And going up to Conny, he asked her if she knew “Tom Bowling.” “No.” “Then I’ll sing it for you,” and down he sat, and sang the song excellently. It was curious that this big stout man, whose voice when he talked was a bass, rose into a thin clear tenor the moment he began to sing. “Those are the songs I like,” said he, nodding his thanks for our applause. “Give me ‘The Ivy Green,’ and ‘Pray Goody,’ and ‘I’m afloat,’ before all your later trumpery of words and music, fit only for cats to wail their loves with. If the songs of a country are, as they ought to be, the expression of the national character, what will our grand-children think of the age that could produce and enjoy the namby-pamby you now-a-days hear in concerts and drawing-rooms? Go back to my young days, and look into the songs we used to sing. There is a manliness even in the most sentimental of Moore’s ballads--a delicate reference to heroic actions and Irish spirit, which gives them a flavour you’ll look for in vain in your modern verselets. We sang Burns then, and Campbell, and Byron, and Scott, and that was the age of Waterloo and Navarino. You should have heard Incledon sing ‘Tom Moody,’ or Bannister sing ‘Lovely Nan.’ You’d have been content to put wadding in your ears for the remainder of your lives.” And so saying, he wheeled round upon the music-stool, and played a queer piece of dance music, which, he said, was called “Go to the Devil and shake yourself.” We passed the rest of the evening pleasantly, in hearing Conny sing, or listening to uncle Dick’s stories, or arguing good-humouredly on a variety of topics until ten o’clock struck, when uncle Dick said he must go to bed; he had to be up early to catch the train for London, and wanted to fortify himself for a hot and fatiguing day. He shook my hand very warmly after bidding the others good-night, and said, “I shall expect you on Monday. I daresay Teazer will meet you, if you let her know what train you arrive by. If not, our house isn’t a mile from the station, and you won’t be able to miss it after getting into the high road.” I now thought it about time that I should be making my way home: but uncle Tom, seeing me prepare to leave, came up to me, and said, “What’s your hurry? I have something to say to you. The night is fine, and the longer you stay, the more brightly the moon will light you home.” He then turned to his wife, who was watching us, and said, “My dear, I have something of importance to talk over with Charlie, and we mean to shut ourselves up in the library. You need not sit up. Send us in the whiskey, and we’ll strive our utmost to console ourselves for your absence.” “What a quantity of talking you will have had before you go to bed!” exclaimed his wife. “Pray what is all this mighty mystery about?” “Some of these days you shall hear,” replied her husband, with a good-natured laugh. “Now then, Charlie, bid your aunt and Conny good-night, and follow me.”