“I should like to know how the children are to go to school, to-morrow. They shan’t go through _such_ weather, _that_ I’m determined. No; they shall stay at home, and never learn any thing, sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they’ll have to thank for knowing nothing. People who can’t feel for their children ought never to _be_ fathers. “But _I_ know why you lent the umbrella—_I_ know, very well. I was going out to tea to mother’s, to-morrow;—you _knew_ that very well; and you did it on purpose. Don’t tell me; _I_ know; you don’t want me to go, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don’t you think it, Caudle! No; if it comes down in buckets-full, I’ll go all the more: I will; and what’s more, I’ll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death,” &c., &c., &c. ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ The satire of the following lines, upon that species of sentimental song-writing which prevailed a few years ago to a much greater extent than at present, is somewhat broad; but any one who remembers the feeble and affected trash which has hitherto been set to music, and sung by lachrymose young ladies and gentlemen, will not consider it one whit too much deserved. I. “My lute hath only one sad tone, It hath a mournful twang: Its other strings are cracked and gone, By one unlucky bang! You ask me why I don’t restore Its early sweetness, and fresh cord it; Oh, no! I’ll play on it no more! Between ourselves—I can’t afford it! II. “You tell me that my light guitar Is now as silent as the grave; That on it now I play no bar, Though _once_ it thrill’d with many a stave Alas! to strike it once again, More power than I possess requires; The effort would be worse than vain— My light guitar has lost its wires! III. “My heart, my lute, my light guitar, All broken as they be, As like unto each other are, As little pea to pea. Come, heart; come, lute, guitar, and all, In one lament ye all are blended! Hang on your nails against the wall— I can’t afford to get you mended!” Just fancy this touching song sung by a “nice young man,” with all the modern “shakes” and _affetuoso_ accompaniments, and you will “realize” a fair hit at what was not long since a fashionable species of English ballad music. ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ “Speaking of music,” by-the-by, we are reminded of rather a sharp reply made by a celebrated nobleman in England to an enterprising musical gentleman, who was a good deal of an enthusiast in the art. “I have waited upon you, my lord, to ask for your subscription of twenty guineas to the series of six Italian concerts, to be given at ——’s Rooms. Knowing your lordship to be an admirer of the sweet—”