We had a father and son who made a pair of Jacks-of-all-trades. It was the son who sang the “Death of Nelson” under such contrarious circumstances. He was by trade a shearer of ship plates; but he could touch the organ, and led two choirs, and played the flute and piccolo in a professional string band. His repertory of songs was, besides, inexhaustible, and ranged impartially from the very best to the very worst within his reach. Nor did he seem to make the least distinction between these extremes, but would cheerily follow up “Tom Bowling” with “Around her splendid form.”

The father, an old, cheery, small piece of manhood, could do everything connected with tinwork from one end of the process to the other, use almost every carpenter’s tool, and make picture frames to boot. “I sat down with silver plate every Sunday,” said he, “and pictures on the wall. I have made enough money to be rolling in my carriage. But, sir,” looking at me unsteadily with his bright rheumy eyes, “I was troubled with a drunken wife.” He took a hostile view of matrimony in consequence. “It’s an old saying,” he remarked: “God made ’em, and the devil he mixed ’em.”