Whilst David Williams was chanting the extemporaneous lay, with which we concluded the foregoing chapter, the door between him and Mrs. De Lancaster was ajar; the gallery, in which he was playing, was admirably disposed for music, and every note came to the ear, mellowed by the distance without being lost in its passage. The strain was of a character so simple, and the harmony so pure and flowing in it’s course, without any of those capricious and false ornaments, which are too often resorted to, that both the movement and the matter were intelligible to the hearers, till at the close it burst into such a display of execution, as called forth all the powers of the instrument, and set off the art of the master in its highest style of excellence. When Mrs. De Lancaster perceived that the performance was concluded, John was told to open the door, and upon his entering the gallery, the old minstrel was discovered sitting in deep meditation, with his arms folded round his harp, and his head resting upon the frame of it, whilst his white locks, long and flowing, hung profusely over his forehead, and entirely shaded his countenance. He had placed himself opposite to an antique bow-window, through which a ruddy gleam from the descending sun directly smote upon his figure, and threw it into tints, that would have been a study for Rembrandt or Bassan. The mother and aunt of our hero, who had now joined him in the gallery, stood for a while contemplating the striking effect, which his attitude produced. At length Mrs. De Lancaster said--We are obliged to you, Mr. Williams, for your very charming music: may I ask who is the author of it? He, who is the author of my being, he replied, rising up and shaking the locks from off his forehead; He, that endowed me with a soul, inspired me with the love of harmony, and what He inspires, I with all humble devotion endeavour to express. Can you repeat those passages again? Lady I cannot. It was not from memory that I played them, and having played them, I no longer keep them in remembrance. When the approaching festival shall call on me for my exertions, I hope to produce something more worthy of your commendation. Did you come hither of your own accord? I never come to ladies’ chambers of my own accord. To whom beside yourself am I indebted for this entertainment? The son of my patron, your spouse, commanded me to play to you. Did he so? said Mrs. De Lancaster. I will trouble you no further. She then wished Cecilia a good night, pressed the hand of her son in token of a farewel, and turned into her chamber.