Matter-of-fact people read the story of Orpheus, and imagine that his “charming rocks” and “soothing savage beasts,” is a mere fabulous invention.  No such thing:  it is undoubtedly founded on fact.  Nay, we could quote a thousand modern instances of the power of music quite as astonishing.

One most true and extraordinary occurrence will suffice to establish the truth of our proposition beyond a doubt.  Molly Scraggs was a cook in a first-rate family, in the most aristocratic quarter of the metropolis.

The master and mistress were abroad, and Molly had nothing to do but to indulge her thoughts; and, buried as she was in the pleasant gloom and quiet of an underground kitchen, nothing could possibly be more favourable to their developement.  She was moreover exceedingly plump, tender, and sentimental, and had had a lover, who had proved false to his vows.

In this eligible situation and temper for receiving soft impressions, she sat negligently rocking herself in her chair, and polishing the lid of a copper saucepan! when the sweet, mellifluous strains of an itinerant band struck gently upon the drum of her ear.  “Wapping Old Stairs” was distinctly recognized, and she mentally repeated the words so applicable to her bereaved situation.

“Your Molly has never proved false she declares,” ’till the tears literally gushed from her “blue, blue orbs,” and trickled down her plump and ruddy cheeks; but scarcely had she plunged into the very depths of the pathos induced by the moving air, which threatened to throw her into a gentle swoon, or kicking hysterics, when her spirit was aroused by the sudden change of the melancholy ditty, to the rampant and lively tune, with the popular burden of, “Turn about and wheel about, and jump Jim Crow!”

This certainly excited her feelings; but, strange to say, it made her leap from her chair, exasperated, as it were, by the sudden revulsion, and rush into the area.

“Don’t, for goodness sake, play that horrid ‘chune,’” said Molly, emphatically addressing the minstrels.

The ‘fiddle’ immediately put his instrument under his arm, and, touching the brim of his napless hat, scraped a sort of bow, and smilingly asked the cook to name any other tune she preferred.

“Play us,” said she, “‘Oh! no, we never mention her,’ or summat o’ that sort; I hate jigs and dances mortally.”

“Yes, marm,” replied the ‘fiddle,’ obsequiously; and, whispering the ‘harp’ and ‘bass,’ they played the air to her heart’s content.

In fact, if one might guess by the agility with which she ran into the kitchen, she was quite melted; and, returning with the remnants of a gooseberry pie and the best part of a shoulder of mutton, she handed them to the musicians.

“Thanky’e, marm, I’m sure,” said the ‘bass,’ sticking his teeth into the pie-crust.

“The mutton ’s rayther fat, but it ’s sweet, at any rate—­”