had proved his bane through life, leading him step by step, as usual with such reckless characters, to an untimely and degraded grave. It is generally believed that poor Bob Meekins died from the effects of intemperance in some wretched doorway in an alley of our city. Such, then, was the person selected by Doctor Cogan to perform a principal part in the little musical drama which he had prepared for the reception of the great foreign violinist of the day, and the place chosen for its performance was the once celebrated hotel or tavern called the Pigeon-house, which at that period was the common resort for the meetings or departures of friends to or from England by the Holyhead packets. Thither accordingly the Doctor and his musical companions repaired, to await the expected arrival of the Signor, and ordered dinner with the determination that he should be their guest. It is not necessary to dilate upon the reception given to the brother professor, or to particularise all the good things that were said, sung, and eaten upon the occasion. It is sufficient to say that every thing passed off in true Hibernian style, to the astonishment as well as gratification of Pinto, who was delighted to find himself surrounded by so many new and warm-hearted friends, each keeping up the tide of merriment by a rapid circulation of the bottle amid the joyous flow of song, jest, and laugh. But where was Bob all this time? He was placed in an adjoining passage awaiting a silent signal, and being primed for action, was impatient for the moment of attack upon the excitable nerves of the delighted Italian. This signal was at length given, and so effectually arranged were the parts given to each of the Doctor’s apt pupils, that as the soul-thrilling tones of Bob’s violin vibrated through the room, it seemed to produce no other effect upon their ears than a _sotto voce_ expression of displeasure, or _forzando_ of horror. All this seemed quite spontaneous, and was at the same time so judiciously managed as to allow the instrument to predominate over the voices, and thus enable the practised ear of Pinto to discover in the invisible minstrel a master spirit--nor did the well-timed _crescendo_ of “Turn the scraping villain out,” “Curse the noisy blackguard,” &c. &c. arrive at its climax, until Bob’s varied and expressive execution had completely bewildered the poor Signor with amazement. To him, indeed, the scene was one as unusual as it was unexpected; and when silence was somewhat restored, he eagerly asked in his broken English whence the tones had come; and truly ludicrous were the varied expressions of the Italian’s intellectual countenance on being assured by the Doctor and his assistants that the performer who had so enraptured him was a rascally itinerant fiddler, who gained a precarious livelihood by scraping at taverns. The effect may easily be imagined. The Signor insisted upon seeing him; and when Bob’s whisky