Some say that Signore Bononcini, Compared to Handel is a ninny; Whilst others vow that to him Handel, Is hardly fit to hold a candle. Strange all this difference should be 'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. The people are tumbling back to their seats as the musicians come stringing in. Soon there is a general tuning up--scrapings, toots, snorts, subdued screeches, raspings, and all that busy buzz-fuzz business of getting ready to play. "The first time we came to the opera Doctor Johnson thought this was all a part of the play, and applauded with unction for an encore," says Garrick. "And I heard nothing finer the whole evening," answers Doctor Johnson, accepting the defi, and winning by yielding. "Why don't they tune up at home, or behind the scenes?" asks some one. "I'll tell you why," says Savage, and he relates this: "Handel is a great man for system--he is a strict disciplinarian, as any man must be to manage musicians, who are neither men nor women, but a third sex. Often Handel has to knock their heads together, and once he shook the Cuzzoni until her teeth chattered." "That's the way you have to treat any woman before she will respect you," interrupts the Dean. Nothing else being forthcoming, Savage continues: "Handel is absolute master of everything but Death and Destiny. Now he didn't like all this tuning up before the audience; he said you might as well expect the prima donna to make her toilet in front of the curtain"-- "I like the idea," says Johnson. Savage praises the interruption and continues: "And so ordered every man to tune up his artillery a half-hour before the performance, and carry his instrument in and lay it on his chair. Then when it came time to commence, every musician would walk in, take up his instrument, and begin. The order was given, and all tuned up. Then the players all adjourned for their refreshments. "In the interval a wag entered and threw every instrument out of key. "It came time to begin--the players marched in like soldiers. Handel was in his place. He rapped once--every player seized his instrument as though it were a musket. At the second rap the music began--and such music! Some of the strings were drawn so tight that they snapped at the first touch; others merely flapped; some growled; and others groaned and moaned or squealed. Handel thought the orchestra was just playing him a scurvy trick. He leaped upon the stage, kicked a hole in the bass-viol, and smashed the kettledrum around the neck of the nearest performer. The players fled before the assault, and he bombarded them with cornets and French horns as they tumbled down the stairs. "The audience roared with delight, and not one in forty guessed that it was not a specially arranged Italian feature. But since that evening all tuning-up is done on the stage, and no man lets his instrument get out of his hands after he gets it right."