The Sun.
London, England, 1854-01-31 00:00:00

OUR MUSICAZ CORNER.

(Ron Eliza Cook's Journal.)
There is something very exciting in a " regular rummage."
We suppose most of our readers know what we mean by " a
rummage ;" we mean a sudden and investigating attack made
upon some out-of-the-way closet or ancient chest in which
all sorts of incong,ruons things have been stored away " long
long ago," and never been looked at or thought of since. It
is astonishing what a number of ghosts arise from these
" rummagings," and what varied emotions of pleasure and
pain pervade our spirits as we turn out the remnants and

relics of other days.
We have just come in unexpected contact with a venerable
trunk, which has been hidden from prominent existence we
cannot say how long—some time under those stairs, then up
in that attic, now in a loft, occasionally in a cellar, and very
often nobody knew exactly where. At last, our boy Tom
wanted more room in his own immediate dormitory, where
the banished box has lately been reposing, and ventured in
his retiring modesty to suggest the wisdom of seeing what
was in it, adding a delicate hint, that " he'd be bound there
was only rubbish." Now, as we happened to entertain a
private noti n that Tom might possibly be right, we deter-
mined to " rummage" it, and accordingly set to at it with
the vigilance of a Custom-house officer. We will not attempt
to enumerate the articles contained in it : no one would
credit the list. Suffice it to say that we found a moth-eaten
velvet spncer wrapped carefully round a horse's rusted bit,
a watchman's rattle without a handle, some very yellow
pamphlets on the Gordon riots, two odd slippers, and a bag
of dumps. We think these specimens will satisfy the reader
that Tom's opinion was not entirely wrong.
At last we made a discovery which affected us even to a
degree of sentimental silence. At the very bottom of the
chest, beneath a dilapidated plume of feathers, lay an old
" music-box," a well-remembered dearly-treasured companion
of our early days, and which afforded us more delight than all
the grandest of grand pianos have since. It must be told that
this music-box was none of your tink-a-ting trumpery affairs.
It was made of shining mahogany, and played the real tune
of " Away with Melancholy," and it was presented to us on
our sixth birthday by our paternal grandfather. Dear old
man, we can see him now as he came in on that memorable
day, with his benevolent face, flaxen wig, bright knee-buckles,
and a brown-paper parcel under his arm. We had been scru-
pulously taught never to expect, much less ask for anything
from anybody, but this was our birthday, and he was our
grandfather, and he looked so extra kind and so extra impor-
tant IS he laid the parcel carefully on the table, and he gave
us such an extra hug,—that with all the sense of "proper be-
haviour " which had been inculcated, we imbibed an instan-
taneous conviction that the parcel contained something for
us, and was very near whispering a rash interrogative to as-
certain the fact. Our tantalizing state was soon put au end
to by, " Look here, see what I've brought for your birthday-
present," said the old gentleman, as he displayed a handsome
box, and began to turn the handle. We listened to the first
part of the air with dilating eyes, until our delight became
exuberant, and in its redundant expression nearly knocked off
our venerable relative's wig. What beautiful silver strings we
saw ; what a polish was on the wood, and with what un-
ceasing vigour we applied ourself to the silver handle. It
is our opinion now, that the arrangement of the air and
quality of the tone were anything but perfect, but then they
formed the sweetest melody ever produced. What our friends
thought about it we did not inquire. We insisted on having
it beside us at dinner, and treated the company to a presto
solo between meat and pudding. At tea, we alternately took
a bite of our bread and butter and a turn at our beloved mu-
sic-box. Of course we carried it to bed with us, and are sadly
afraid mixed up its jingling with the " Evening Hymn." We
managed to awake two hours before our usual time for the ex-
press purpose of tormenting all within reach of the sound. It was
a bitter cold Christmas-day morning, with ice crystals on the
windows, and a north-easter that came through every cranny
and crevice like a galloping razor ; yet there were we,
perched up in our little white bed, working away at our
adorable music-box with unshivering zeal, until the appear-
ance of a respected authority put a peremptory end to the
noise, and brought us to our senses, making us promise that
we would not touch the box again before were up and dressed.
Sorry are we to own that we broke our word, and within
five minutes tried if it were likely to be heard under the bed
clothes. When Sunday came, we hinted a strong intention
of taking it to church, to hear how it would go with the
organ ; and when our indulgent mother sang one of her
Scottish ditties, we endeavoured to persuade her that
our music-box afforded a sweet accompaniment. In short,
we idolized the thing, and were so jealous in our de-
votion, that more than one family fight ensued over it.
We allowed a plague of a brother to poke in the eyes of our
doll, and even connived at his tying up a dog with our skip-
ping-rope. Our ball might go for " prisoners' base," or our
hoop be missing for a day, but if the plague of a brother
touched our music-box, we flew at him as a Dandle Dinmont
terrier would at a rat, and a household disturbance was the
consequence. Next to our mother and old Pincher, we verily-
believe we loved this thing the most. For some two or three
years it was petted and polished, and locked up, with doting
care, but, alas ! we outgrew our music-box, and took to
" thinking." The darling object was gradually forgotten,
and it must have been at last deposited in the chest where we
have lately lighted on it. What a flood of recollection rushed
over our brain as we looked down upon it. There it lay,
with its silver hinges and handle rusted and black : and when
we opened it, behold, every silver string was gone, and by
some curious chance the case was stuffed with an old ;.rtificial
wreath of bay-leaves. An admirer of juvenile doggrel pre-
sented us once upon a time with this identical wreath and as
we stood over the relics we drew upon our sentiment and the
future. " Ah," thought we, "the music-box of our heart,
will be found stripped of its silver strings some day, the
jingling of their tones will be no longer amusing or annoying
"" the world, and the unskilled harmony which once had power
to please or plague, will be silent for ever ; but will there be
a bay-wreath found with our mouldering remains of melody ?
Ay ! that is the question. Well, we must trust to the people's
hands, and if they place a memory chaplet over the departed
music-box, no matter when the strings are broken.
" ELIZL COOK."

►SIR E. BULWER LYTTON AT LEEDS