England is supposed to be unmusical; but without dwelling¹ on the patronage² extended to the organ-grinder, without seeking to found any argument on the prevalence of the jew’s trump³, there is surely one instrument that may be said to be national in the fullest acceptance of the word. The herdboy in the broom, already musical in the days of Father Chaucer, startles (and perhaps pains) the lark⁴ with this exiguous⁵ pipe; and in the hands of the skilled bricklayer,

‘The thing becomes a trumpet⁶, whence he blows’

(as a general rule) either ‘The British Grenadiers’ or ‘Cherry Ripe’. The latter air is indeed the shibboleth⁷ and diploma piece of the penny whistler; I hazard a guess it was originally composed for this instrument. It is singular enough that a man should be able to gain a livelihood⁸, or even to tide over a period of unemployment, by the display of his proficiency⁹ upon the penny whistle; still more so, that the professional should almost invariably confine himself to ‘Cherry Ripe’. But indeed, singularities surround the subject, thick like blackberries. Why, for instance, should the pipe be called a penny whistle? I think no one ever bought it for a penny. Why should the alternative name be tin whistle? I am grossly deceived if it be made of tin. Lastly, in what deaf catacomb, in what earless desert, does the beginner pass the excruciating interval¹¹ of his apprenticeship

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