) in a perfect fever, poor little soul, to squirl away books and
slates, and scamper after the soldiers. Scarlet has been said to be like
the sound of a trumpet; surely then a drum must be taken as the exponent
of that ferocious mixture yclept thunder and lightning, erst dear to
country bumpkins, and rendered classical by Master Moses Primrose's
coat. It can scarcely be described as _music_, but rather as sound with
an idea in it--the connecting link between mere noise and musical
expression. Kettle-drums,

"Whose sullen dub,
Is like the hooping of a tub,"

we hate; and never see them in a concert-room without heartily wishing
they and their tatooer might tumble, helter-skelter, from their topmost
perch into the very lowest depth, if there be one lower than another, of
the orchestra; and thereby sustain such a compound fracture, attended by
loss of substance, as should put it out of their power, for that night
at least, to torture our fastidious ears. Being of a melancholy
temperament, we are unfortunately, at times, subject to most ludicrous
fancies; and as these ungainly instruments loom on our disgusted eye, we
cannot, for the life of us, help imagining them moulds for a couple of
enormous gooseberry puddings; and we verily pant at the idea of the sea
of melted butter, or yellow cream, requisite to mollify their
acidity--and then we laugh like a hyena at the nightmareish vision, and
so are disgraced, for it is at a "serious opera:" therefore, we repeat
it, do we hate them, cordially and perseveringly. They are horrid
things, and ought to be excommunicated. And when employed in military
bands--why, a horse looks a complete fool between a couple of these
gigantic basins, each with its long tag-rag of unmeaning velvet,
beplastered and bedizened with lace and gold, streaming from it; and the
unlucky performer perched between them, exactly like an old
market-woman, bolstered up between a brace of paniers or
milk-pails;--any thing but a fierce dragoon, or most chivalrous hussar.
But peace be to the kettle-drums,--ay, _peace be to them_, say we! and
may our ears never again be subjected to the torture of hearing Handel's
massive chorus, or Beethoven's fearfully dramatic harmony, disfigured by
their most abominable bangs, or villanous rumble-grumble.

Now all this is rank nonsense--we are fully aware of it; and it is a
most foolish, unjust prejudice of ours against drums--kettle or
otherwise, as it may please Apol