Of what sort were those sounds? Cecilia asked--Of the most seraphic sort, Mrs. De Lancaster replied, as she described them; such as we may conceive the angels to excite, when they waft a soul into bliss. By one of those extraordinary coincidences, that sometimes occur, it so chanced, that in the very moment, whilst Mrs. De Lancaster, was describing these strains, heard by her mother before death, David Williams, who had planted himself in the adjoining gallery, gave a flourish on his harp. It was not one of those imposing preludes, that are calculated to display the execution of the master; it was rather meant to invite attention by its melody, than to arrest it by its violence. Hark! cried Mrs. De Lancaster; do you hear those sounds?--It is only David Williams, Cecilia replied, going to serenade us. If you wish it to be stopped, I’ll tell him--Upon no account, answered the other, I am convinced these things do not happen by chance; and whether the music is produced by natural or supernatural means, I entreat you not to attempt at interrupting it. Immediately a symphony was played most exquisitely sweet and melodious: the minstrel never was in a happier moment; young John in the mean time kept hold of his mother’s hand, whilst the strain swelled and sunk at times in cadence so enchanting, as might remind Mrs. De Lancaster of those seraphic airs, which were supposed to have visited her dying mother, especially when the following words were distinctly heard, as the blind minstrel chanted them forth to the accompaniment of his harp. “What art thou, Death; that we should fear The shadow of a shade? What’s in thy name, that meets the ear, Of which to be afraid? Thou art not care, thou art not pain, But thou art rest and peace: ’Tis thou can’st make our terrors vain, And bid our torments cease. Thy hand can draw the rankling thorn From out the wounded breast; Thy curtain screens the wretch forlorn, Thy pallet gives him rest. Misfortune’s sting, Affliction’s throes, Detraction’s pois’nous breath, The world itself and all its woes Are swallow’d up in death.” CHAPTER II. _Mr. De Lancaster discourses upon the Tactics of the Ancients._