little cloud of my own making, and chatting most pleasantly with the young gentleman to whom, only a few moments before, I was going to do something particularly disagreeable. I felt somewhat ashamed at being so quickly kidnapped, and was inclined to throw away my cigars, and look stern, and say something about the impropriety of smoking on a public conveyance; but it would not do the winning smile of the young gentleman prevailed; it changed the current of my thoughts, and my asperity was converted into the milk of human kindness, and I was at peace with all the family of Adam. I have often thought since, how well for us it would be, and how much our progress through this rugged world would be softened, if we were only to smile at trifling annoyances, and rather endeavour to convert them into positive pleasures. I have never seen any good arising from exercising one's prerogative too strictly. It many times gives pain to others, without adding, in the least degree, to the sum of our enjoyments. The person who is always stickling upon his rights as a traveller in a public conveyance, is a disagreeable companion, and frets and fumes when he, by a little tact, and a small portion of good humour, might be comfortable and happy. I found my new friend a most delightful companion. Though yet young, he had seen much of the world, and had observed mankind with a keen and discriminating eye. He was not vain of his knowledge of distant lands, as it was the result of circumstances rather than of choice. We were to be sojourners at the same inn for the night; and, as we sipped our wine, after a frugal supper, we were more like acquaintances of many years' standing, than that of an hour; and as we parted next morning, I gladly accepted of his warm invitation to visit him at the residence of his aunt, who lived in the neighbourhood. I soon joined my friend at the house of his relative, who received me with great kindness; and, as a small party had met to spend the evening, there was every prospect of enjoying myself pleasantly. I have often observed that those individuals in private life, who have devoted a portion of their time to the study of music scientifically, make anything but agreeable companions at an easy friendly party. They seem to have lost all relish for music, unless it is regulated by beats and bars; and listen with something like horror to a simple sweet song, sung by a sweet voice, merely because it is not, in every respect, executed in accordance with the severe laws of science. I have noticed this, particularly amongst young gentlemen, and more especially if it has been vocal music that they have studied; and, if there should be two or three of those gentlemen at a friendly party, they invariably arrest that easy flow of spirits by their scientific display, and it is generally of a very inferior order. They must sing in concert, and, before they can get a fair start, there are a great many "begin again affairs to be settled, and sundry reflections cast upon one another, and a few angry looks exchanged, before an ill-executed piece can be completed. All this time the company are anything but happy: they would prefer a little music in an easy way, but then these gentlemen must be humoured; and thus they generally convert a private parlour into an academy for practising-for performing it cannot be called. As for your Philharmonic gentlemen, they think it altogether beneath them to patronise anything but German and Italian music; and much of these is ill adapted to the taste and habits of the good people of this country, at least so far as these amateurs perform it. Some portions of pieces you hear performed by a few violins, cheep-cheeping away as if a number of rats and mice were skirmishing together; and then the whole performers come, and with a crash, just as if so many little curs were let loose among these said rats and mice, and devouring them up. Verily this may be called, in scientific language, "execution;" but it is anything but agreeable to unscientific ears. But to my tale. After a few good songs had been given, a young lady sang a new and favourite air; and when we were congratulating her upon her success, a very staid and important-looking young man asked her, "if she sang that song by the book?" We were all astonished at this question, and the young lady said, “O dear nomy cousin William heard it in London, and sang it after he came home; and I made him write the words, and sing it so often, that I caught the air, and you have it just as I learned it from cousin William." "I thought so," said this pleasant young gentleman, “as you sing the second line in the first part so-ha ha-a-a-he-when it should be he-he-e-e-ha, and the third line in the second part." By this time, however, the young lady had rallied her wits; and, fixing her fine dark eyes with something like scorn and contempt upon the Goth, quietly turned to the young gentleman