“You’ve been misinformed, sir. I am _not_ much of an admirer of the school of ‘difficult music:’ on the contrary, I often wish, with Dr. Johnson, that ‘it was not only _difficult_, but _impossible_.’ ” “But as a nobleman, as a public man, your lordship can not be insensible to the value of your honored name upon the subscription-list. Your eminent brother, the greatest of London’s prelates, the most gifted, your honorable brother subscribed fifty guineas. Here, sir, is his signature upon this very paper which I hold in my hand.” “Well,” replied “his lordship,” “I have no hesitation to state, that if I were as _deaf_ as he is, I wouldn’t mind subscribing myself! He’s as deaf as a post, or as a dumb adder; and can not hear the sounds of your Italian charmers, charm they never so loudly. I have no such good luck.” Thinking, doubtless, that trying to secure “his lordship’s” patronage under such circumstances, and with such opinions, involved the pursuit of musical subscriptions “under difficulties,” the importunate solicitor, with a succession of low bows, left the apartment; and as he left “the presence” he _thought_ he heard a low, chuckling laugh, but it didn’t affect _his_ risibles! ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ What a life-like “picture in little” is this by HOOD of the “torrent of rugged humanity” that set toward an English poor-house, at sound of _The Work House Clock_! Remark, too, reader, the beautiful sentiment with which the extract closes: “There’s a murmur in the air, And noise in every street; The murmur of many tongues, The noise of many feet. While round the work-house door The laboring classes flock; For why? the Overseer of the P—— Is setting the work-house clock. “Who does not hear the tramp Of thousands speeding along, Of either sex, and various stamp Sickly, crippled, and strong; Walking, limping, creeping, From court and alley and lane, But all in one direction sweeping, Like rivers that seek the main? “Who does not see them sally From mill, and garret, and room, In lane, and court, and alley, From homes in Poverty’s lowest valley Furnished with shuttle and loom: Poor slaves of Civilization’s galley— And in the road and footways sally, As if for the Day of Doom? Some, of hardly human form, Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil, Dingy with smoke, and rust, and oil, And smirched beside with vicious toil, Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm, Father, mother, and care-full child, _Looking as if it had never smiled_; The seamstress lean, and weary, and wan, With only the _ghosts_ of garments on; The weaver, her sallow neighbor, The grim and sooty artisan; Every soul—child, woman, or man, Who lives—or dies—by labor!