"Mr. Reddy, I hope, will favour us," said Edward, with a courteous inclination of his head towards the gentleman he named, who returned a very low bow, with many protestations that he would "do his best," &c.: "but after Mr. O'Connor, really,"--and this was said with a certain self-complacent smile, indicative of his being on very good terms with himself. Now, James Reddy wrote rhymes--bless the mark!--and was tolerably well convinced that, except Tom Moore (if he _did_ except even him), there was not a man in the British dominions his equal at a lyric. He sang, too, with a kill-me-quite air, as if no lady could resist his strains; and to "give effect," as he called it, he began every stanza as loud as he could, and finished it in a gentle murmur--tailed it off very taper, indeed; in short, it seemed as if a shout had been suddenly smitten with consumption, and died in a whisper. And this, his style, he never varied, whatever the nature or expression of the song might be, or the sense to be expressed; but as he very often sang his own, there were seldom any to consider. This rubbish he had set to music by the country music-master, who believed himself to be a better composer than Sir John Stevenson, to whom the prejudices of the world gave the palm; and he eagerly caught at the opportunity which the verses and vanity of Reddy afforded him, of stringing his crotchets and quavers on the same hank with the abortive fruits of Reddy's muse, and the wretched productions hung worthily together. Reddy, with the proper quantity of "hems and haws," and rubbing down his upper lip and chin with his forefinger and thumb, cleared his throat, tossed his nose into the air, and said he was going to give them "a little _classic_ thing." "Just look at the puppy!" snarled out old Growling to his neighbour: "he's going to measure us out some yards of his own fustian, I'm sure--he looks so pleased." Reddy gave his last "a-hem!" and sang what he called THE LAMENT OF ARIADNE The graceful Greek, with gem-bright hair, Her garments rent, and rent the air; "What a tearing rage she was in!" said old Growling in an under-tone. With sobs and sighs And tearful eyes, Like fountain fair of Helicon! "Oh, thunder and lightning!" growled the doctor, who pulled a letter out of his pocket, and began to scribble on the blank portions of it, with the stump of a blunt pencil, which he very audibly sucked, to enable it to make a mark. For ah, her lover false was gone! The fickle brave, And fickle wave, "And pickled cabbage," said the doctor. Combined to cheat the fickle fair. O fickle! fickle! fickle! But the brave should be true, And the fair ones too-- True, true, As the ocean's blue! And Ariadne had not been, Deserted there, like beauty's queen. Oh, Adriadne!--adne!--adne!