In order to ascertain, he turned from Ernest to watch the countenance of a musical critic near by; one of those unfortunate men, who enjoy music as the proof-reader enjoys the poetry he corrects in a printing-office. How can a beautiful metaphor please him, while he sees a comma topsy-turvy, or a period out of place? How can he be charmed by the melodious flow of the verse, while he is dotting an i, or looking out for an inverted s? The critic seemed less attentive to his business than the proof-reader; for he was looking round and whispering, apparently unconscious that sweet sounds filled the air. Nevertheless, Utouch whispered to Alfred that the critic was the man to inform him whether he _ought_ to be delighted with the music, or not. So, at the close of the Symphony, he spoke to him, and took occasion to say, “I invited a French amateur to come here this evening, in hopes he would receive a favourable impression of the state of music in America. You are an excellent judge of such matters. Do you think he will be satisfied with the performance?” “He may be _pleased_, sir, but not _satisfied_,” replied the critic. “The composition is a very fine one, but he has doubtless heard it in Paris; and until you have heard a French orchestra, sir, you can have no conception of music. Their accuracy in rhythmical time, amounts to absolute perfection.” “And do you think the orchestra have played well to-night?” “Tolerably well, sir. But in the Cradle-Song the clarionet lagged a little, once or twice; and the effect of the Serenade was injured, because the violoncello was tuned one-sixteenth of a note too low.” Alfred bowed, and went away congratulating himself that he had not been more delighted than was proper. The alleged impossibility of having any conception of music unless he went to Europe, renewed a wish he had long indulged. He closed his magnificent house, and went forth to make the fashionable tour. Ernest was a painter, as well as a poet; and it chanced that they met in Italy. Alfred seemed glad to see the friend of his childhood; but he soon turned from cheerful things, to tell how vexed he was about a statue he had purchased. “I gave a great price for it,” said he, “thinking it was a real antique; but good judges now assure me that it is a modern work. It is so annoying to waste one’s money!”