“And first she pitched her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the king, And then around the silent ring, And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say Her pretty oath, by yea and nay, She could not, would not, durst not play.” _Marmion._ “How did _you_ like Major Presley's song?” said Bernard to Virginia, as he leaned gracefully over her chair, and played carelessly with the young girl's fan. “Frankly, Mr. Bernard,” she replied, “not at all. There was only one thing which seemed to me appropriate in the exhibition.” “And what was that?” “The coarse language and sentiment of the song comported well with the singer.” “Oh, really, Miss Temple,” returned Bernard, “you are too harsh in your criticism. It is not fair to reduce the habits and manners of others to your own purer standard of excellence, any more than to censure the scanty dress of your friend Mamalis, which, however picturesque in itself, would scarcely become the person of one of these fair ladies here.” “And yet,” said Virginia, blushing crimson at the allusion, “there can be no other standard by which I at least can be governed, than that established by my own taste and judgment. You merely asked me _my_ opinion of Major Presley's performance; others, it is true, may differ with me, but their decisions can scarcely affect my own.” “The fact that there is such a wide variance in the taste of individuals,” argued Bernard, “should, however, make us cautious of condemning that which may be sustained by the judgment of so many. Did you know, by the way, Miss Virginia, that 'habit' and 'custom' are essentially the same words as 'habit' and 'costume.' This fact—for the history of a nation may almost be read in the history of its language—should convince you that the manners and customs of a people are as changeable as the fashions of their dress.” “I grant you,” said Virginia, “that the mere manners of a people may change in many respects; but true taste, when founded on a true appreciation of right, can never change.” “Why, yes it can,” replied her companion, who delighted in bringing the young girl out, as he said, and plying her with specious sophisms. “Beauty, certainly, is an absolute and not a relative emotion, and yet what is more changeable than a taste in beauty. The Chinese bard will write a sonnet on the oblique eyes, flat nose and club feet of his saffron Amaryllis, while he would revolt with horror from the fair features of a British lassie. Old Uncle Giles will tell you that the negro of his Congo coast paints his Obi devil white, in order to inspire terror in the hearts of the wayward little Eboes. The wild Indians of Virginia dye their cheeks—”