Whither have vanished the two or three really meritorious stringed bands — one of them used to play every Thursday afternoon in Manchester Square — which performed the overtures to Zampa, Masaniello and William Tell so dashingly? They were, I fancy, chiefly composed of Italians and Frenchmen, and used to take something considerable in silver every time they performed. In common with many other youthful music-lovers, I loved to follow them about for hours at a stretch, and yearned to enlist in their harmonious ranks.