A week later, we gathered to rehearse Mr. Arne’s music for Zara, which play would be staged by Major-General Burgoyne. Indeed, there was fine melody; indeed, there was counterpoint well worked; the dances were the very type of grace and elegance; but I little relished them.
So soon as we were dismissed, I sought out the bassoonist who had spake to Sip and me of Dunmore. “Sir,” said I, “sir, a small matter . . .”
We held our conference in the marketplace, near a gang of children playing at some game, clouting their friends with rope.
“Sir,” I entreated, “I wish to know what happens to the south.”
“The south,” said the bassoonist.
“The matter we spake on in the manufactory.”
He nodded. “I have the best of news,” said he. “You ain’t heard?”
“I have not.”
“You will like this some,” said he.
“Indeed,” I said, my heart fair jumping into my mouth.
He smiled. “Heard it day before yesterday.”
I asked him to tell me; and tell me he did.