What is it that we hear in almost every house?
Unquestionably it is piano-playing; but what playing! It is generally nothing but a continual confusion of different chords, without close, without pause; slovenly passages, screened by the raised pedal; varied by an empty, stiff, weak touch, relying upon the pedal for weight.

We will escape into the next street.

Oh, horrors! what a thundering on this piano, which, by the way, is sadly out of tune! It is a grand--that is, a long, heavy--etude, with the most involved passages, and a peculiar style of composition, probably with the title "On the Ocean," or "In Hades," or "Fancies of the Insane;" pounded off with the pedal raised through the most marvellous changes of harmonies.
Finally, the strings snap, the pedal creaks and moans; conclusion,--_c_, _c_ sharp, _d_, _d_ sharp resound together through a few exhausted bars, and at last die away in the warm, soft, delicious air.

Universal applause from the open windows! But who is the frantic musician who is venting his rage or this piano?
It is a Parisian or other travelling composer, lately arrived with letters of recommendation, who has just been giving a little rehearsal of what we may expect to hear shortly in a concert at the "Hotel de Schmerz.".