Hunger hath made him a wind-instrument; his want is vocal, and not he.
His voice had gone a-begging before he took it up, and applied it to the
same trade; it was too strong to hawk mackerel, but was just soft enough
for "Robin Adair." His business is to make popular songs unpopular,--he
gives the air, like a weather-cock, with many variations. As for a key,
he has but one--a latch-key--for all manner of tunes; and as they are to
pass current amongst the lower sorts of people, he makes his notes like
a country banker's, as thick as he can. His tones have a copper sound,
for he sounds for copper; and for the musical divisions he hath no
regard, but sings on, like a kettle, without taking any heed of the
bars. Before beginning he clears his pipe with gin; and is always hoarse
from the thorough draft in his throat. He hath but one shake, and that
is in winter. His voice sounds flat, from flatulence; and he fetches
breath, like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Notwithstanding all
this, his music gains ground, for it walks with him from end to end of
the street. He is your only performer that requires not many entreaties
for a song; for he will chant, without asking, to a street cur, or a
parish post. His only backwardness is to a stave after dinner, seeing
that he never dines; for he sings for bread, and though corn has ears,
sings very commonly in vain.
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