exactly opposite to the bite of a Tarantula; for, as that is said to admit of no cure but music, there is not a note in the Gamut but what tends to heighten and inflame my wife's lunacy. I find it is the fashion, in this age, for singers and fidlers to publish Appeals to the public wherefore, as you have hitherto listened to the complaints of husbands, I must beg you now to consider mine, and to suffer me also to appeal to the public, by means of your paper. A few years ago business called me over to Italy; where this unfortunate woman received the first touches of this disorder. She soon conceived a violent passion for Taste in general, which settled at last in an unquenchable rage after musical compositions. Solos, Sonatas, Operas, and Concertos became her sole employment and delight, and singers and musicians her only company. At length, full of Italian airs, she returned to England, where also her whole happiness has been centered in the orchestra, and it has been her whole pride to be thought a Connoisseur in music. If there is an opera, oratorio, or concert, to be performed within the bills of mortality, I do not believe that the riches of the Indies could prevail on her to be absent. Two, and only two, good consequences flow from this madness; and those are, that she constantly attends St. James's chapel, for the sake of the anthem and the rest of the music: and, out of the many pounds idly squandered in minims and semi-quavers, some few are dedicated to charities, which are promoted by musical performances. But what makes this rage after catgut more irk. some and intolerable to me is, that I have not myself the least idea of what they call Taste; and it almost drives me mad to be pestered with it. I am a plain man, and have not the least spice of a Connoisseur in my composition; yet nothing will satisfy my wife, unless I appear as fond of such nonsense as herself. About a month ago she prevailed on me to attend her to the Opera, where every dying fall made her expire, as well as Lady Townly. She was ravished with one air, in extasies at another, applauded Ricciarelli, encored Mingotti, and, in short, acted like an absolute mad-woman; while the performance and her behaviour had a quite different effect upon me, who sat dumb with confusion, "most musical, most melancholy," at her elbow. When we came home again, she seemed as happy as harmony could make her: but I must own that I was all discord, and most heartily vexed at being made a fool in public. "Well, my dear, (said she) how do you like the Opera ?".... Zounds, Ma'dam, I would as soon be dragged through an horsepond as to go to an opera with you again....'." O “fie, but you must be delighted with the Mingotti." .... The Mingotti! The Devil."...." Well, I am 66 sorry for it, Sir Aaron; but I find you have no "ear."...." Ear, Madam? I had rather cut off my " ears than suffer them to make me an idiot.' To this she made me no reply, but began a favourite opera tune, and, after taking a tour round the room, like one of the singers, left me alone. If my wife could be satisfied, like other musical ladies, with attending public performances, and now and then thrumming on her harpsichord the tunes she hears there, I should be content: but she has also a concert of her own constantly once a week. Here she is in still greater raptures than at the opera, as all the music is chosen and appointed by herself. The expence of this whim is monstrous; for not one of these people will open their mouths, or rosin a single string, without being very well paid for it. Then she must have all the best hands and voices; and has almost as large a set of performers in pay as the managers of the opera. It puts me quite out of patience to see these fellows strutting about my house, dressed up like lords and gentlemen. Not a single fidler or singer, but what appears in lace or embroidery and I once mistook my wife's chief musician for a foreign ambassador. : It is impossible to recount the numberless folliesto which this ridiculous passion for music exposes her. Her devotion to the art makes her almost adore the professors of it. A musician is a greater man in her eye than a duke; and she would sooner oblige an opera-singer than a dountess. She is as busy in promoting their benefits, as if she was to have the receipts of the house; and quarrels with all her acquaintance who will not permit her to load them with tickets. Every fidler in town makes it his business to scrape an acquaintance with her; and an Italian is no sooner imported, than she becomes a part of my wife's band of performers. In the late Opera-disputes, she has been a most furious partizan; and it is impossible for any patriot to feel more anxiety for the danger of Blakeney and Minorca, than she has suffered on account of the Opera, and the loss of Mingotti. I do not believe my wife has a single idea except recitative, airs, counter-tenor, thorough-bass, &c. which are perpetually singing in her head. When we sit together, instead of joining in any agreeable conversation, she is always either humming a tune, or, "discoursing most eloquent music." Nature has denied her a voice; but, as Italy has given her a taste and graceful manner, she is continually sqeaking out strains, less melodious than the harmony of ballad-singing in our streets, or psalmsinging in a country-church. To make her still more ridiculous, she learns to play upon that masculine instrument, the bass-viol: the pleasure of which nothing can prevail on her to forego, as the bass viol, she daily tells me, contains the whole power and very soul of harmony. What method, Mr. Town, shall I pursue to cure my wife of this musical phrenzy? I have some thoughts of holding weekly a burlesque Rorotorio, composed of mock-airs, with grand accompany ments of the Jew's Harp, Wooden Spoons, and Marrowbones and Cleavers, on the same day with my wife's concert and have actually sent to two of Mrs. Midnight's hands to teach me the art and mystery of playing on the Broomstick and Hurdy Gurdy, at the same time that my wife learns on the bass-viol. I have also a strong rough voice, which will enable me to roar out Bumper 'Squire Jones, Roast Beef, or some other old English ballad, whenever she begins to trill forth her melodious airs in Italian. If this has no effect, I will learn to beat the drum, or wind the post-horn: and if I should still find it impossible for noise and clamour to overcome the sound of her voices and instruments, I have resolved peremptorily to shut my doors against singers and fidlers, and even to demolish her harpsichord and bass-viol. But this, alas! is coming to extremities, which I am almost afraid to venture, and would endeavour to avoid. I have no aversion to music; but I would not be a fidler: nor do I dislike company; yet I would as soon keep an inn as convert my house into a theatre for all the idle things of both sexes to assemble at. But my wife's affections are so wedded to the Gamut, that I cannot devise any means to wean her from this folly. If I could make her fond of dress, or teach her to love cards, plays, or any thing but music, I should be happy. This method of destroying my peace with harmony, is no better than tickling me to death; and to squander away such sums of money on a parcel of bawling, scraping rascals in laced coats and bag wigs, is absolutely giving away my estate for an old song. You, Mr. Town, are professed Connoisseur; therefore, either give me a little taste, or teach my wife to abandon it: for at present we are but a jangling pair, and there is not the least harmony between us, though, like bass and treble, we are obliged to join in concert. T I am, Sir, your humble servant, AARON HUMKIN. No. CXXIX. THURSDAY, JULY 15. ........Post cineres gloria sera venit. Fame to our ashes comes, alas! too late; MART. SIR, : TO MR. TOWN. I AM a rich old bachelor, and, like other ancient gentlemen of that order, am very fond of being indulged in all my old humours, and always having my own way. This is one reason I never married for if my wife had been a shrewish termagant, she would have killed me; and if she had been a tame domestic animal, I should have killed her. But the way of life I have now fallen into is, of all others, the best calculated to gratify my fantastical temper. I have no near relation, indeed, who will submit to be treated as an humble cousin all my life, in hopes of being happy at my death; yet I abound in sycophants and followers, every one of whom I delude, like another Volpone, with the |