at her side, and coolly entered into conversation with him. This completely discomfited the musical bore, and he seized upon a grave old gentleman at his elbow, and poured into his ear a torrent of jargon in order to prove that the song should have been sung as he represented. The good old gentleman kept always saying, "I see, sir; I understand; exactly so, sir; quite correct, sir;" but his wife, who appeared to be a shrewd old dame, leaned forward to her husband, who put his hand behind his ear to catch the sound: "Do you hear all that the gentleman is saying to you, my dear?" "O dear no, I-I know that the gentleman has been saying a great deal to me, but really I did not hear one word of all that he has been saying to me." In fact, the old gentleman was deaf, and his simple manner of saying those few words so completely tickled the party, that they burst out into a good hearty laugh. He then turned to his wife: "Are they laughing at me, my love?" "I really can't say, but it must be either at you, or your friend at your side." "Dear me, I do not think that I have said or done anything which should afford you such merriment ;" and he looked steadfastly in the face of the musical gentleman, as much as to say, "It must then be you that they are laughing at." This so completely renewed the laughter, that it was long before any one could find breathing-time to speak. The young gentleman all this time was looking rather grand: he puffed out his cheeks in a most threatening manner, and commenced to speak in 66 the style of a dominie of the olden times; but the risible faculties of the company were in play, and fresh bursts of merriment rang through the room, until the scientific gentleman pompously took his leave, to the great gratification and delight of all lovers of fireside enjoyment and social intercourse. We were now completely at our ease; our spirits were elastic, and every one vied with another to add to the general stock of enjoyment. One lady was now asked to sing, who modestly excused herself, on the plea that her songs were all old-very old indeed; and she feared would please none but herself; however, she required no entreaty to honour us with one of the songs of other days. She was a most bewitching creature, and a shade of melancholy passed at intervals over her lovely countenance. This I learned afterwards was not owing to dejection arising from anything like worldly bereavements or trials, but the effect of temperament, which led her into cultivating a taste for ancient ballads, and tales of a legendary character. The song she selected was that very fine old love ballad, called "Barbara Allen," and I shall never forget the sensation it created amongst all present. Her voice was rich and melodious; and she dwelt upon particular portions of the song with a feeling and pathos touching and enchanting. Her hearers were spell-bound and afraid to breathe, for fear of losing one note, and all eyes were riveted upon her face, now touched with a shade of deep melancholy. Every eye was moistened with tears, and many fair bosoms heaved with deep emotion. I looked towards my stage-coach acquaintance, and was astonished to see that something more than ordinary affected him. He was leaning forward towards the fair singer, with his eyes fixed upon her, and his whole countenance betrayed that his feelings were powerfully wrought upon. When the lady came to that verse I had na gaen a mile but twa When I heard the dead-bell tollin, she gave it a degree of pathos heart-thrilling; and, at the last line, anguish was visibly depicted upon her countenance. She did not sing all the song entire, which is of a considerable length, but such verses only as kept the tale connected without fatiguing the singer or her hearers. The climax, however, was when she gave the last verse O mither, mither, mak my bed, O mak it saft and narrow, For my true love died for me this day, I will die for him to-morrow. The sobs of many gentle breasts were audible, and many were the tears wiped from the eyes of those who owned stout hearts and firm nerves; but my friend buried his face in his hands, and rushed hurriedly out of the room. It was evident that something more than usual agitated him, and his aunt kindly requested me to follow him, and endeavour to soothe his troubled feelings. When I gently knocked at his room-door he invited me to come in, and he wrung my hand, but was unable to speak. I waited until his feelings were calmed, when he seated himself by my side, saying, “My dear sir, I did not think that anything could have so overpowered me as that song has done; but, when I relate to you the cause of that effect, you will not be surprised that it struck a chord which produced both painful and pleasurable emotions. "My father was an officer in the army, and the health of my mother being somewhat weak, she resided in this country, whilst my father was in active service on