_Julia._ Oh, what a pity; music is so beautiful; and surely we can choose our songs, as easily as our words; ah, how much more easily. _Jane._ Oh, I don't go so far as to call music wicked: but music in society is _such_ a snare. At least I found it so; my playing was highly praised, and that stirred up vanity: and so did my singing, with which I had even more reason to be satisfied. Snares! snares! _Julia._ Goodness me! I don't find them so. Now you mention it, gentlemen do praise one; but, dear me, they praise every lady, even when we have been singing every other note out of tune. The little unmeaning compliments of society, can they catch anything so great as a soul? _Jane._ I pray daily not to be led into temptation, and shall I go into it of my own accord? _Julia._ Not if you find it a temptation. At that rate I ought to decline. _Jane._ That doesn't follow. My conscience is not a law to yours. Besides, your mamma said “sing:” and a parent is not to be disobeyed upon a doubt. If papa were to insist on my going to a ball even, or reading a novel, I think I should obey; and lay the whole case before Him. _Mrs. Dodd_ (from a distance). Come, my dears, Dr. Sampson is getting _so_ impatient for your song. _Sampson._ Hum! for all that, young ladies' singing is a poor substitute for cards, and even for conversation. _Mrs. Dodd._ That depends upon the singer, I presume. _Sampson._ Mai--dear--madam, they all sing alike; just as they all write alike. I can hardly tell one fashionable tune from another; and nobody can tell one word from another, when they cut out all the consonants. N' listen me. This is what I heard sung by a lady last night. Eu un Da' ei u aa an oo. By oo eeeeyee aa Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee om is igh eeaa An ellin in is ud. _Mrs. Dodd._ That sounds like gibberish. _Sampson._ It is gibberish, but it's Drydenish in articulating mouths. It is-- He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And wiltering in his blood. _Mrs. Dodd._ I think you exaggerate. I will answer for Julia that she shall speak as distinctly to music as you do in conversation. _Sampson_ (all unconscious of the tap). Time will show, madam. At prisent they seem to be in no hurry to spatter us with their word-jelly. Does some spark of pity linger in their marble bos'ms? or do they prefer inaud'ble chit-chat t' inarticulate mewing? Julia, thus pressed, sang one of those songs that come and go every season. She spoke the words clearly, and with such variety and intelligence, that Sampson recanted, and broke in upon the--“very pretty”--“how sweet”--and “who is it by?” of the others, by shouting, “Very weak trash very cleanly sung. Now give us something worth the wear and tear of your orgins. Immortal vairse widded t' immortal sounds; that is what I understand b' a song.” Alfred whispered, “No, no, dearest; sing something suitable to you and me.”