At length, on the brink of a grim despair, He happened to think of a quaint old fellow, A comical customer, rusty and slow, But who used to be an elegant beau, In dress and manner quite _comme il faut_; And who, because he happened to know How to play on the violoncello, Which he'd learned for fun long time ago, Before his finances got so low, Had obtained a place in an orchestra choir, And played that beautiful instrument there; And to him monsieur determined to go; And so, Up to the top of a rickety stair, To a little attic cold and bare, He stumbled, and found the artist there. He told his tale; how his former pride Was crushed and humbled into the dust; He swore he had thought of suicide, But the charcoal venders wouldn't trust; He had no profession or trade or art, Money or food, and perish he must; And then like a blacksmith's forge he sighed, A sigh that touched the fiddler's heart. 'Cheer up, _mon cher_, and never mind; You're the very man I was trying to find. You know at the grand Theatre Francais The leading violoncello I play, And my salary is two francs a day. There's a vacant place; if you are inclined To take the same, you'll find 'twill pay.' DIDIER looked up in a vast amaze: 'Why, I can't do so, you very well know, For I never fiddled in my born days.' '_Qu'a cela ne tienne_,' his friend replied, 'Don't be too certain,--you never have tried; You ought to give your abilities scope; There is an anxiety most of us feel, We may be out of time or tune, Leave off too late, or begin too soon, May pitch too sharp, or perhaps too flat; So here is a cake of excellent soap, The old, original, pure Castile, Just rosin your bow with that.' He took his seat in an orchestra chair, 'Twould have made you stare Had you been there To see his knowing and confident air, And to hear the considerate manager say, 'There is nobody like young _Didier_; So nice and exact, so quite _au fait_, With a style so thoroughly _recherche_, Some other concern may get him away, So I think I shall have to double his pay!' In clover the youth continues to graze, And still in the orchestra he plays; He's the man who never was known to make The smallest shadow of a mistake, And there's only one drawback on his praise,-- He is too modest by fifty per cent For such a master of the art, For the story went he would never consent To play a _solo_ part.