an
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."

"It's a moving tale, invented as an excuse for a man who writes music so
bad that he gets disgusted with it himself, and flies into wrath when he
hears it," says Johnson.

A subdued buzz is heard, and the master comes forth, gorgeous in a suit
of purple velvet. His powdered wig and the enormous silver buckles on
his shoes set off his figure with the proper accent. His florid face is
smiling, and Garrick expresses a regret that there are to be no
impromptu tragic events in way of chasing players from the stage.

"Would you like to meet him?" asks the sharp-nosed Dean.

Garrick and Johnson have enough of the rustic in them to be
lion-hunters, and they reply to the question as one man, "Yes, indeed!"

"I'll arrange it," was the answer. The leader raps for attention.
Johnson closes his eyes, sighs, and leans back resignedly.

The others look and listen with interest as the play proceeds.

* * * * *

The other day I read a book by Madame Columbier entitled, "Sara Barnum."
Only a person of worth could draw forth such a fire of hot invective,
biting sarcasm and frenzied vituperati