The musical skeleton rattled his bones against the ivory in a very one, two, three, four symphony; the poet ran his fingers through his hair, pulled up his collar, gave his head a jaunty nod, and commenced: ROSALIE; OR, THE BROKEN HEART. Fare thee--fare thee well--alas! Fare--farewell to thee! On pleasure's wings, as dew-drops fade, Or honey stings the bee, My heart is as sad as a black stone Under the blue sea. Oh, Rosalie! Oh, Rosalie! As ruder rocks with envy glow, Thy _coral_ lips to see, So the weeping waves more briny grow With my salt tears for thee! My heart is as sad as a black stone Under the blue sea. Oh, Rosalie! Oh, Rosalie! After this brilliant specimen of the mysteriously-sentimental and imaginative school was sufficiently applauded, dancing was recommenced, and Reddy seated himself beside Mrs. Riley, the incense of whose praise was sweet in his nostrils. "Oh, you _have_ a soul for poetry indeed, sir," said the lady. "I was bewildered with all your beautiful _idays_; that 'honey stings the bee' is a beautiful _iday_--so expressive of the pains and pleasures of love. Ah! I was the most romantic creature myself once, Mister Reddy, though you wouldn't think it now; but the cares of the world and a family takes the shine out of us. I remember when the men used to be making hats in my father's establishment--for my father was the most extensive hatter in Dublin--I don't know if you knew my father was a hatter; but you know, sir, manufactures must be followed, and that's no reason why people shouldn't enjoy po'thry and refinement. Well, I was going to tell you how romantic I was, and when the men were making the hats--I don't know whether you ever saw them making hats----" Reddy declared he never did. "Well, it's like the witches round the iron pot in _Macbeth_; did you ever see Kemble in _Macbeth_? Oh! he'd make your blood freeze, though the pit is so hot you wouldn't have a dhry rag on you. But to come to the hats. When they're making them, they have hardly any crown to them at all, and they are all with great sprawling wide flaps to them; well, the moment I clapt my eyes on one of them, I thought of a Spanish nobleman directly, with his slouched hat and black feathers like a hearse. Yes, I assure you, the broad hat always brought to my mind a Spanish noble or an Italian noble (that would do as well, you know), or a robber or a murderer, which is all the same thing." Reddy could not conceive a hat manufactory as a favourable nursery for romance; but as the lady praised his song, he listened complacently to her hatting. "And that's another beautiful iday, sir," continued the lady, "where you make the rocks jealous of each other--that's so beautiful to bring in a bit of nature into a metaphysic that way."