2.  The monkey-organist is generally a native of Switzerland or the Tyrol.  He carries a worn-out, doctored, and flannel-swathed instrument, under the weight of which, being but a youth, or very rarely an adult, he staggers slowly along, with outstretched back and bended knees.  On the top of his old organ sits a monkey, or sometimes a marmoset, to whose queer face and queerer tricks, he trusts for compensating the defective quality of his music.  He dresses his shivering brute in a red jacket and a cloth cap; and, when he can, he teaches him to grind the organ, to the music of which he will himself dance wearily.  He wears an everlasting smile upon his countenance, indicative of humour, natural and not assumed for the occasion:  and though he invariably unites the profession of a beggar with that of monkey-master and musician, he has evidently no faith in a melancholy face, and does not think it absolutely necessary to make you thoroughly miserable in order to excite your charity.  He will leave his monkey grinding away on a door-step, and follow you with a grinning face for a hundred yards or more, singing in a kind of recitative:  ’Date qualche cosa, signer! per amor di Dio, eccellenza, date qualche cosa!’ If you comply with his request, his voluble thanks are too rapid for your comprehension; and if you refuse, he laughs merrily in your face as he turns away to rejoin his friend and coadjutor.  He is a favourite subject with the young artists about town, especially if he is very good-looking, or, better still, excessively ugly; and he picks up many a shilling for sitting, standing, or sprawling on the ground, as a model in the studio.  It sometimes happens that he has no organ—­his monkey being his only stock in trade.  When the monkey dies—­and one sees by their melancholy comicalities, and cautious and painful grimaces, that the poor brutes are destined to a short time of it—­he takes up with white mice, or, lacking these, constructs a dancing-doll, which, with the aid of a short plank with an upright at one end, to which is attached a cord passing through the body of the doll, and fastened to his right leg, he keeps constantly on the jig, to the music of a tuneless tin-whistle, bought for a penny, and a very primitive parchment tabor, manufactured by himself.  These shifts he resorts to in the hope of retaining his independence and personal freedom—­failing to succeed in which, he is driven, as a last resource, to the comfortless drudgery of piano-grinding, which we shall have to notice in its turn.

3.  The handbarrow-organist is not uncommonly some lazy Irishman, if he be not a sickly Savoyard, who has mounted his organ upon a handbarrow of light and somewhat peculiar construction, for the sake of facilitating the task of locomotion.  From the nature of his equipage, he is not given to grinding so perpetually as his heavily-burdened brethren.  He cannot of course grind, as they occasionally do, as he travels along, so he pursues a different system