Few people have a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the world than the travelling musician; yet such is the absorbing nature of his calling, that few make use of it less. His nature is open, easy, and unsuspecting; pleased with his profession, he hopes always to convey the same pleasure to his hearers; and though doubts will sometimes cross his mind, and the fear of ridicule make him awkward and nervous, yet, upon the whole, he is generally sure of making a favourable impression on the simple-hearted and generous among his hearers. The musician moves among his fellow-men as a sort of privileged person; for who ever suspects him of being a rogue? His first attempt to deceive would defeat its own object, and prove him to be a mere pretender. His hand and voice must answer for his skill, and form the only true test of his abilities. If tuneless and bad, the public will not fail to condemn him. The adventures of the troubadours of old, if they were more full of sentiment and romance than the every-day occurrences that beset the path of the modern minstrel, were not more replete with odd chances and ludicrous incident. Take the following for an example of the many droll things which have happened to me during my travels. In the summer of 1846 I was making a professional tour through the United States, and had advertised a concert for the ensuing evening at the small town of ---, and was busy making the necessary arrangements, when I was suddenly accosted, as I left the hotel, by a tall, thin, lack-a-daisical looking man, of a most unmusical and unprepossessing appearance: "How-do-ye-do? I'm highly tickled to see you. I s'pose you are going to give an extra sing here--ain't you?" "Yes; I intend giving a concert here this evening." "Hem! How much dew you ax to come in? That is--I want to say--what are you goin' to chearge a ticket?" "Half a dollar--the usual price." "How?" inclining his ear towards me, as if he doubted the soundness of the organ. "Half a dollar?" repeated I, carelessly. "Tis tew much. You had better chearge twenty-five cents. If you dew, you'll have a pretty good house. If you make it twelve and a half cents, you'll have a _smasher_. If, mister, you'll lower that agin to six and a quarter cents, you'll have to take a field,--there ain't a house would hold 'em." After a pause, scratching his head, and shuffling with his feet, "I s'pose you ginnerally give the profession tickets?" "Sometimes." "I'm a _leetle_ in your line myself. Although I'm a shoe-maker by trade, I leads the first Presbyterian choir upon the hill. I should like to have you come up, if you stay long enough." "As that is the case, perhaps you can tell me if I am likely to have a good house to-night?" "I kind a reckon as how you will; that is, if you don't chearge tew much." "Where shall I get the best room?" "Well, I guess, you had better try the old meetin' house."