the Continent. I was then about seven years of age; and, as my mother was warmly attached to my father, his absence amidst perils and dangers gave her constant uneasiness. She watched over me with anxious care, and often, whilst she was alone, I have entered her room, and found her in tears; but she would smile sweetly upon me, and sing me some little song, generally, however, of a melancholy cast, occasioned, no doubt, by her habitual care and anxiety. "When news of victory would be proclaimed, she felt proud of the honour of being a soldier's wife; but her enthusiasm would soon die away, and she would mourn over the horrors and calamities of war, and silently pray for the blessings of peace, so that kindred hearts might be united, and little ones have the delightful pleasure of climbing upon a father's knee. "When she would lean over me and kiss my cheek, before putting me to rest, I thought no one was so beautiful as my mother, and that no voice sounded so sweetly in my ears; and, when she would breathe out one of the songs of days bygone, I would listen in breathless anxiety, and weep myself asleep; and, although these songs caused my tears to flow, still I loved to hear them sung, and felt a melancholy pleasure in listening to the silver tones of her I loved so well. "Oh! I shall never forget that evening when my mother first received an account of the death of my father, who fell in battle. Her grief was silent, but it reached the inmost recesses of the heart; desolation now took possession of her soul; and, although she still continued her care over me, young as I was I soon saw that sorrow was indeed 'big at her heart.' Her voice was more solemn and touching, and her songs were sung with a deeper pathos and feeling, and her whole actions too plainly told, that silent grief was fast blighting her pure heart, and withering the rose upon her cheek. "I still loved to hear her sing, and she derived pleasure in gratifying my wishes; and my tears now fell faster, and I felt more sorrowful; and when she kissed me, and craved a blessing upon my head, I would lie and weep until my young heart was like to break, as I felt something like a foreboding that my mother, my kind and affectionate parent, would soon be no more,-that the grave would soon close over her, and her sweet voice be hushed for ever. “One evening she was more than usually sad, and caressed me with a degree of tenderness I had never before experienced; and the song she sung that night was that very one which has so touched me this evening. Yes, with her sweetest voice, although it trembled more than usual, she sang that beautiful and heart-thrilling song; and at the closing verse her voice died away, and she clasped me to her bosom, and the warm tears fell fast upon my cheek. I need not tell you that this evening my heart was more than usually sad, and that my tears fell more abundant; and it was long after I laid my head upon my pillow, that sleep sealed my eyelids. "Next morning I was awoke by the servant, who was in tears. I hurriedly inquired for my mother, but her grief choked her utterance, and I rushed to the bedside of my mother.-She was lying as if asleep, but her pure spirit had fled, and I was left a lonely wretched boy. I threw myself down beside her, and kissed her cold lips, and called loudly upon her name; but the voice which had so often charmed my ear was now silent for ever, and those eyes which had so often beamed upon me with maternal fondness were closed in death. "I loved my mother with a love ardent and intense; and often would I steal to where the cold earth covered her, and water with my tears the grass which waved over her grave. "This evening, the fountain which had been so long sealed up was broken open, and those feelings, which time had mellowed, gushed forth afresh. I need not delay you any longer; my kind aunt took me under her care, and performed the duties of a mother; and a distant relation procured for me a commission in the army; and I have visited the field where my father fell, and dropped a tear to his memory; and, since my return, I have paid the same tribute to the ashes of her whom, whilst living, I loved so well; and the remembrance of her virtues shall be treasured up in my heart, while memory lasts, or reason holds her seat." Such was the tale of my young friend; and he often afterwards requested the young lady to sing his favourite song; and he would listen with attention, and shed a tear over the remembrance of the past After my return home I could think upon nothing but the touchin tale of the young soldier; and was so far inspired as to commit to pape the following verses:— O LADY, SING THAT SONG AGAIN. O LADY, sing that song again, Ye sung so sweet yestreen; It struck a chord which vibrates still, While sweetly ye pour'd forth those notes, When she who watch'd my infant years Was full of woman's bloom. I thought I saw her bright blue eye |