and the
other members of this gentle fraternity; but
we need not trouble ourselves thereat; for
it concerns us at present only to know that
their sounds are all, or mainly, due to the
vibration of metallic springs in carefully cut
apertures. It is just possible that, in one or
two of the number, the bellows may be
blown by the turning of a handle—thus affording
a fourth mode of gently appealing to the
vibratory tendency of the springs: indeed,
we believe, such is the case.

Thus does it appear, then, that our
Harmonious Blacksmith is really a clever fellow.
No small portion of the music that delights us,
is due to the dexterous .cunning with which
he fashions the dainty little tongues of metal.

          OUR WINE MERCHANT.

Got up in green and gold, labelled with
the Royal Arms, and those of the City of
London, with Dieu et mon droit as the upper
motto, and Domine dirige nos for the lower
one, a pamphlet lies before us, addressed by
Our Wine Merchant to the inhabitants of the
district in which we reside. That district,
familiarly known to the public as Saint
Joseph's wood—though scarcely a tree remains
to tell of its former sylvan glories, and even
the shrubs which overhang the pavement are
now ruthlessly lopped by the parish authorities
— that district, we say, has long been well
supplied with the greater part of the good
things which are generally considered as
essential to the enjoyment of this world, and
to preparation for the next. Our mundane
together with our spiritual wants have, for
the most part, been carefully looked after;
we have our butchers and our bakers, our
greengrocers and fishmongers, our dispensing
chemists and our members of the Royal
College of Surgeons—the last-named in great
abundance; we have our newsvenders,
poulterers, stationers, auctioneers, and
undertakers; schools flourish; so do private lunatic
establishments. We,have numerous churches
and multitudinous clerical officiators; we
have also a strong police force and a station-house
of our own, so that if we, or the cabmen
who have more than one stand, chance
to go wrong, we can be set right again in the
shortest possible space of time. But with all
these advantages, and with the Rising Suns and
Jolly Soldiers, the signs of them no less than
the things themselves—at the corner of every
road, street, place, and avenue, with a house
of call for nearly half the omnibuses that
circulate through London, St. Joseph's Wood
has wanted one thing—the roc's egg that
should make our palace perfect—it has never
been able to say, " We have got a first-rate,
out-and-out wine-merchant." Of course we
have " bottle and jug departments," into
which the modest retiring customer—with
money in his pocket—is invited to enter, at
the Rising Suns and Jolly Soldiers, aforesaid;
but however specious the promises placarded
about the doors of these establishments,
however certainly we may have reckoned on
getting the finest, fruitiest, nuttiest, driest,
purest, most "natural," most bees-wing-est—
if we may be allowed the expression—of the
several wines offered for our " selection,"
generally at the low figure of two-and-two
per bottle, we confess, as far as our personal
experience goes, that the pleasing consciousness
of finding these promises literal facts
has never yet been realised in all the wide
circuit of Saint Joseph's Wood.

So much for the evil: now for the remedy.

A " spirited" individual—he will excuse us
if the word has more than one meaning—has
at last undertaken to supply the great desideratum;
and that individual we delight—on
paper—to call Our Wine Merchant, because,
up to the present moment we have never had
any other. Not that we have already retained
him; no, we have not gone quite so far as
that, but we have delighted our eyes through
the superb plate glass windows of his Emporium
on Saint Joseph's Terrace, where, in
the most admired confusion, as if they
had just been upheaved by an earthquake,
lie slender bottles of hock, big-bellied
champagnes, imperial quarts of sherry, and
dainty pints of liqueurs, some topsy-turvy,
seeking apparently to dive back again to
the cellar: others struggling, cork upwards, to
the light, some presenting a broad flank,
others a foreshortened base, and all as well
cobwebbed and sawdusted as if Time had
given them these appliances, and not " our
young man" before the window blinds were
raised for the daily display. Delightedly, too,
have we gazed—yet not altogether
unmingled with awe—through a side window, at
an enormous copper carboy, somewhat dinted
by the hard work which it has had to do,
which stands open-mouthed, and ready to be
filled with purest spirit, whenever an order
shall arrive for bottling off a few gallons.
But with even still greater admiration have
we gazed on the truck which is always
waiting close to the kerbstone, anxious to be
off somewhere, no matter how heavily laden,
but which, as far as our observation—and we
live opposite—has extended, has not yet
stirred a peg, except to be wheeled up to its
station in the morning, and back again to the
"counting-house" at night. No doubt, there
is " a good time coming," and while it is on
its way we will peep into Our Wine
Merchant's Vade Mecum, which, we understand,
has been very liberally distributed throughout